Early Morning – Last Day of Lantern Festival

The canals between the Scholars’ Quarter and the South Docks had been unusually quiet that night. A humid stillness hung over Vallenport, broken only by the occasional lapping of water against stone. Then, without warning, the sky fractured with light. Gold and silver surged upward, crackling and alive, as an arcane barrier manifested at the intersection of the two districts. The energy pulsed, spilling faint motes of light that danced across the canal’s surface.

Messengers darted out almost immediately. Not through enchanted communication stones—they were too easily intercepted—but in person, their footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. A flash of Imperial insignia here, the glint of elven armor there, all weaving into the shadows.

***

Gondola racing was a serious business in Vallenport. It was a huge deal for me, Marco, youngest of the Bellini Brothers. I’ll never forget this Lantern Festival. My brothers and I—poor kids from the Scholar’s Quarter—were already Vallenport legends, but this year felt different. Bigger. Heavier.

The crowds packed the Grand Canal, cheers echoing off the marble facades like waves against a pier. Gondola racing was everything in Vallenport—pride, legacy, immortality. And the Bellini brothers? We were the favourites, the ones they whispered about in betting halls and shouted for in the streets.

I stood there on the docks that first morning, the youngest of the four of us, feeling like I might come apart at the seams. The Grand Canal churned, its surface restless under the rising sun. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, flickering gold against the dawn.

The other teams—Kane Jr. with his Coltere crew, the Temple Priests with Father John at the helm—were already loading into their gondolas, muscles taut, faces set. The priests were the ones to beat. Always were.

Before we were legends, before we even had our own gondola, my brothers and I used to sit on the Scholar’s Quarters’ steps, watching the races with wide eyes and empty pockets. Back then, Father John was the man to beat—a giant on the water with a booming laugh you could hear clear across the canal.

I can still picture him cutting through the water like a force of nature, his oar moving in perfect rhythm, the Temple Priests trailing him like his personal army. We’d cheer with the crowd, dreaming of the day we’d take our place in the line-up. For us, Father John wasn’t just a competitor; he was a legend, the kind of racer you measured yourself against. And now, years later, it felt surreal to stand here as reigning champions while he fought his own battle, one we couldn’t see coming.

That day Father John was waving to the crowd with that booming laugh of his, red-faced and larger than life. A man of the people, he waved to the crowd with flourished gestures, flashing a grin that seemed to echo his jovial sermons.

And then it happened.

I didn’t see it, not at first. We had a bye that day as reigning champs, so we watched from the edge of the canal.

Halfway through their heat, just as they passed the Temple’s steps, something shifted. The cheers turned to gasps.

Father John’s oar slipped, splashing into the water. He wobbled, slumped forward. The gondola rocked dangerously as one of his men tried to catch him.

‘Fraud!’ someone shouted, and the crowd surged, the word spreading like fire.

My brother Matteo nudged me hard in the ribs, his voice low. ‘Marco - something’s wrong.’ He was right. By the time they got Father John back to shore, his face was pale, his body slack. I could still hear the whispers as they carried him away: poison. Foul play.

That night, the news came. Father John, dead. Official cause unknown. The city buzzed with rumours, but no one had answers. The Temple Priests were out of the race. Just like that, the Lantern Festival had a shadow hanging over it, and for us, everything changed.

***

The second morning came heavy with rain and unease. The cobblestones gleamed wet underfoot, and a mist clung low over the water, softening the edges of the city. It didn’t stop the crowds, though. Nothing ever did. They lined the canals early, shouting and jostling for space as the gondolas were prepped. We posed stiffly for Notman’s camera—four brothers in matching blue tunics, trying to look confident for the front page. The headline would probably read something like, “Bellini Brothers Rise Amid Tragedy”. Matteo muttered under his breath about bad luck, but Leo shot him a glare, the kind that said, “Don’t start.”

Our odds were better now, but the universe wasn’t done testing us. Sixth lane position. The worst draw. The harbor’s winds were against us, and our course had us rounding two stake boats instead of one. We were behind before we even began.

The race was brutal. Water sprayed our faces, the sting of salt cutting through the air. Our gondola slammed into a stray timber halfway through—some cursed remnant from the HSM San Bellaro docked upriver. The jolt nearly knocked me off my bench. My hands burned as I gripped my oar, my muscles screaming with every stroke. But we didn’t stop. Not once. The Bellini brothers didn’t back down.

When we crossed the finish line, drenched and breathless, we’d clawed our way to third. A tie. The crowd still roared for us, but it felt like a loss. For Matteo, it was. He barely spoke that night, his jaw tight as we packed our gear. But for me? I couldn’t shake the feeling that the race was far from over.

***

By the final day, the air buzzed with tension. The rain had cleared, but the city felt strange—on edge. Maybe it was the soldiers in full Imperial regalia, stationed at every corner, their armor gleaming as they pushed through the crowds. Or maybe it was the lingering whispers about Father John. Either way, something wasn’t right.

Lanterns lit up the Grand Canal as we lined up for the two-man finals. Ten thousand gold on the line—the biggest prize in Vallenport history. Matteo and Leo were up for us, the two strongest rowers in the family. I watched from the docks with Paulo, my gut twisting as the other crews took their places.

The Petersberg team from Solara shot forward the moment the signal went off, their strokes perfect, precise. For the first half of the race, it looked like they couldn’t be touched. Our gondola struggled at the start, catching briefly in the current. Matteo’s frustration was palpable, even from where I stood, his oar dipping too shallow before he adjusted.

But then, the Petersberg crew made a mistake. They veered through the wrong arch of a bridge, misjudging their line. I watched it unfold like slow motion, the crowd erupting in a mix of cheers and shouts. Matteo and Leo seized the chance. Their strokes became a rhythm, relentless and fierce, pulling them forward with a force that defied the odds.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Matteo, Leo and Paulo raised the trophy high, their faces beaming with triumph. Fireworks exploded overhead, casting the Grand Canal in shimmering reds and golds, but I barely noticed. My feet were already moving.

‘Bellini!’ The chants rang out from every corner of the square, a thousand voices celebrating us. My heart pounded as I darted through the crowd, dodging waving arms and spilled drinks. Matteo caught sight of me first, his grin splitting wide as he motioned me up.

‘Get up here, you little runt!’ he yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting.

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I didn’t need to be told twice. My hands grabbed the edge of the stage, and I hauled myself up, legs scrambling for purchase. Leo reached down, grabbed my arm, and hoisted me the rest of the way. The trophy gleamed under the lantern light, and as Matteo passed it to me, the weight of it was more satisfying than I could’ve imagined.

Together, we lifted it high, the fourt of us united as the crowd erupted into a fresh wave of cheers. Lanterns floated in the canal, fireworks burst in the sky, and for that moment, the world was ours.

‘Bellini brothers, champions again!’ Leo bellowed, his arm slung around my shoulders. I laughed, breathless and exhilarated, my chest swelling with pride. This was it. This was what we’d worked for, bled for, rowed our hearts out for.

I locked eyes with Matteo, his grin as wild as mine, and then with Leo, who raised his fist to the sky. This was more than a victory—it was a reminder of who we were. Poor kids from Vallenport, standing at the center of the city’s biggest stage, making history together.

The crowd kept cheering, and for the first time, I let myself soak it in, every sound, every light, every moment. We’d done it. We were on top of the world.

***

Three groups, disparate in origin and intent, converged on the city for the same purpose: the dungeon beneath the barrier. It was an opportunity that demanded perfect timing and secrecy. The Lantern Festival, with its races and revelry, provided the perfect cover.

The final day of the Lantern Festival was electric. The air buzzed with tension as thousands packed the banks of the Grand Canal, their cheers echoing between the marble facades. This was the main event—the two-man race. A staggering 10,000 gold prize, the largest in Vallenport’s history, had drawn crews from across the world.

Sir Moritz, a gaunt but commanding figure, oversaw the chaos with his trademark precision. International crews added flair and rivalry: the Von Watburg brothers from the Covenant of Iron, sleek and disciplined; the Textor crew, unpredictable and aggressive; and local legends, the Bellini brothers, fresh off their third-place four-man finish but still crowd favorites.

Betting pools swelled. The press swarmed the docks, flashes from Notman’s studio cameras catching every tense moment. As the gondolas lined up, the stakes had never felt higher.

By morning, the festival’s gondola finals had already been delayed by unpredictable weather. Rain pooled on rooftops, dripping steadily into the canals, and a mist clung to the cobblestones, softening the sharp angles of the Scholars’ Quarter.

Emberfist grumbled as she leaned against a lamppost, her thin arms crossed. She watched the crowd with sharp eyes, her hands clenching whenever an Imperial soldier passed by. 'That’s full regalia,' he muttered to Tavalor, his deep voice low. 'They’re not here for the races.'

Tavalor nodded, his gaze distant as he scanned the square. 'No, they’re not.'

On the other side of the crowd, Luneth stood near a fruit vendor, her sharp eyes following the movement of two lithe figures in crystal armor. The elven twins glided through the crowd in synchronized strides, drawing brief glances from onlookers. Luneth’s jaw tightened.

'You see them?' she asked quietly, her voice just loud enough for Tavalor to hear.

He followed her gaze and smiled faintly. 'I see them.'

The groups had all made their intentions clear, albeit indirectly. Beneath the thin veneer of celebration, the festival had become a game of subterfuge.

When the finals began at six, the Petersberg crew from Solara shot forward with an explosive start, their oars slicing cleanly through the water. The Bellini brothers, however, struggled to gain momentum. A poor start left them trailing, their oar briefly catching in the current—a dangerous misstep.

But the Bellinis had something no one else did: relentless discipline. They held their rhythm, fighting through the setback and slowly gaining ground.

Ahead, Petersberg miscalculated their approach, steering through the wrong arch of a bridge and costing themselves valuable time. It was all the Bellinis needed. They surged forward, each stroke pulling them steadily ahead. The crowd roared as they crossed the finish line decisively.

Fireworks lit the sky as the Bellini brothers hoisted their trophy high. The city erupted into celebration, with news of their victory spreading nationwide through the telegraph lines by nightfall. They were champions, their names etched into Vallenport history.

In the shadow of the cheers, Tavalor’s group lingered near the barrier. Emberfist’s hand clenched, her enchanted gloves glowing as they saw the Imperial group approach, their heavy boots loud on the cobblestones. Across from them, the elven twins arrived, their crystalline armor catching the dim light.

Tavalor smirked. 'Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?'

The air hummed with tension as the three groups exchanged guarded looks.

The barrier was deep—several hundred meters below the surface of the canal, submerged in the dark heart of Vallenport’s waterways. Beneath the rippling, moonlit surface, it pulsed with energy, an ancient enchantment that had kept its secrets buried for centuries. The canal waters above it were deceptively calm, but the challenge of reaching the barrier was no small feat. Each group had devised their own method to breach the depths, their unique approaches reflecting the resources and cunning at their disposal.

The elven twins, standing tall and poised as always. They were lighter on their feet, more attuned to the magic of the world around them. Their approach was quiet, mystical, and fluid, reflecting their elven heritage.

The twins had woven a spell—a combination of elven water magic and telekinesis—to create an air pocket that allowed them to breathe as they descended. They stepped gracefully onto the canal’s surface, the water parting around their feet as they silently sank beneath the waves. The spell held, and they seemed to glide deeper with almost no effort at all, the waters around them parting in a gentle swirl. A soft glow emitted from their crystal armor, allowing them to see the faint, glowing patterns of runes etched into the ancient barrier far below.

They moved as one, in perfect synchronization, their movements almost undetectable. Their bodies melded with the magic of the city, as though they were one with the water, their elegant descent a testament to their skill.

Dorian, never one to miss an opportunity to show off, had opted for a more ostentatious method—one designed to blend his usual flair with practicality. He had arranged for a special gondola, one crafted with the finest materials and embellished with gleaming silver and gold. The gondola’s hull had been reinforced with a mix of enchantments, allowing it to submerge slowly but steadily into the waters.

As the gondola neared the spot of the barrier, Dorian flashed a confident smile at the others watching from the edge. He waved, calling out cheerfully, 'No need to be shy! We all have our methods, don’t we?' His voice rang out in mock-joviality. His charm seemed to cut through the tension, if only briefly, as the gondola, filled with barrels of arcane reagents, began its descent.

Dorian's plan was simple: by filling the gondola with carefully packed barrels of enchanted material, the gondola would slowly sink, creating an airtight chamber. This would let him safely enter the submerged dungeon while remaining able to maintain some semblance of normalcy. His descent was slow, the gondola moving steadily downward, as the water began to churn around him.

Despite the flashiness of his entrance, Dorian was aware of the magic surrounding him, his gaze alert as he checked the map, glancing toward the rapidly receding surface.

The Solarans’ approach was much more practical. Kethar unrolled the enchanted beast skin, its surface shifting like liquid under the moonlight. The hide, a rare material harvested from a creature deep within the frozen wastelands, held an inherent magic that made it unique. When activated by specific incantations, it could interact with both physical and magical barriers. The skin had been carefully treated with spells that allowed it to adapt to various elemental forces—water, fire, and even ancient magic like that of the barrier blocking their path.

As Auris whispered a series of ancient words, the hide shimmered, aligning itself with the magical current of the canal. The hides magic didn’t simply repel the water; it attuned to the barrier’s energy, gently parting it like a wave as they moved forward. The skin wrapped around them, forming an airtight seal, while still allowing enough flexibility to move freely.

The barrier, a powerful force that had stopped others in their tracks, bent to the skin’s magic, leaving the group unhindered. The temperature dropped as they descended, the world above them fading into darkness. Beneath the water, the currents of ancient power tugged at the skin, but it held firm. They were now in the depths, where only the bravest dared to tread.

Luneth, her sharp instincts as a thief always at the ready, had planned something entirely different. She didn't want to draw attention to herself; she needed a method that allowed her to slip past both the magical energies and the other groups.

Luneth had prepared a set of enchanted diving robes. These robes, once submerged in water, activated a series of runes that caused her body to become near invisible. A faint shimmer enveloped her as she entered the water, her form blending with the shadows beneath.

She didn’t need to descend in a large, bulky vehicle. Instead, Luneth moved like a shadow in the water, her body wrapped in the lightest of cloaks. She pulled a thin strand of silk from her belt and tied it to the edge of a nearby stone pillar, the only tether connecting her to the surface. With a graceful, almost imperceptible movement, Luneth disappeared into the depths, following the faint trace of energy she could feel coming from the barrier below.

Her underwater descent was calculated and methodical, moving in short bursts of speed, always listening, always watching. She didn’t want to be found.

Tavalor closed his eyes for a moment, drawing on the ancient power embedded within him. The skill, [Ancient Scales], pulsed to life, a low hum vibrating through his body. It wasn’t something he needed to prepare—merely activate. The magic settled like a second skin, transforming his connection to the world around him. His body became resistant to the physical pressures of the water, the crushing force of the depths no longer a threat. Even the swirling currents, as fierce as they were, could not harm him.

He extended a hand to Emberfist, the glow of his magic now visible as a barrier, an ethereal shield enveloping them both. She stepped into his grip, and the sensation was immediate—a subtle weightlessness, as if the water itself was no longer holding her back.

Tavalor moved forward, each step deliberate and sure. There was no sinking, no fighting the pressure. He just walked into the canal. The water parted around them as if acknowledging his command, the currents no longer a force to be reckoned with. He was immune to the dangers of the depths, and Emberfist, protected by his magic, moved alongside him. They descended together as if walking on solid ground.