Chapter 18 - When the Sky Fell

Devon and Caelan reached the edge of the crowd just in time to see Marius Vayne take his leave, striding away with that ever-firm posture and dignified gait that spoke of older days. Caelan, arms crossed and brow slightly raised, watched him disappear into the milling festival-goers.

"That’s a shame," he said quietly. "Would’ve liked to catch up with the old wolf. It’s been years."

Devon, however, was not watching Marius. His sharp gaze had already landed on something far more intriguing. Specifically, Gideon. Or rather, Gideon’s arm, which remained very much around Neia’s waist.

The smirk that curled at the corners of Devon’s lips could have lit a lantern. "Well, well," he murmured, elbowing Caelan lightly. "Do you see what I see?"

Caelan blinked, surprised. "Should we interfere?"

Devon’s grin widened. "Absolutely."

And with that, the two men began to stroll over, their timing impeccable, arriving just as Gideon and Neia looked up with matching expressions of startled guilt.

What followed was a chorus of good-natured teasing and warm introductions. Caelan, ever the gentleman beneath his commanding presence, offered Neia a respectful nod and introduced himself with warmth. The four of them quickly fell into step with one another as they made their way deeper into the festival.

Devon led them back toward the food stalls, where fragrant steam billowed into the air and voices mingled with the sound of sizzling skewers. He brought them to a particularly busy stall adorned with a polished wooden sign that read Jal Korrin's Hearthfire Grill, a beloved establishment in Sharn known for its marinated flame-grilled skewers. The taste was something between smoky satay and tangy yakitori, threaded with herbs and basted with a slightly sweet glaze.

Neia’s first bite was met with wide eyes and a muffled, "Oh stars, this is amazing. Devon, you have to teach me how to make this."

He chuckled, brushing back his hair. "I’ll try, but you should know I’m far better with a kettle than a kitchen. I’ll ask my mother or Mira for the recipe. One of them might part with it if I offer a bribe or two."

Later, with laughter still on their lips and the salty-sweet taste lingering, they gathered drinks. Gideon, quietly pleased with himself, offered Neia a rose milk tea.

"This one’s sweet," he said, almost shyly. "Thought you might like it. If not, I’ll drink it."

She took a sip, then looked up in surprise. "Oh. I do like it. It’s lovely."

Gideon did not say anything, but his hand tightened slightly around the cup, and for a moment, his whole face seemed to soften.

Not far behind the central performance stage, a tall structure loomed. The Firewatch Tower stood proudly, draped in garlands and enchanted lanterns, its latticed frame of wood and arcane-forged steel reaching high into the twilight sky. It had been erected as the symbolic heart of the celebration, a tower from which the magical fireworks would later be launched.

Caelan gestured to it, voice rising slightly above the music. "They build it every year. It's become something of a tradition. They use it to send up the fireworks at the end of the night. Makes for quite the view."

The music played on, and the evening passed in warm, colourful waves. Neia found herself swept into an impromptu dance with Devon, whose steps were surprisingly deft for someone with ink-stained fingers. Gideon watched with mild horror and silent admiration, his arm crossed loosely as he sipped his drink beside Caelan.

"You’ll have to teach Gidlet one day," Caelan said under his breath.

"He has other talents," Devon replied as he twirled Neia beneath the lanterns.

But the music faltered— wait, no, it hadn’t. Time faltered.

Devon froze mid-step.

His vision blurred, the world shifting sideways, and the sounds of laughter were drowned by a roaring silence. In that strange stillness, he saw the tower begin to collapse. Not with age or fatigue, but with sudden, violent force. An explosion, shrapnel, fire. Screams. Smoke.

He snapped back with a gasp, his voice sharp as he turned. "Gideon, shield her!"

Without a second thought, Gideon stepped forward. The air around him shimmered as his Aura of the Guardian surged to life, a quiet but radiant glow pulsing from his form. Devon’s hands flew up, casting a Shield spell to protect himself while physically placing himself between Neia and the blast. His body braced against hers as a wall of arcane energy curved outward from his palms.

Caelan, alert and sharp, cast Rally to bolster his brother’s strength.

And then —

The explosion. Deafening. Shattering.

The base of the Firewatch Tower erupted in a violent blast. The stage splintered, beams fell, and banners caught fire. The crowd erupted into screams and chaos, people fleeing in every direction. Debris rained down, dust choking the air.

Caelan had ducked behind a fallen pillar of stone, now shielding two frightened civilians behind him. Devon stood firm, his arcane barrier deflecting a thick plank of debris that would have struck Neia. Her arm bled from a grazing shard, but she remained upright and safe.

Gideon had not been so lucky.

Though he had not physically reached her in time, his Aura had extended far enough to intercept the impact meant for Neia. Every ounce of harm that should have struck her was redirected to him. His shirt was torn, blood staining his shoulder, and bruises bloomed across his arms. He dropped to his knees, then crumpled into the dirt.

"Gideon!"

Neia ran to him, her voice breaking. She dropped to the ground, lifting his head gently onto her lap, one hand grasping her druidic focus with desperation. Her other hand trembled as she began casting healing magic, the soft green light of nature’s grace spilling over his injuries.

Again and again she whispered the words, praying to the Oak Father Silvanus, pouring every ounce of strength into spell after spell. Her fingers shook with each surge of magic, her focus growing hot in her hand. The bruises began to fade. The bleeding slowed. His breath grew steadier.

Gideon’s eyes fluttered open. He was alive. Awake.

Caelan was already in motion, commanding those nearby with calm precision. "Move that beam. Help that child. You two, form a line to carry the injured. We need a healer over there."

Devon stayed close until Gideon stirred, his voice a rasp. "Neia. You’re okay."

"Thanks to you," she whispered, tears brimming.

He smiled faintly. "Hey. Don’t cry. I’m alright."

"Don’t you ever do something that reckless again."

He nodded. "Devon, get her to safety. People need help. I’ll find Caelan."

Devon hesitated, then nodded. "Come on, darling. There’s a clear path east."

Neia rose, reluctantly, glancing back as Gideon pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the wreckage.

Later, as he and Caelan worked side by side to lift a collapsed beam, Gideon froze.

There, beneath the rubble, lay the old florist from the marketplace. The same gentle soul who had sold him the flowers he gifted Neia.

She did not stir.

He lowered his head. The scent of roses still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the smoke.

Caelan and Gideon later found Marius at the edge of the wreckage, sitting on a fallen beam, a shallow gash across his brow and dust streaking his coat. He waved off their worry with a tired smile, assuring them he was all right, just bruised and winded. "Takes more than a falling tower to take me out," he muttered, wincing as he stood. Gideon, despite everything, felt the knot of worry in his chest loosen just a little.

It had been a night of celebration. And now, it was a night of sorrow.

By the time the fires had been extinguished and the last of the wounded carried from the wreckage, the festival grounds bore little resemblance to their former splendour. Lanterns that once glowed with joy now hung in tatters, swaying gently in the smoky breeze. The laughter had long since vanished, replaced by the low murmur of grief and the distant sounds of healing magic at work.

More than fifty had been injured. At least ten lives had been lost.

It was the worst disaster to befall Korth in years. Decades, perhaps. A night meant for celebration had turned into one of mourning. Families wept. Children clung to their parents. And the city, though hardened by history, found itself shaken by a grief it had not felt in a very long time.

Even as the moonlight bathed the shattered plaza in silver light, the question lingered, unspoken but ever present in the silence: how could something like this have happened?

Neia, Devon, Caelan, and Gideon stood among the broken, still breathing, still standing, forever changed by what the night had taken.