A flyer floated down the street, winding and twisting in the air, made translucent by the midday sun. The wind picked up, bringing with it another flyer, the two pirouetting. They parted momentarily, making way for children dashing through, squealing as they held coloured sashes against the wind that trailed and fluttered behind them. The two rejoined and rode the wind through a park where families sat on mats, the adults munching on snacks, hardly bothering to supervise their children as they rolled about in groups, the grass tickling them delightfully. Over the roofs they went, looking up at the cathedral and its spires as a bell struck once, twice, twelve times, signalling the start of not a day, but the day. They soared and arced back towards the ground, and just as they swung low and pitched up to continue, a young boy swatted them both out of the air. He folded one up into a paper aeroplane and tossed it with all the strength his little arm could muster—the wind, still ripe, carried the plane away on its current.

Just as he was about to fold the next one, the head priestess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder from behind. Before she had a chance to speak, the child jumped, startled, and dashed off, dropping the flyer. “These were handmade… I suppose we should have used more glue,” she sighed, picking it up and handing it to me.

‘Elsmeade! The biggest harvest in decades!’ it read in thick font with an assortment of cutely drawn fruits. It was obvious who had designed it. “So, this is a harvest festival?” I asked.

“Yes. You could say that. Most of our crops ripen in autumn, all at once. We give thanks for Her bounty—I suppose that includes yours too, now.”

“I haven’t done much—” I started, but her look silenced me. She disliked modesty. “So… Do they give out free samples? Of the harvest, I mean.”

“Free, no, but cheap, yes. Kids are an exception, usually. Elsmeade was not the citizens’ idea—the king decreed it several generations ago. Most wars are fought before autumn to give us time to stockpile for winter and the king needed to raise approval after a particularly bloody spring. Embarrassingly, the king at the time was named Elson… but the tradition persists, along with the name.”

We walked towards the fairgrounds. The air was cold, chilled by the wind, the sun mild and pale despite the hour. “The king? Interesting. So, kings can do that too. Snap their fingers and a tradition appears, just like that.”

“You were expecting something different? Perhaps you thought it came from religion?”

“Something like that, what with how crowded the chapel gets nowadays.”

“The faith was never this strong. It didn’t need to be—this city has never wanted for much. Not like the neighbouring states.”

“What changed?” I asked absentmindedly, looking at the grounds gate, grand and arched in front of us.

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” She turned and smirked.

“Er, no… Nevermind,” I mumbled, mortified, striding ahead of her and through the gates. The parks in the city were lush and green, the grass planted and manicured by the city gardeners, but the fairgrounds were made of bluegrass, fine, thin, long, and rolling in the wind. It was an open field outside the city gates, the walls muffling the bustle of the city, leaving space for rustling trees and chirping birds to fill. I breathed in, and a thousand fruits mixed in my mouth. How sweet. The smell of raw meat in a charred fireplace and bodily fluids drying on the floor came to mind, but only for an instant. I quickly shook those memories away. To think the very air could taste like this… This must be a dream, the sweetest of all.

Before me sprawled countless stalls forming a natural maze. They sold fruits, snacks, cakes baked from the harvest—then there were those that had nothing to do with the harvest at all, selling toys, handknit scarves, drinks, and other things I had never seen before.

“What do you think?” she asked, catching up with me.

“You… you do this every year? And everyone cooperates? They agree to show up, just like that, with all of these splendid—look, look at this.” I rushed to a stall selling a scarf. “This is so pretty,” I said. “I had no idea your artisans were so talented. And this,” I mumbled, picking up a crocheted miniature sword, fashioned after some myth. “A sword, but knitted…”

The old woman behind the counter gasped and beamed. “You! Oh, goodness, take it! Free, of course!” Her voice carried a strange lilt to it, a bit shaky and frail; she must not have been born here. Garder really has all sorts.

“Really? I can have this?” I asked, my eyes wide like saucers, to which the woman nodded hard, the chains around her neck jingling. I carefully lifted the scarf, gingerly, as though holding an infant. “How do I wear this?” I asked.

“Oh! It’s simple. You wrap it around your neck, see?” She took it from my hands and reached out, wrapping it for me with a mother’s practised hands. “Warmer now, no? The winter gale seems to have come early this year,” she chirped. She whipped out a needle, sewed the miniature sword to the scarf and patted it into place. “How does that feel? My son loves these. He even sleeps with one in the barracks. Next to his claymore, of course. Oh, boys and their blades.”

“It’s… it’s warm. I love it,” I said, and in my eyes there was only the genuine gratitude of someone who had never received a gift before. I bowed, to which the woman almost burst into tears, embarrassed.

“It’s nice,” the head priestess said as I rejoined her. “You see how they love you?”

I fell silent for a moment. I was still an imposter—I knew better than anyone my prayers and blessings had no real effect. The scarf was so soft and warm, though. I pulled it higher, covering my nose, as though it would mask my guilt. “They’re very kind,” I said.

“The Shepherd deserves as much. We will never forget what you did for us,” she said with a firm smile.

We spent the rest of the day touring the stalls. The air only grew more colourful as night fell and lamps lit up one by one, some carved from fruit, others from neon paper, all casting behind us long shadows that danced and played across the field, as though the grass too were celebrating. I dragged the priestess from stall to stall, playing all sorts of extravagant games I had never seen before—though to her, this must have all seemed so normal and childish.

“Look,” I gasped, looking at her through a mini kaleidoscope I had won. “How does this work? It divides your face into countless little shards,” I said, pulling it away, making her face whole once more.

“I can’t look if you’re looking through it,” she said, amused. “It only goes one way. It’s a… there’s a bunch of mirrors inside it that contort light. It’s a popular toy, and the glassmakers always come up with new ways to make them.”

I looked through the kaleidoscope again, splitting her face like a jigsaw. This was her nose, far from where it normally was. This was her left eye, and this one her right, both having swapped places and offset at an angle. Her lips were up high, and her smooth hair now lay in broken chunks. I reassembled them in my mind, knowing exactly where each piece should lie. It was easy, like painting a picture.

“Should we keep walking? Before it gets dark…” she asked, looking away. I pulled away, embarrassed, a slight ring around my eye from the wooden eyepiece.

“Right. Sorry. Let’s keep going, then,” I mumbled, pulling her with me. There were still so many stalls left to look at, sprawling before me like a city of its own.

We only returned hours later, my arms heavy with prizes and gifts. The priestess helped carry them into my room. “We don’t have space in the chapel for all this,” she muttered, pulling a back scratcher out of one of the bags. “Do you really need this?”

“It seemed interesting.”

“It also seems useless.” She looked at me warmly, as though trying to reconcile the gap between the myth that foretold me and the eager puppy I had become. “I suppose this is your first Elsmeade. I hope our festivities pleased you.”

“It was amazing! I… I could never have imagined so many people in the same place, adults, children, men and women both, so many baubles and trinkets and clothes and toys. So, this is what you call a festival. No wonder it happens once a year.”

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“Not just once a year. We have other festivals too. The next one should be in winter.”

“More?” I gasped. “Just like this one? Will the people be ready in time? There must be so much to prepare…”

“Of course. We’ve been doing this for centuries. A few stalls and a bonfire—we can get those ready in a few weeks. The fireworks… we might have to import them this time. Last year’s snow was thick and they didn’t light easily…”

“Fireworks?”

“Oh, they’re… I’ll just show you. It’s almost time to light them, anyway. We usually set them off from the chapel—too risky to light them in an open field.”

My mind spun as I followed her down the stairs. There’s more? I think back to the cave and having to roll a stick between my palm, stoking mossy firewood, desperate for even a spark. I did not know how to light anything else. I could not imagine anything even remotely festive about lighting fire.

Just as we descended the staircase and entered the main hall, a loud bang rang out, followed by several more. Someone was pounding at the door. The head priestess rushed over and opened it—and a haggard old man with hair like a lion’s mane and an unkempt beard covering half his face stumbled in, his arm supporting a frail woman. “My sister,” he said. “She’s ill. Worse than ever before. Please, I know it is Elsmeade, but will you not look at her?”

“No… you poor thing! Did you really wait until the festivities were over? You should have brought her to me right away,” the head priestess said as she helped them into the hall, closing the door, shutting out the cold night. She guided them into the infirmary and laid the woman on a soft bed, checking her vitals. For once, nobody noticed me as I stood near the walls, not wanting to interrupt.

“She’s burning up, but there’s no way to tell the cause,” the head priestess murmured, her palm against the woman’s forehead. “It could just be a passing fever…”

“It’s not the plague, is it?” the man asked, his face stretched thin.

“No. You mentioned she was ill before?”

“Yes, she’s always been frail.”

“Then it’s likely just another fever, worsened by the cold. There are more serious conditions that start with a fever—lungrot, pale eye, and such… but there is no way to tell just yet.” She helped the woman sit up, reached for a vial and tipped it against her lips. The woman drank and opened her eyes, scanning the room, her gaze frail. They locked on to me.

“Is that Her? The Shepherd?” The woman spoke for the first time.

“Yes. She has been living here for a while, as you may already know…”

“I never got a chance to see her in person—” she began before the man rose to his feet, stumbled towards me and prostrated himself. I recognised him immediately.

“You saved me on the night before we stormed the city—the night before the plague struck it down. You did. Please,” he begged, looking up at me with eyes burning with hope, not weepy and delirious as they had been that night. “Please, do something for my sister. She has been ill for so long… I saw your power for myself. I saw how they vomited out their guts, their eyes green like putrid water, blood frothing in their mouths and oozing from their nostrils. I saw their dead cover their streets. If you could lend us even a fraction of that strength and cure my sister, even temporarily, I would give anything—even my life.”

I froze. What? I cannot cure sickness; neither can I cause it. The woman gasped and shook her head. “No! No, the medicine is sufficient,” she said, trying to put me at ease. “There’s no need for all this, Gault. Enough of that talk about… about dying.”

I saw through her act. She wished to be cured, more than anything. Even the head priestess said nothing. They were expecting a miracle from me, though I had no power. I did not even know where to begin, but for the first time, I felt drawn to help. I knew I had no way to, but what had I been doing till now if not conjuring hope where there was none? The people wanted me to weave illusions, and I had seen for myself how they could nudge the scales in their favour. If smoke and mirrors gave them strength, I would play my role. I would pluck the clouds from the sky and bring them to heel, encircling us in fog. I would pull the sun from orbit, wrangle its light, twisting it, colouring it, blinding them with it, all so they could not tell dream from truth. In this house of glass, there was one testament to my might I could bring to bear.

“Very well,” I began, stepping past the man and towards the patient, shuddering in embarrassment at my act. “Where medicine fails, I shall take over. For you, who have lain wracked by sickness all your life, Evie, the Child of God, shall grant but a drop of eternal life. Drink deep of it and feel it spread.” I removed my silver hairpin—a mark of holiness, worn by every nun in the chapel—and held it against my finger, trembling slightly. “It is only potent insofar as your faith holds true. Its aegis is not impregnable, but its worth is far beyond even a thousand oceans of the all-cure.” Then, before the priestess could protest, I pierced my finger with the pin. Immediately blood beaded at the wound: round, red and pure. I held my finger to the patient’s mouth and let the blood circle my fingertip before dripping into her mouth, wide open, just like her eyes.

She swallowed as though dying of thirst. Just like that, the spell ended. I turned away, wincing slightly as I reached for a tissue to wrap my finger with. “That… that is all.”

“It tastes like honey,” the patient said, though she looked no different. Honey?! “Warm, like hot tea. So, this is a miracle. Thank you. Thank you…” I turned back towards her. She was sobbing, yet smiling at the same time. Humans can smile like this too? A third kind. I glanced at the head priestess, who gave me a reassuring nod.

“This isn’t a service the chapel provides,” I mumbled. The siblings nodded—they were special. I had made an exception for them. This would strengthen their faith, and in turn, her immunity. Faith is a funny thing—even if placebo carries a negative connotation, faith lies on the other side of the coin. That it lacks power is precisely what gives it strength. It does not move people, but gives them an impetus to move themselves.

“The fireworks,” the head priestess gasped. “It’s almost time. I must light them.”

“Forgive us for keeping us from your duties. Please, go ahead. I will keep an eye on her,” the brother said, taking a seat next to his sister. Desperate to leave the room, I followed the priestess, frantically rushing through the hall, through a corridor, into a cellar. We carried heavy sacks on our shoulders and satchels slung around our necks up a flight of stairs leading to the roof of the cathedral’s tallest turret.

She, the frailer of us, decided to set up the tripod on the roof while I continued to carry sacks of fireworks up the stairs. It took less than ten minutes to set everything up. The tripod stood stable, made of iron, a cylinder pointed up at an angle. I opened a sack, and out spilled fireworks: long rods with colourful pipes glued to them. I picked one up, examining it.

“Slot it in here, quick, into the rocket,” she said, picking up a few and loading them into the cylinder. I followed suit, fumbling—it was pitch dark and I could barely see my nose. Once the cylinder was packed full, she pulled out a matchbox and lit a match. Her face glowed in the light, the flame reflected as a steady dot in her eyes. Behind her, the sky stretched out, vast and black like space itself. A full moon hung still, alone—there were no stars nor clouds tonight. “Perfect… this might be the best Elsmeade fireworks yet,” she said, grinning, as she turned and lit the fuse.

I held my breath, too afraid to move. The air was freezing cold at this altitude. I tightened the scarf I received today around my neck, lifting it up to my nose. The flame gnawed on the fuse, slowly at first, accelerating as it got closer. It was at that moment I noticed how quiet it was. The city was dark, the usual candlelit windows nowhere to be seen. Even the children who liked to play after dark were gone. They, like the rest of the city, had their eyes trained on the sky, all holding their breath. They were waiting for the fireworks.

The fuse burned through, and the rocket shot into the air with a deafening scream. It traced an arc towards the moon, a tail of flame streaking behind it. The city watched, their eyes turned heavenward, praying for the lone star as it streaked up, above, beyond reach, into the starless sky: the domain of the iron chariot. Just as it seemed it might go on forever and break free of the atmosphere, it exploded.

Its payload, stuffed with more fireworks than legally permitted, split the air one by one with deafening starbursts. Each spawned a thousand beams, each a different colour, each a different shape—a hexagon circumscribed by countless circles, intricate designs woven in between as though the skies had drawn a crest pulsing with magic. From within spewed stars and comets in all directions, synchronised like flocks of birds. They did not blow all at once, however—some burned delayed in the air, falling slowly before detonating one by one, taking the sky as its canvas.

As I stared, slack-jawed, she hurriedly loaded another rocket and lit it, sending it on its way, laughing mischievously. For almost an hour the sky blazed with the light of a thousand suns, each a different colour, each a myth brought to life. I could only smile, my eyes swimming in tears. This is awe, I thought. This is how it feels to witness a miracle. How humbling. First the kaleidoscopes, and now this… I am no God. I could never dream these patterns, let alone spin them to life. What magnificent power, to be able to twist light and draw stars across the sky—to turn night into day. I remembered the purple flames that spat from the winged beast’s engines as it took off, leaving me here on this strange planet. And now, we could wield such fire at will for our amusement.

I blinked as the fireworks finally stopped. The dark and quiet of night returned. My eyes, blinded by the searing light, took a while to adjust. “So, what did you think?” the head priestess asked, startling me.

“It was true magic,” I mumbled. “I cannot imagine anything more beautiful.” The moon hung above me, unperturbed by what just occurred below it. There was nothing else but the clear night sky. Nothing at all where the light had just been.

“Not magic. Just a little alchemy. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, disassembling the tripod.

I desperately tried to listen to the ringing in my numb ears, trying to hold on, but it dissipated like sand slipping through my fingers. The sky was dark. Yet, I could see the stars if I tried hard enough—each explosion a bright flash, a snapshot, seared into my mind. I flipped through the pages, picturing each intricate pattern. I reached for the scarf on my neck, lightly touching the crocheted sword sewed into it. It was the first gift I had ever received.

“Perhaps we’ll light more to celebrate the new year.”

“I would really like that.”