Flarefruit in the Night
Before Flarefruit became a common indulgence at markets and festivals, it was rare, ripening only once a year in hidden patches under moonlight, guarded by cold winds and silence. Farmers planted it in the cool promise of spring, tending its creeping vines with careful hands, hoping it would survive long enough to harvest in the heat of summer. When it ripened, it did so quietly, under moonlight, away from watchful eyes, and those who found it guarded it closely.
In those days, Azrian, Naharima, and Alea were not family. Like the others, they were exiles bound by necessity, learning to sit across from one another without trading barbed words or sharp looks that made hands itch for anything sharp.
They knew survival meant finding a way to coexist. The decision to become a family wasn’t taken lightly. It was carved out of the need to reclaim the sense of normalcy that had been stolen from them—a quiet form of revenge against a world that had taken everything. So they chose to try building the relationships they had been denied, starting with the simplest act they could never have: sharing a meal with family.
When it came time to decide who would host each season, tension simmered, ready to break what they were trying to build.
They voted on who would craft the slips, and Cirel won.
Using his power over Fortune, Luck, and Hope, Cirel created the lots, ensuring the drawing would not favor ambition or cunning but the quiet hopes buried beneath fear and survival. The slips revealed desires they would not admit, granting each trio a season that reflected what they needed most, even if they didn’t yet understand.
They were surprised by how fair the results were.
They gathered in uneasy hush, each shift and breath measured, waiting for the smallest word to ignite what they all tried to hold back.
Then the Flarefruit was brought out—a vibrant, flame-hued fruit layered in smooth, petal-like scales that peel back in shades of crimson, gold, and deep rose. Its soft, speckled flesh glows faintly when sliced, revealing a refreshing, subtly sweet flavor—somewhere between pear, kiwi, and rain-soaked mint.
It was served diced and tossed back into its own shell, its glow pooling in the hollowed rind like a quiet promise, the scent rising into the dark, cool air—cool, sharp, clean, like a memory you tried to bury rising in your throat.
They each took a piece, fingers brushing the cold flesh, eyes meeting with silent challenge, waiting for the first refusal, the first betrayal.
No one spoke.
As they tasted, the sweetness was almost painful.
It was too gentle for the world they knew, too clean for tongues accustomed to iron, smoke, and the bitterness of distrust. It reminded them of mornings they could barely remember—warm bread, soft rain, someone once saying their name without fear.
The taste stripped them bare.
For a breath, the barbs stopped, the sharpness in their eyes dulled, and the masks slipped.
In that moment, they saw each other not as threats, but as something else—a possibility of what they could become. The Flarefruit did not forge trust that night, but it opened the door for it.
It became their quiet, unspoken agreement: each year, when Flarefruit could be found, they would gather in the dark, sharing its taste to remind themselves why they were trying to build something together, even if they could not yet say the words.
The world would one day know Flarefruit as a fruit of abundance and celebration, but for them, it would always remain the fruit that made them stay.
In those days, Azrian, Naharima, and Alea were not family. Like the others, they were exiles bound by necessity, learning to sit across from one another without trading barbed words or sharp looks that made hands itch for anything sharp.
They knew survival meant finding a way to coexist. The decision to become a family wasn’t taken lightly. It was carved out of the need to reclaim the sense of normalcy that had been stolen from them—a quiet form of revenge against a world that had taken everything. So they chose to try building the relationships they had been denied, starting with the simplest act they could never have: sharing a meal with family.
The Drawing of Lots
To give each trio space while strengthening the whole, they chose to hold these banquets by season, granting each small group a moment that was theirs, even if they had to share it with two others.When it came time to decide who would host each season, tension simmered, ready to break what they were trying to build.
They voted on who would craft the slips, and Cirel won.
Using his power over Fortune, Luck, and Hope, Cirel created the lots, ensuring the drawing would not favor ambition or cunning but the quiet hopes buried beneath fear and survival. The slips revealed desires they would not admit, granting each trio a season that reflected what they needed most, even if they didn’t yet understand.
They were surprised by how fair the results were.
The Night Banquet
During the season that fell to Alea’s trio, the banquet was held after sunset in a simple room with an open balcony and long billowing curtains, no windows to trap them in, only the night air to remind them they were still free.They gathered in uneasy hush, each shift and breath measured, waiting for the smallest word to ignite what they all tried to hold back.
Then the Flarefruit was brought out—a vibrant, flame-hued fruit layered in smooth, petal-like scales that peel back in shades of crimson, gold, and deep rose. Its soft, speckled flesh glows faintly when sliced, revealing a refreshing, subtly sweet flavor—somewhere between pear, kiwi, and rain-soaked mint.
It was served diced and tossed back into its own shell, its glow pooling in the hollowed rind like a quiet promise, the scent rising into the dark, cool air—cool, sharp, clean, like a memory you tried to bury rising in your throat.
They each took a piece, fingers brushing the cold flesh, eyes meeting with silent challenge, waiting for the first refusal, the first betrayal.
No one spoke.
As they tasted, the sweetness was almost painful.
It was too gentle for the world they knew, too clean for tongues accustomed to iron, smoke, and the bitterness of distrust. It reminded them of mornings they could barely remember—warm bread, soft rain, someone once saying their name without fear.
The taste stripped them bare.
For a breath, the barbs stopped, the sharpness in their eyes dulled, and the masks slipped.
In that moment, they saw each other not as threats, but as something else—a possibility of what they could become. The Flarefruit did not forge trust that night, but it opened the door for it.
It became their quiet, unspoken agreement: each year, when Flarefruit could be found, they would gather in the dark, sharing its taste to remind themselves why they were trying to build something together, even if they could not yet say the words.
The world would one day know Flarefruit as a fruit of abundance and celebration, but for them, it would always remain the fruit that made them stay.
A fruit whose sweetness hurt, whose glow burned in the darkness, and whose taste reminded them that hope, once tasted, was a pain worth enduring.
If you dare, taste it for yourself. Try the legendary Flarefruit in this recipe.
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