Gaia Chronicles: The Integral Saga

The path down from the windmill was quiet, but the festival's sounds returned as soon as they reached the lantern-lit promenades. Children darted between stalls clutching ribbons, while the Integral Knights mingled with local dignitaries in the festival square.

Cyg found himself the reluctant center of attention again. A pair of young staffers offered him candied almonds with hushed curiosity. An elderly woman pressed a tiny charm of protection into his palm, blessing him for all he had done for Gaia.

But before he could slip into the milling crowd, Harriet stepped into his path, bright as a bonfire in her deep red gown.

"There you are!" she declared, her voice pitched halfway between triumph and relief. "I thought you'd try to vanish again."

He tilted his head faintly. "I was merely observing."

Her eyes narrowed in that way that meant she wasn't buying a single word. "Observing is code for avoiding people, and I'm not letting you do that tonight."

Without further ceremony, she hooked her arm through his. The motion was so natural—so purely Harriet—that Cyg felt momentarily disoriented.

"We have somewhere to be," she announced, as if this had been planned all along.

He raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Yes. We." She tugged him along the stone steps that led toward the southern rise of the festival grounds.

The Infernal Fireworks were an old tradition—a spectacle only held once a decade, when the archives of Gaia opened their vault of pyrotechnic sigils. The display was designed to mimic the Elemental Wars that had once reshaped Europe, each firework crafted to resemble the primal forces: flood, storm, quake, flame.

Tonight's finale would be dedicated to fire.

They crested the last hill as the first crackling flower of flame erupted in the sky—an enormous plume of golden sparks that billowed into the shape of a phoenix.

Harriet stopped so abruptly he nearly stumbled into her. She tilted her face up, her eyes wide, lips parted in something close to awe.

"Gods," she breathed. "I forgot how much I loved this."

Another burst shattered overhead—crimson petals raining against the darkness.

He watched her more than the sky.

Her expression was unguarded in a way he almost never saw—so unlike the defiant grin she wore in battle, or the half-teasing smirk she used to provoke him.

She must have felt his gaze, because she glanced over, her cheeks warming to the same shade as the fireworks.

"What?" she demanded, though her voice was softer than usual.

"Nothing," he said.

She scowled, unconvinced. "Don't lie. You're cataloging my reactions like some kind of lab experiment."

"Perhaps," he admitted blandly. "I was thinking you look…content."

It wasn't quite the truth. But it was all he could manage.

Her scowl softened into a crooked smile.

"That's because I am."

The fireworks shifted into their second movement: a cascading display of fiery dragons that roared in silent arcs across the night. Children shrieked with delight. Harriet leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the rail.

"This was my father's favorite part," she murmured. "When I was little, he'd lift me up onto his shoulders so I could see over the crowd."

He said nothing, sensing that this was the place where words often did more harm than good.

"My mother hated it," Harriet continued after a moment. "Too loud, too many embers. But I think…he wanted me to understand what it felt like to stand in the middle of something that couldn't be tamed."

A streak of orange blazed across her reflection in the railing.

"I used to think fire was the only thing that made me strong," she whispered. "That if I stopped fighting, I'd disappear."

She looked up at him then—her eyes bright, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the flames overhead.

"But I was wrong," she said. "Because every time I thought I was about to break, you were there."

Cyg felt something shift in his chest—a dull, heavy ache he did not want to name.

"You were the first person who didn't flinch when I got angry," she went on. "Or when I…lashed out. You never told me to be less."

She turned to face him fully, her voice barely above the wind.

"You made me feel like I could be strong and still be…worthy."

He couldn't meet her gaze. It was too raw. Too close.

"Harriet…"

Her hand came up—callused, warm—and hovered near his sleeve. But she didn't touch him, not quite.

"It's fine," she murmured. "I don't expect you to say anything."

The next firework exploded—a ring of scarlet fire so bright it lit every line of her face.

"But just this once," she said, her throat working around the words, "will you watch them with me until the end?"

He inclined his head, unable to look away.

"If you wish."

Her shoulders eased, as if she'd been bracing herself for refusal. And then—carefully—she closed the last inch of space between them, so her shoulder rested against his arm.

They stood that way while the final sequence began: a storm of flame-lilies unfurling in a slow, magnificent bloom. Each burst glowed in her eyes, and though she never looked directly at him again, he could feel every heartbeat against his side.

When the last ember drifted into darkness, Harriet let out a long, unsteady sigh.

"I know you don't like being here," she said, softer than he'd ever heard her. "But…I'm glad you stayed."

He didn't answer. He only watched the smoke trail across the stars, feeling the shape of her leaning trust in the quiet space between them.

And for that moment—just that moment—he did not try to push it away.