Lumiria

Dear Diary,
 
The tent was too quiet, despite the roar of the tournament beyond its canvas walls. One of the assassins—a human—lay unconscious on our floor, trussed like a parcel no one wanted to claim. Outside, the festivities thundered on, oblivious. Inside, we were peeling away layers of treachery.
 
But there was no time to linger.
 
Alistan still had to face two more rounds in the joust, and so we returned to the edge of the arena, uneasy. His next opponent fought hard—one of the fey, tall and luminous, with that aloof grace they wear like armor—but Alistan met him blow for blow. It was a brutal clash of will and steel. When it was over, Alistan remained astride, and his opponent, though defeated, offered him a respectful nod. He said he'd bet on Alistan to win the final. The crowd agreed. The name de la Roost was now whispered with reverence across the field. Bizarre.
 
While the tournament ground buzzed, Gael slipped away to observe. I watched him vanish into the movement like a leaf in the wind. When he returned, there was a certain tension in his jaw. He’d seen laughter, not joy — fey chuckling behind hands, throwing glances in our direction. There’s a second tournament, he told us. A real one, hidden in plain sight. Apparently we — valiant "heroes" that we are — had been entered in the mock event. A sideshow. A game for the bored.
 
And yet… the other competitors still tried. Every arrow loosed, every lance lowered — it had heart. Even if we were only allowed to play in the fey’s shadow, our fellow participants gave it their all and we owed it to them to do the same.
 
With Alistan resting before the final match, we turned our attention back to the would-be assassin. We roused him.
 
He was a human, and clearly not Feywild-born. I kept my hand near my spellbook, Hayley near the exit. His eyes darted to each of us in turn — calculating, resigned.
 
When we asked who sent him, his answer chilled the tent: A man in a wolf mask. The same figures we’d seen observing us since our arrival. Always on the periphery. Always silent.
 
He gestured toward a pouch. Inside, a folded message, sealed with a wolf insignia. Orders.
Gael was the primary target. “The heir of Vincent,” the letter called him. I don’t think even Gael expected that. Liliana and I were explicitly marked not to be killed — curious, considering the crossbow bolt hole still burning in my side. I suppose that was meant as restraint? Assassin logic, perhaps. Or something crueler.
 
The assassin revealed there were six of them, brought here from Keralon, from our own world. They were Moonblossom Knights. Dadroz’s order. It was like swallowing ash. Knights of Keralon, trying to murder us in a fey spectacle. The betrayal settled like a weight in the room. Even Hayley didn’t speak.
 
Before we could think too hard about it, trumpets sounded again. The Final. Alistan versus the wolf-masked noble.
 
It was no longer a tournament. It was a reckoning.
 
We emerged into a crowd transformed. Flags flew with Alistan’s crest — where did they even get those? Fey magic? Fey mockery? I can’t tell anymore. The fey cheered like children at a puppet show, their glee detached from the danger.
 
Alistan’s horse now wore special barding, embroidered in silver thread, and his lance had been swapped for something truly absurd — a copper dragon-headed weapon, no doubt a nod to Galiene, his draconic flame.
 
The wolf noble, silent and severe, wore a black cloak and rode a horse dressed to match — jet-black barding, marked with the wolf sigil.
 
He bowed. Alistan returned it.
Then they charged.
 
Three passes. Neither dismounted. The crowd held its breath.
 
The fourth — a thunderclap.
Alistan struck true. The wolf noble fell.
 
Victory.
 
Cheers erupted like fireworks, and fey laughter rang out, high and lilting. But I didn’t cheer. I couldn’t. Not when the stage is built on a lie. There is something rotten here, Diary. And it’s not just the Feywild.
 
The tournament, like all fey games, began to fade the moment it ended — as though the very air grew bored of the spectacle once the victor was named. The crowds dispersed in a blink, the stands half-empty before the final cheers had even stopped echoing.
 
Alistan lingered at the edge of the field, saying goodbye to Starmane, the noble creature who had carried him to glory. He placed a hand on the horse’s flank and whispered something I couldn’t hear as Liliana stood at his side.
 
We were approached by one of the tournament’s fey organisers. He offered us congratulations with a grin too wide and words too smooth. “There will be more tales now,” he said, “of the Knights of Keralon who danced through our games like wildfire. The King may be right to be so... fixated on you.” A compliment, I think. Or a warning. Hard to tell with fey.
 
From there, we made our way back to our rooms in the Palace. It felt like stepping into a different dream entirely. Carpets the color of crushed rubies now flowed across the marble like blood, and the guards wore ceremonial armor of silver and gold, etched with vines and moons. Preparations for the feast, the one where we were expected to apologize to the High King Ulther, were well underway.
 
We bathed in waters that shimmered with starlight, and dressed ourselves in formal attire. I chose my signature deep purple robe with silver thread stitched like constellations. Hayley wore something black and dramatic, like she always does..
 
Once ready, we could hear the murmur of voices, distant and rising. The party had begun. We descended to the grand hall, and for a moment, I thought I’d stepped into a living painting.
 
There were long tables stretching into the distance, their surfaces reflecting strange constellations. The pillars of the room consisted of pale tree trunks, their branches curling upward to meet the ceiling, which no longer existed. Instead, there were clouds, shifting and glowing with a dim blue light, soft and ethereal. And when a breeze — from nowhere and everywhere — stirred them, they parted to reveal a sky that couldn’t possibly exist indoors. Stars, dense and pulsing, as though we were standing beneath the entire weight of the cosmos. There was music, too. Beautiful. Hollow. And without origin. It drifted from the walls, or the air itself, or perhaps from the thoughts of the guests.
 
We made our way to the front of the hall, where the throne stood. On the way, we passed Davozan, the towering giant we’d met before. He smiled at us with the gentle pride of an older brother and offered to introduce us at the proper moment. The thought of a formal apology to the fey made my stomach twist, but at least we’d have someone to guide us through it.
 
And then — there he was. High King Ulther.
 
He was as terrifying and regal as I had imagined him to be: tall, lean, eyes cold as hoarfrost. His long white hair flowed down over his black armor, trimmed with crimson. A red cloak billowed behind him, though there was no wind.
 
He looked at us and smiled with sharp teeth. “So,” he said, “these are the knights who slipped through my snares and riddles.”
 
I could feel Hayley shift beside me. Alistan straightened. Gael didn’t move at all. To the side of the table lay a wolf — broad, scarred, silent. It stared at the floor, its tongue absent. “I must thank you for getting me my new pet,” the King said. “He failed to stop you and now I have someone to eat the scraps off my table...” The Warg King. Punished. I swallowed hard.
 
Then Ulther asked us to introduce ourselves. We stood, a line of strangers in a stranger court, each of us about to offer our names to a king I do not trust, in a palace that does not obey reality. The hall had grown quiet, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.
 
Liliana stepped forward first. Ulther’s gaze lingered like a blade. “Vivienne’s pet,” he sneered. “Though I disapprove of such a long leash.” Liliana did not flinch. She only offered that polite, saintly smile of hers, the one that says she’s forgiven you before you’ve finished insulting her.
 
When Gael spoke, Ulther’s expression chilled further. It was expected. The mere thought of Vincent, Gael’s presumed father, likely twisted the high King’s mind into rage. Ulther dropped names like curses: Sylvesse, Gael’s mentor — dead. Cornu, the hunter we’d stopped more than once — even in death. Each word he spoke was a needle, and yet Gael didn’t even blink.
 
Then came Alistan. Ulther laughed. “Ah, the champion of the people’s tournament,” he said.
Laughter rippled through the nobility like oil across water — smooth, sharp-edged, cruel. “Thank you,” Ulther continued, “for lowering yourselves to entertain the rabble. My own knights did not think it was worth their time. But you… you played the part of the clown marvelously.” Alistan bowed, jaw tight.
 
Then Hayley. Ulther opened his mouth and the sound vanished. A spell, no doubt. I saw his lips move, slow and venomous, but not a word reached us. I watched Hayley’s eyes as he mouthed something about Ravensfield, the place she once called home — until the dragon cult came and destroyed it. He finished with a curled-lip comment about her behavior, still unheard. She only smiled. She always smiles when she’s furious.
 
Then me. I stepped forward. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, Luke Thomas,” he said. “I have heard of you. Rarely anything good.” He called my magic foul. Warned me away from my journey to the elemental towers. Told me I was treading the wrong path. And then — most insultingly — offered to have his own archmages “retrain” me. I smiled. Sweetly. “Thank you for your warning,” I said. “After all, you do seem to be quite the expert in all things foul.” Hayley choked on a laugh.
 
With our introductions complete, or rather, our public scoldings, we withdrew. Hayley thanked Davozan, the only creature in the room we seemed to trust despite the unfortunate circumstances of our first meeting. She then wandered off in search of food, as expected of my sister.
 
The feast was opulent, a riot of impossible fruits, glittering wines, and spiced nuts from trees that probably never existed in our world. But I wouldn’t touch it. Fey food is temptation dressed as hospitality. I would rather eat trail rations in my room than lose my name or memories to a sugared peach.
 
Hayley drifted toward Lady Rootskewer, a hag who seemed to shun the normal crooked old ulgy crone conventions. They exchanged quiet words — I caught “Ulther” and “insults” and “subdued,” but then I was distracted.
 
By her.
 
She was the most radiant thing in that starlit hall.
 
I couldn’t place her, not quite elf, not quite eladrin. Her dress was made of roses, not sewn but grown, delicate petals that shifted and shimmered as if breathing. Her hair — a soft bloom of pink — floated as though underwater, stirred by currents only she could feel. Her skin shimmered with a faint glow, and her eyes… her eyes held the weight of old songs.
 
I introduced myself, almost forgetting how to speak.
 
She tilted her head and answered slowly, her voice quiet, shy. “I know who you are. I know who you all are.” It should have startled me. But instead, it warmed something in my chest. “Then you have us at a disadvantage,” I said, offering a crooked smile.
 
She lowered her gaze, as if embarrassed, and then looked back at me. “I am Lumiria,” she introduced herself. I bowed my head and told her that I had travelled from one side of the Feywild to the other, and that she was the most beautiful creature in all of it.
 
She laughed softly — not cruelly, but with a trace of sadness. “Then you should leave soon,” she replied, “so you may keep hold of that delusion.” There was something lonely in her words, something resigned. I couldn’t look away.
 
She asked to see magic. Said she’d heard I wielded power that came from beyond the Feywild — magic shaped not by whimsy, but by will and knowledge.
 
So I did what I always do first. I lit a candle in my palm, a quiet flame that danced with a steady pulse. She blinked. Polite. Disappointed.
 
And then I raised my hand and pointed skyward.
 
Above us, a ring of fire bloomed — enormous, burning, suspended from nothing like a chandelier of fury and brilliance. The very clouds above shifted and shuddered, pulled into a spiral of elemental chaos, flashing with sudden lightning, flickering with flame, dancing with wind and crackling frost.
 
The entire room turned to look. Conversations halted.
 
I had been warned that my magic didn’t always play nicely with the Feywild. It felt as though I had tugged a thread in a tapestry not meant to be touched. The air cracked, reality groaned — and then, I let the spell go, gently.
 
The fire vanished. The clouds stilled. The music resumed.
 
I put my finger to my lips and gave her a wink. “Our secret,” I whispered.
 
She didn’t hesitate. She climbed over the table, quite ungracefully, scattering rose petals and half-finished drinks, and sat beside me. It was not elegant — it was playful, spontaneous. Real.
 
We spoke for a long time, soft words exchanged between stolen glances. She listened to tales of my grand adventures fighting dragons and undead across the material plane, while I ached to learn anything I could about her. And then, her voice quieted. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she said. “My father gave me to Ulther. A political offering. Peace in exchange for a daughter.”
I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? So I offered her presence. And silence. And kindness.
 
I barely noticed that the evening was passing. That my friends had drifted into their own corners of the feast. The apology — the reason we came — was becoming an afterthought. Then she stood and whispered “Would you like to dance?”. My heart leapt. I said yes before my breath returned.
 
She led me to the center of the ballroom. As she moved, rose petals fell from her dress, as if the gown itself had sighed with joy. A waltz began — soft and perfect. The music came from nowhere. Or maybe from us.
 
We danced.
 
The petals rose, catching us in their gentle lift, swirling around our feet, and before I knew it, we were off the ground, dancing in the air like something out of a bedtime story.
 
For a time, it was just us. The lights, the stars, the crowd all faded. There was only her touch, her smile, the warmth of the dance.
 
Eventually, others joined us. But we were already gone.
 
For the first time in months, maybe even since Seraphine, I felt peace.
 
I missed the apology. I’m told it went well.
 
But I was dancing with Lumiria, and the rest of the world could wait.