Chronicles of the Untalented

If the festival had been warm before, now it blazed.

At first, it was just the sound—deep horn blasts from the cathedral's upper balconies. Then came the hush. The kind of stillness that ripples before something grand. Silas stood near the edge of the square with Velira at his side, breath light, shoulders relaxed.

Then the doors opened.

A procession of robed priests emerged—not the cold, distant ones who spoke only in rules and orders, but celebrants. Their robes were less ceremonial than usual, dyed in hues of deep blue and copper. And on their shoulders, arms, and even hoods… perched birds.

Small, elegant creatures of glinting feathers and sharp beaks, swaying like they already knew the beat that was about to come.

Then one priest raised a hand.

The birds took off.

And the sky—if it could be called that—sang.

Waves of echoing tones, harmonies too clean to be mechanical, rang through the air as dozens of birds swept through the dark, releasing music from their bodies like it was stitched into their bones. Each wingbeat left trails of glimmering light behind, faint and brief, like afterimages in a dream. It wasn't just beautiful.

It was impossible.

"Sound path," Velira whispered beside him, nearly breathless. "They train the birds to release magic as they fly. Echoweavers, they're called."

Silas had read of them. He never thought he'd see them. Even for someone like him—who knew the laws, who sought to unravel the threads of the world—it was magic in its purest form.

He didn't realize he was smiling until Velira nudged his shoulder.

"You're grinning like a child."

"I feel like one," he said.

And just like that, the music gave way to a new kind of chaos.

Priests began rolling out long tables—crudely carved and uneven, but overflowing. Steam wafted up from roasted rootmeat, skewered lizard cuts, flame-crisped marrowfruit. Spices—real spices, not just salt—filled the air with something that made Silas' stomach snarl loud enough for Velira to laugh at him.

"Come on, genius," she said. "It's not a real celebration unless we stuff our faces."

He followed her into the crowd.

They didn't push or fight—just moved together like one great living thing. A woman handed Silas a roasted wingbone, the meat so tender it slid off the bone with barely a tug. A boy offered him a cup of warmed berry mash, thick and sweet. He found himself eating with one hand, reaching for more with the other, laughing with his mouth full as someone tried to balance a bowl of glowing stew on their head and failed miserably.

This was joy.

Crude, unfiltered, and unburdened.

No monsters. No sigils. No death trials or blood-slick halls. Just music. Food. Light. Life.

---

Hours passed. Or maybe it was just moments.

But eventually, the flames burned low. People lay sprawled across benches and walkways, too full to move. The birds had long since gone quiet, their magic spent, their wings folded peacefully beside the roosts near the bell towers.

Silas sat back against a wall, shoulders brushing Velira's. They said nothing for a while.

Then Velira turned to him and said quietly, "You should laugh like that more often."

"…Maybe I will," he replied, softer than he meant.

She didn't tease him this time. She just smiled.

And in the hush that followed the music and meat and madness, the two of them sat beneath the ever-dim sky…

And let the warmth linger.