When Isolde finished bathing, it was my turn. The hot water dispelled the cold that had settled in my bones, but only for a moment. After dressing in a dark frock with golden embroidery and adjusting the small hat on my head, I made sure to wrap myself in a scarf before leaving the room. Isolde was already ready, wearing a matching dress with a jacket over it, her own scarf carefully adjusted. She was probably trying to shield herself from the cold outside, though I doubted it would be enough.

  We looked at ourselves in the mirror. Two figures dressed in black, ready to face the winter night.

  When we stepped outside, the rain greeted us with its monotonous, fine, and persistent rhythm. The possibility of snow hung in the air, as palpable as the cold biting at exposed skin.

  From the first step onto the street, the magnitude of the celebration became evident. Every house, brothel, tavern, and inn was adorned with glowing lights and festive garlands. Christmas decorations spread like a fever across the city, imposing their presence in every corner.

  In the central park, the epicenter of the festival, music floated in the air. Voices sang carols, string and wind instruments mingled in a chaotic symphony, and amidst it all, a circus melody stood out.

  “It’s too cold…” Isolde complained, rubbing her hands insistently.

  “That’s why I told you to bring your gloves,” I replied without looking at her.

  “Haha… Sorry, I didn’t think the cold would be this extreme.”

  I sighed.

  “We’d better go buy you some, or your hands will end up completely frozen.”

  With that conversation, we headed toward the heart of the festival.

  Colorful banners fluttered in the wind, circus tents rose like cathedrals among the crowd, and people, dressed in period attire, strolled with feverish energy. Seagulls and crows cut through the night sky, their wings silhouetted against the light of the lanterns.

  I walked through the crowd, with Mother and Isolde following closely behind. A child ran past me with a paper pinwheel in hand, his childish laughter rising above the noise. Further ahead, a group of musicians played vibrant melodies with violins and accordions, breathing life into the festival.

  Every street overflowed with attractions: fire-eaters shaping ephemeral creatures in flames, illusionists making pocket watches disappear with a mocking smile, lace-skirted dancers spinning in perfect spirals.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  There was something almost unreal about the atmosphere, a latent magic in the air. The lights from the tents twinkled like stars trapped on earth, promising unparalleled spectacles. An acrobat leaped from a trapeze without a net, the crowd’s gasp hanging in the air just before he twisted in mid-air and landed with impossible grace. Beside him, a lion tamer cracked his whip. The lion watching him didn’t seem particularly impressed.

  “Lucy, look! It’s a jester!”

  I turned to Isolde, who was enthusiastically pointing at a shooting booth. Small brass figures spun unpredictably on the target, and the current participant had just missed their shot, slumping their shoulders in disappointment.

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  The jester running the booth wore a colorful diamond-patterned suit and a harlequin hat. His smile was sharp, his posture relaxed.

  “Luck or skill?” he asked in a charismatic voice, leaning slightly toward Isolde as he extended two darts in his gloved hand.

  So he wants to test her, huh?

  “Mom! Mom! Can I try?”

  Her enthusiasm was palpable. Her eyes sparkled with that childlike excitement that’s hard to contain, and for a moment, she wasn’t the Isolde of every day, but a girl completely captivated by the fair.

  Mother chuckled under her breath and approached the jester.

  “How much for a try?”

  I just watched. I had no intention of participating.

  Let’s call it an act of saving Mother some money… or, to be honest, a simple avoidance of humiliation. My aim was, at best, disastrous.

  “Two florins for a try.”

  Surprisingly cheap. Well, considering it was only two shots, it made sense.

  Mother paid, and the jester handed the darts to Isolde, who climbed onto a small stool to better align her shot. Her expression turned serious, her fingers gripped the dart, her breathing synced with the rhythm of the rain.

  When she felt she was in the right position, she took a breath and…

  Threw.

  “You shouldn’t be so disappointed about missing two shots, Issy.”

  Well, more than disappointed, she seemed indignant.

  “Hmph! It’s not fair. I’m completely sure I threw the darts perfectly.” She crossed her arms, frowning with an almost endearing stubbornness.

  I smiled.

  “You’ll get it next time, you’ll see.”

  I tried to cheer her up, though, to be honest, my words lacked conviction.

  Because, let’s be real: how many times have you won at a shooting booth that’s clearly designed to make you lose? Exactly, never.

  These games are rigged. Only someone with superhuman precision or the audacity to use magic could hit the target. And in that case, the entire booth would likely end up in ruins, a victim of some lunatic’s frustration with too much power.

  But, putting that aside…

  “Shouldn’t Dad be around?” I asked.

  We were supposed to meet him near the Ferris wheel. And, sure enough, there we were, waiting.

  “How strange…”

  And then I saw him.

  His imposing figure stood out among the crowd, accompanied by someone else. His cloak nearly brushed the ground, and the embroidery gleamed with golden reflections under the light of the oil lamps. Father, as always, walked with an unshakable elegance, an umbrella in hand, projecting a presence that seemed carved from marble.

  Wow. Has he always had such a majestic air?

  A little embarrassing to admit, but yes, his aura is impressive.

  When they were close enough, Isolde spotted him.

  “Dad!” she shouted, rushing toward him.

  I wasn’t far behind.

  I ran alongside her, determined to overtake her. Water splashed under our steps, soaking the hems of our clothes, but it was a minor detail. Too insignificant to worry about.

  We jumped at the same time, clinging to Father.

  He laughed, accepting our hug without resistance.

  “Lucius, Isolde! How have you been? Damn, look at your outfits. You’re soaked.”

  Isolde pressed her face against Father’s, nuzzling him affectionately.

  Even though eight years had passed since my birth, my parents still looked absurdly young. I guess molecular healing magic has its perks.

  “Hello, dear,” Mother greeted, smiling.

  Father leaned in to kiss her. I, with my well-developed survival instinct, covered Isolde’s eyes before she had to witness such an embarrassing scene.

  “Your Majesty, my respects,” Mother said, her tone shifting to a more formal one.

  “No need. Remember, on holidays, I’m just another civilian, with no authority.”

  Your Majesty?

  Ah.

  So he’s the monarch.

  That explains a lot. His bearing, his presence, the way he seemed to dominate the space around him even from a distance.

  And, of course, that dark hair and those red eyes didn’t help make his image any less intimidating.

  “Then these must be Lucius and Echidna,” the monarch said, observing us with a calculating gaze.

  “Echidna.”

  Isolde has a middle name that we rarely use. Just like me.

  My middle name is “Van,” but I prefer not to remember it.

  “Echidna? Dear, I told you we’d call her by her first name,” Mother scolded Father with sharp sweetness.

  “Ah… Haha, sorry, I forgot,” he replied, accepting the scolding naturally.

  Really?

  He remembered Isolde’s middle name but forgot mine.

  It sounds more like an excuse to defend himself against Mother than a simple oversight.

  But I’ll let it slide.

  For now.