Dawn rose on the third morning in a hush of golden light, revealing how the enchantments woven by Sirellis and Velir cocooned the village in a harmonious blend of nature and magic. The illusions shimmered in the early sun, their patterns of light and shadow merging seamlessly with the square’s living architecture, as if the very air believed in the vision they created. Soldiers, courtiers, and villagers alike stirred with the awareness that this was the king’s final day among them. The air felt charged—neither relaxed nor fully anxious, but like a bowstring drawn taut, poised for a final test.
Rowan stood at the edge of the square, resting a hand on one of the living arches that swayed above him, bracing for whatever came next. Even the most entranced villagers knew the true outcome of this grand experiment was yet to be decided.
By mid-morning, the king appeared in the square, accompanied by Rowan and Velir. The enchantments, shimmering in the early sun, wove patterns of light and shadow that merged seamlessly with the square’s natural architecture, a testament to the careful balance of magic and nature. People bustled with preparations for one last celebration—a way to showcase the fragile accord, to prove that trust could hold despite the misgivings that had bubbled to the surface the day before. Servants arranged tables laden with fruit, breads infused with elven herbs, and spiced meats. Merylla readied her healing supplies in a covered alcove near the square’s edge, hoping to demonstrate how even those who doubted elven ways might benefit from them. Lady Marion hovered beside her, curiosity bright in her eyes, asking gentle, probing questions about the salves and the chants that accompanied them.
Lord Crispin lingered a short distance off, arms folded, his gaze flicking between the illusions overhead and Marion’s unabashed fascination with Merylla’s arts. Beside him stood Lord Harwick, broad-shouldered and grim, whispering quietly, though anger sometimes sparked in his eyes. When Crispin nodded stiffly at some remark Harwick made, it was clear they still saw themselves as guardians of “proper customs,” uneasy with the changes blossoming around them.
Midday brought a parade of sorts: villagers and elves walked side by side in a small procession, carrying garlands and woven symbols meant to honor the bond they were trying to forge. The fiddles played a bright tune, mingling with the softer flutes of the elves. Children scampered along, laughing as shimmering illusions of flickering moths danced around their heads, their fragile forms held aloft by shared belief and playful magic.
The king observed it all with measured composure, occasionally leaning toward Rowan to inquire how the enchantments were sustained and how resource sharing functioned in daily life. “Your experiment here is… unconventional,” the king remarked, gaze thoughtful. “A harmony that appears precarious but, I admit, fascinating.”
Rowan answered calmly, “We stand by the idea that if we respect each other, both sides can flourish. Magic or not, the real power is in mutual willingness.”
Velir stood a pace behind the king, hands clasped. “Harmony can exist if we choose not to fear. Fear is what breaks illusions more surely than any wind,” he said in his steady, resonant tone. The king gave a slight nod, storing the observation away.
A faint tremor of trouble began when Crispin and Harwick stepped away from the milling crowd, conferring in heated murmurs. Some villagers overheard snippets of their hushed conversation: accusations that the enchantments masked ulterior motives, or that subtle magical influences coerced villagers into supporting the accord. Edric, the soldier who had begun to grow comfortable with the communal ways, overheard Harwick mention a document signed by “real villagers” confessing they felt pressured to adopt elven customs. Edric frowned but said nothing yet, uncertain if he should intervene.
Tension mounted as the festival reached its peak: couples and groups danced beneath the leafy arches, illusions shifting colors as if reflecting the music’s ebb and flow. Wera, Lieris, Ildan, and Orindel briefly joined the dancing, though they remained wary of drawing the same ire that had erupted before. Lady Marion roamed the lanes with Merylla, cradling a small pouch of herbs Merylla had gifted her. Marion paused often to admire the living structures, marveling at how the elves’ magic melded intent and nature, shaping arching vines with gestures that seemed to guide the forest’s own will, binding them with delicate runes to ensure their stability.
It was then that Harwick made his move, stepping boldly into the center of the gathering, Crispin at his side. A hush fell over the dancers and the watchers alike. Harwick held up a parchment, voice ringing with affected outrage. “There are those in this village who claim they’ve been misled by illusions and pressured to accept what they call unnatural arrangements. They’ve signed their names here to petition the king to halt this reckless mixing of customs.” Several courtiers murmured, uncertain, while Crispin gave a pointed nod of support. The hush deepened, broken only by the shuffle of feet and the flicker of torches in the daylight’s growing warmth.
Rowan came forward, face tight with concern. He looked for Marta, for Daren, for any villager whose name might be on that list, but they seemed as surprised as he was. “Who signed this?” Rowan asked, voice echoing in the stillness. “Show us these people.” Harwick gestured toward a cluster of uneasy figures who stepped out from behind a cart, but before they could speak, Edric and another soldier recognized at least two of them as men who’d traveled with Harwick from the capital, not local villagers at all. A ripple of confusion tore through the crowd. Lady Marion bit her lip, eyeing Crispin with fresh doubt. “What is this, Crispin? These aren’t the villagers we’ve met.”
Suddenly, the illusions overhead flickered, a tremor of instability passing through them as if the village’s collective heart had skipped a beat. Sirellis, standing near a corner, extended his hands, murmuring quick incantations that threaded magic into the canopy’s living vines, strengthening their connection to the earth and sky. Gasps spread among onlookers; for an instant, the brilliant green arches shimmered, threatening to reveal the plain sky. Murmurs of sabotage rose. Velir, placing a hand on a straining vine, spoke in a voice that carried both sorrow and exasperation. “How easily suspicion tears at what we’ve built.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Harwick pressed on, ignoring the illusions’ wavering. “They never mention that you must submit to illusions, to open—” He glanced toward Wera and Lieris, pausing with scorn. “—relationships. Is that not coercion?” Crispin looked uncomfortable now, eyes darting between Harwick and Marion, who stared at him in dismay. “We only stand for decency,” Crispin began, though his voice wavered. “We—”
The king, shoulders tense, stepped forward. “I have heard enough.” His gaze flicked over Harwick, Crispin, and the supposed petitioners. “Who among you truly lives here, truly knows these customs firsthand?” He snapped his attention to the men behind the cart, who cowered under the scrutiny. “Speak.” One blurted a halting apology, admitting that Harwick had promised them coin to pose as fearful villagers. The hush around them crackled with shock and anger.
Harwick’s face colored, but he jutted his chin defiantly. “Your Majesty, even if these few were encouraged to speak, the deeper point remains: these customs erode human dignity. This entire spectacle has twisted our ways beyond recognition.” Before he could continue, Crispin, looking paler by the second, found his voice. “My lord Harwick,” he said, breathing unsteadily, “I did not sign on to deception. If the petition is false, we have no right to brandish it. I cannot stand with this.” Harwick turned on him in disbelief. “What are you saying?” Crispin avoided his gaze, staring at the ground.
Rage bloomed in Harwick’s eyes. He tried to speak again, but the king held up a silencing hand, his authority hammering the moment still. “You have, by your own deed, undermined the very caution you pretend to defend,” he said, voice resonating through the hush. “I came to see if this accord was a farce or a possibility. You have shown me farce in your own actions. Now stand aside.” Harwick, pale and furious, stepped back, lips pressed thin.
At that moment, the illusions trembled once more, as though reflecting the roiling emotions in the square. Sirellis, sweat beading on his brow, summoned all his concentration to steady the woven branches. Velir quietly joined him, placing a hand against a vine that threatened to unravel. Rowan, heart pounding, knelt to help, pressing his palm to the cobblestones and channeling the fragments of elven incantations he’d learned, his human voice joining the magic’s rhythm as it stabilized the arch. Gradually, the arch stabilized, leaves rustling in a sigh of relief. The air felt charged with a new unity—villagers, elves, and even some soldiers stepping in to hold illusions firm, determined not to let sabotage overshadow the day.
In the tense lull, Marion stepped forward, gaze flicking between Crispin and the king. Her voice trembled with a mix of anger and sadness. “My lords, I’ve seen enough to know the villagers here embrace elven customs by choice, not by force. If it conflicts with some sense of tradition, I understand that pain. But to lie, to forge petitions—what good does that serve?” Crispin’s expression wavered. A flush touched his cheeks as he managed a stiff bow to the king. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I… believed we had genuine dissenters. I see now we stooped to deception.”
The king’s posture eased, though his voice stayed resolute. “Deception is what I will not abide. And yet, we have also seen true tensions. That is the nature of forging a new path. These illusions nearly fell because of fear. But they have not, and that tells me something about this alliance.” He swept his gaze across the assembled throng—the watchers, the dancers, the crafters and farmers, the elves with glowing eyes, and Harwick fuming at the fringe. “Let us resume this final day’s festival, not to pretend there is no discord, but to show we can outlast it.”
A subdued cheer rose. Musicians, who had paused mid-strum, began to pick up their notes again, uncertain at first but gaining confidence. Soldiers stepped back into the lanes, quietly discussing the events among themselves. Villagers breathed easier, some exchanging relieved embraces. Wera, Lieris, Ildan, and Orindel stood together, reaffirming that the malicious attempt to shame their open affection had failed.
The day wore on, colored by both reflection and a stubborn renewal of hope. Crispin, though still ill at ease, made a small gesture of apology by aiding a few elves in setting up a final feast near the orchard’s edge. Marion returned to Merylla’s side, forging a friendship that transcended her old reservations. Rowan quietly thanked Edric for his honesty, and Edric shrugged, claiming he only did what any soldier with a conscience would.
By sunset, the illusions above the square glowed with a gentle twilight hue, their stability a product of human and elven efforts harmonizing magic and craftsmanship. The village came together for one last communal meal, torches flickering across faces both anxious and uplifted. Harwick sulked in a corner, outnumbered and exposed, while Crispin lingered near Marion, eyes distant, as though grappling with regret. The king, standing at the main table, raised a cup of spiced fruit wine to address everyone one final time. He praised the resilience shown, condemned the false petition, and acknowledged how difficult it was to overcome old suspicions. Yet he spoke of new beginnings and the significance of so many humans and elves standing side by side without bloodshed.
When the meal concluded, the king signaled it was time to depart on the morrow. Soft applause spread, not a raucous cheer but a subdued, heartfelt tribute to the fragile peace they had managed to preserve. Villagers stepped forward to bow or curtsy, elves offered gentle inclines of their heads, and even Crispin managed a brief moment of eye contact with Rowan—a tacit admission that while not all was resolved, he recognized at least some shred of good in what he had witnessed.
As darkness deepened, the illusions shimmered overhead, every leaf and vine gleaming like a tapestry of living stars. The wind carried the faint sound of music, the final notes of a day that tested them all. Rowan stood at the edge of the square, letting the hush settle around him, remembering the near-collapse of illusions when Harwick unveiled his ruse. They had survived the strain—not just the magic, but the accord itself. Tomorrow, the king would leave, carrying news of a village where humans and elves were forging a shared world. No one could say the path ahead would be smooth, but as Rowan watched Lady Marion tap Crispin’s arm, quietly leading him toward Merylla’s herbs with words of interest instead of judgment, he dared to believe that a seed of understanding had finally taken root.