Chapter 120 My Favourite Part!

Chapter 120 My Favourite Part!
Seraph’s POV

It would be easy to say it was him.

The pattern pointed to him. Power vast enough to bend memory, to smooth records into something harmless and orderly, to make an entire village forget the shape of its own history. There was only one person I knew who could reach that far without lifting a blade.
Anzel.

He could glamour a court with a glance. He could make truth feel negotiable. He could make cruelty sound like mercy.

But why would he erase Lydian? Why would he bury it beneath something next to nothing? Unless it wasn’t him.

Zanaya, the Shadow Queen, had always preferred rot to polish. If anyone would twist reality for sport, it would be her.

But no.

I exhaled slowly and shook my head at myself.
Zanaya would not want a village gentled. She would not want clean streets and wider trade routes and council banners fluttering from polished posts. She would not want my people prosperous and unafraid. That was never her flavor of dominion.

So if not her… and not him…

Then something else was in motion.

And whatever it was, it had been moving for a long time.

I pressed my palm flat against the wooden desk in my room and steadied myself.

Everything has been going wrong for so long that I had almost mistaken it for fate.

But I know what comes next.

Mother already gave me that push, even if she never said the words aloud. The way she looked at me in the garden, the way her fingers lingered on my sleeve—she knows.

So tonight, I will stand in the square, and I will laugh, and I will let them celebrate me.

I will play the happy party girl.

And I will have fun.

One last time.
—

They hung lanterns across the square before dusk fully settled.

Golden glass orbs swayed on thin ropes strung between rooftops, their light soft and honey-warm as evening deepened into blue. Long wooden tables stretched from one end of the square to the other, rough-hewn and familiar, laden with roasted meats glazed in herbs, bowls of buttered roots, and sugared cakes dusted white as fresh snow.

Fiddles had already begun their bright, skipping tunes by the time I stepped into the open.
Someone cheered when they saw me.

Then another.
And another.

“Seraph!”
“There she is!”

The sound of my name rose like a flock of startled birds, and I felt my mouth curve before I could stop it.

This was for me; I should enjoy it.

Children darted between tables, nearly colliding with trays twice their size. A pair of flutists tried to compete with the fiddles, their melody weaving in and out of the rhythm. Smoke from the cooking fires curled lazily into the air, carrying salt and spice and something sweet I could not quite name.

For a moment, I just stood there and let it wash over me.

Ordinary.

Beautifully, painfully ordinary.

“Seraph.”

I turned at the sound of my name spoken softer.

Lina stood a few steps away, hands clasped behind her back like she had when we were younger. She had always hovered at the edges of my world, close enough to watch, never close enough to step in. Never able to be friends with. What a waste.

Her smile was shy but steady.

“You look…” She tilted her head slightly. “Different.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. Maybe easier is the word. You used to look like you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.” You have no idea! She stepped closer, studying my face without fear. “You’re freer.”

I held her gaze as the word slipped between us gently.

Freer.

If only she knew.

If only she understood the weight hidden beneath the cloak at my side, the things I had done in places that do not exist in these records.

“I suppose ‘travel’ does that to a person,” I replied, letting a half-smile touch my lips. “It stretches you.”

Lina nodded with a soft giggle, as though that made perfect sense. “I always thought you were meant for something bigger than this place.”

“And yet,” I said softly, glancing around at the lanterns and tables and the laughter rising like sparks, “this place is what made me.”
She followed my gaze and smiled. “We’re glad it did.”

Before I could answer, someone called her name from across the square, and she squeezed my hand once before disappearing into the light.

Freer.

I watched her go, and inside, I felt my heart flutter slightly.

—
Later, when the bonfire was lit and the sky had deepened into velvet, everyone seemed to really be enjoying themselves. Unguarded and peaceful, having fun.

The sight of it all wraps me in a warmth of overflowing pride. I did it.

As I bask in self-satisfaction, a couple of little kids who apparently were mini trainees gathered near the flames.

They had wooden swords strapped awkwardly to their backs, each one trying to stand taller than the last. Firelight flickered across their eager faces, turning them into warriors in their own minds.

I crouched near the edge of their circle, unnoticed, hopefully.

And then, one of the boys—small, serious, missing several teeth in the front—swung his practice blade with a shout that cracked halfway through.
The others laughed.

He spotted me then.

His eyes widened.

He marched over, wooden sword dragging slightly in the dirt behind him.

“Hey, it’s Seraph,” he chimed cutely. I smiled and stared at him. “I want to be like you,” he declared, chin lifted.

The words struck harder than they should have. My heart clenched so sharply I had to press my lips together to steady it.

No, you don’t.

I was the girl who kept training like it would save me from my fate. I was known as the chief’s daughter who trained in the woods till she lost her way and didn’t make it back until two years later. You don’t want that. That was what I wanted to say to this kid, but it would kill me to know that I killed anyone’s dream.

I reached out instead and ruffled his hair.

“You know what’s better?” I asked quietly. He blinked up at me.

“Being you.”

He frowned slightly, confused.

“I think you’ll be a great man,” I continued, “but only if you stay exactly who you are. Brave enough to try. Foolish enough to shout before you swing.”

He grinned at that, revealing the wide gaps where his teeth had once been.

“I am brave,” he insisted.

“I know,” I said.

He beamed, then turned and ran back to his friends, shouting something about how I said he would be great.

I remained crouched for a moment longer, staring into the fire.

Let them stay small a little while longer.

To anyone listening, please let them live in a world where it’s a little bit easier.

“Seraph.”

I rose at the sound of my mother’s voice.
She stood near the center of the square, lantern light catching in her hair, pride and something else flickering behind her eyes. Longing.

She lifted a cup, and gradually, the noise softened.

“To my daughter,” she began, her voice steady but warm, “who has always carried more than she should have.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

“I did not always say it enough,” she continued, eyes never leaving mine, “but I am proud of you. Of your strength. Of your heart. Of the woman you have become.”

The square felt very still, and I watched her, even though I was a little rattled by the attention.

“You deserve more than this village could ever give,” she said softly, “and yet, we are grateful you are ours.”

My throat tightened.

“To Seraph,” she finished.

“To Seraph!” the crowd echoed.

Their cups lifted, and while they all toasted me, I lifted my goblet and toasted my best friend. Riko Sett.

Laughter resumed. Someone struck up a brighter tune on the fiddle.

My father bowed dramatically before my mother and extended his hand. She rolled her eyes, but she took it, and soon they were drawn into the circle of dancers forming around the fire.

Fiddles sang. Flutes trilled. Boots thudded against packed earth in rhythm.

One by one, others joined the circle.

Hands linked, and skirts spun.

And I stood just outside the ring of light, watching.

The lantern glow softened the lines of familiar faces. Laughter rose and fell like waves. The fire painted everything gold, even the smallest gestures—someone brushing flour from their sleeve, someone leaning in to whisper a joke.

I memorized it. All of it. All of them!

The way the light caught in their eyes. The sound of my mother’s laughter. The way my father’s steps were half a beat off, as they always were.

How small it all felt now.

There was a time when I believed this square was the entire world. When I stood at its edge and dreamed only of coming home safely.
Now I know the world is wider.

And darker.

The fire began to burn lower. The music softened, shifting from bright reels to something slower, something almost wistful. Children drooped against their parents’ sides. A few villagers drifted toward their doors, waving goodnight.

But the square was still alive.
Still warm.

This is where I am from.

But it is not where my heart belongs.

They have seen my strength. My discipline. My limitations. They have never seen the sacrifice.
They do not know what was traded for this peace.

And I do not resent them for that.
If anything, I am grateful.

Grateful that I got to witness what this village could be without fear pressing at its borders. Grateful that I saw it laughing beneath lantern light instead of whispering about old legends in the dark.

Maybe the legends are what shaped us.
Maybe erasing them reshaped us again.
I do not understand all of it.
Not yet.

But I understand one thing.
Anzel.

I do not care what mask he wears. I do not care how cold his voice turns or how dangerous the path back to him may be. I know him in ways that frighten me.

I know the sharpness he hides. The restraint he pretends is indifference. The cruelty he uses like armor.

He does not fool me.
Not truly.

And I will not let him decide the shape of this world without hearing my voice in return.
The last of the music faded into embers and murmurs.

I stood there a moment longer, committing it all to memory.

Then I turned toward the dark beyond the square.

I am going back to Lydian tonight.