The city was alive with preparation.

  Nyx moved through the streets, her silver cloak catching the light of enchanted lanterns strung between the rooftops. Elves worked in perfect rhythm—setting up delicate silk banners, arranging gemstone displays, marking the streets where performances would take place. Magic shimmered in the air, woven effortlessly into their work.

  They didn’t just build festivals. They crafted them.

  She adjusted the hood of her cloak as Uriel’s voice slipped into her thoughts.

  “This is your chance, Nyx. One step closer to your goal.”

  Nyx exhaled. “I know.”

  “Then keep going.”

  She had waited two years for this moment. The Wills hadn’t been ready before. Now they were. There was no hesitation.

  “Once you complete this,” Uriel continued, “the Proud Peacock God of Lust will grant you a skill in glamour, light magic. You’re getting stronger, just as you vowed.

  A new ability. Another step toward ascension.

  She kept walking.

  Uriel’s voice softened slightly. “They won’t want your help.”

  Nyx smirked faintly. “I figured.”

  “It’s part of the journey,” Uriel reminded her. “You’re here to prove them wrong, not seek their approval.”

  Nyx nodded once.

  Then, she stepped into the planning hall.

  The festival preparations were already in motion.

  Mages hovered glowing layouts of the city above long tables, adjusting stage placements and lantern formations. Officials shuffled through stacks of parchment, finalizing lists of performers and vendors. The hall was a structured machine, every moving piece locked into place.

  She could see it immediately. There was no room for her here.

  But she wasn’t leaving.

  She stepped forward, approaching a noblewoman who seemed to be overseeing the main planning discussions—silver-haired, draped in deep violet robes embroidered with the Queen’s sigil.

  The woman didn’t acknowledge her at first. When she finally lifted her gaze, it was only in mild curiosity.

  “You’re not on the list of assigned coordinators.”

  Nyx met her gaze evenly. “I want to help.”

  A few heads turned. Not in surprise—just mild curiosity.

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  The noblewoman’s expression remained unreadable. “With what?”

  “The festival.”

  Silence.

  A noble sitting further back chuckled under his breath. A scribe nearby didn’t bother looking up from his notes.

  A younger elf, standing near the illusionary map, asked, “Do you have experience with event planning?”

  “No.”

  The shift in the air was instant.

  Not tension, not hostility—just pure, quiet disinterest.

  The noblewoman’s lips pressed together slightly.

  Another scoff. This time from an older elf sitting near a stack of scrolls. “A human, organizing an elven celebration?” He didn’t even look up. “That’s a joke.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” she said, turning away. “We already have enough hands.”

  Nyx expected rejection. But the ease of it—the way they had already dismissed her—dug under her skin.

  They hadn’t even considered her.

  No second thought. No discussion. Just gone.

  “She’s more useful than you think.”

  Nyx didn’t react as Lorienna stepped beside her, her silver-blonde hair catching the soft lantern light.

  The noblewoman sighed. “Lorienna, this isn’t your concern.”

  Lorienna crossed her arms. “It is now.”

  A nobleman sitting at the far end of the table—dressed in sapphire robes, a golden chain resting against his chest—finally looked up.

  “She just admitted she has no experience,” he pointed out.

  “She’s been reading about ceremonies for weeks,” Lorienna countered. “She knows more than half the scribes here.”

  “That doesn’t mean she can execute it,” the noblewoman replied coolly.

  Lorienna smiled faintly. “Then let her try. If she’s unhelpful, you can remove her.”

  A brief, tense silence.

  Nyx didn’t move.

  Then—Thalindra exhaled sharply.

  “No.”

  Lorienna raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “No,” Thalindra repeated, already shifting her attention back to the table. “We don’t have time for humor experiments.”

  The conversation was over.

  Nyx wasn’t angry. She had expected this. But it didn’t mean she liked it.

  She turned and walked out.

  Lorienna followed after her, shaking her head. “They’re idiots.”

  Nyx shrugged. “They don’t trust me. That’s not new.”

  Lorienna shot her a sideways glance. “You don’t look upset.”

  “I’m not.”

  Lorienna narrowed her eyes. “You’re still going to do it, aren’t you?”

  Nyx smirked faintly. “Obviously.”

  The library was quiet, endless.

  Shelves stretched to the high ceiling, each row packed with ancient tomes and delicate scrolls. Golden candlelight flickered against smooth stone walls. Floating platforms drifted lazily overhead, carrying scholars between sections.

  Nyx ran her fingers over the worn leather bindings as she walked.

  She didn’t need permission.

  She just needed knowledge.

  She pulled three books from the shelves.

  ?The Art of Ceremonies: A Guide to Grand Events

  ?Cultural Festivals Across Erithia

  ?Elven Traditions: The Seasonal Ceremonies

  Settling into a corner table, she opened the first book.

  Every festival had layers.

  It wasn’t just music and decorations. It was about storytelling. Every color choice, every dance movement, every flame that flickered in a lantern carried meaning.

  She traced her fingers along the page, absorbing the details.

  The Elven Kingdom’s festivals were deeply tied to seasons, celestial events, and old bloodlines. Every performance was meant to symbolize a shift, a renewal.

  She wasn’t planning just any festival.

  She was weaving something timeless.

  She didn’t stop.

  Even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes, she kept flipping the pages, pulling more books from the shelves, committing everything to memory.

  She wasn’t going to fail.

  By the time she reached her room, the city had settled.

  Music from distant taverns had faded to a low hum. The lanterns lining the streets glowed a soft silver.

  She closed the door behind her, slipping off her cloak and dark veil. The weight of the day pressed into her muscles.

  A bath.

  The water steamed as she sank into it, lavender oil mixing into the heat. The warmth bit into her skin at first, then melted into relief.

  She let her head tip back against the tub’s edge, eyes closed.

  The rejection didn’t sting anymore.

  She was going to make this happen.

  Even if they didn’t want her to.

  She didn’t linger.

  When sleep started pulling too heavily at her limbs, she stepped out, dried off, and slid into bed.

  The sheets were cool. Soft.

  The moment she closed her eyes, sleep found her.

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  Baibai ??