"Surprise!"
The shout erupted like thunder, a dozen voices crashing over him as the sack slipped from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Light flared—candles and lanterns igniting in a sudden bloom of flame—and the room exploded into life. Villagers filled the space, their faces alight with grins: Mistress Elryn with her crooked teeth and twinkling eyes, Jorvyn wiping ale foam from his beard, children peeking from behind skirts with shy giggles. Talren stood at the center, his arm slung around Veyra, who cradled a cake studded with eight tiny candles, their flames swaying in the draft. Lirien bounced on her toes beside them, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, while Seraphine leaned against the wall, her dark hair framing a smirk that softened at the edges.
Kaelith's jaw dropped, his heart slamming from dread to disbelief in a single beat. "What… what is this?" he stammered, his voice barely audible over the din.
Talren stepped forward, his grin wide and unguarded, clapping a hand on Kaelith's back with a force that jolted him. "Your birthday feast, lad!" he said, his voice booming with pride. "Been planning it for weeks—wanted to make your Age of Promise something special. Did we get you?"
Relief flooded Kaelith, a tidal wave that nearly buckled his knees. He'd been wrong—so stupidly, gloriously wrong. The secrecy, the dodged glances, Talren's forced please—it wasn't betrayal. It was this. A laugh broke from him, raw and shaky, bubbling up from somewhere deep. "I thought…" He shook his head, the words catching in his throat. "I thought you were hiding something bad—again."
Talren's grin faltered, his hazel eyes clouding with understanding, a flicker of old guilt surfacing. He pulled Kaelith into a rough hug, his arms tight, his voice thick against his ear. "Never again, son," he said, the promise heavy with years of repair. "I swore that to you, and I meant it. This is all for you—every bit of it."
Kaelith hugged him back, the tension unraveling from his shoulders, replaced by a warmth that spread through him like the suns' light breaking through clouds. "Thank you," he whispered, the words muffled against Talren's shirt, gratitude swelling until it ached.
The Feast Unfolds
The feast surged into motion, a whirlwind of sound and color that swept Kaelith along. The tables groaned under platters of food—pheasant roasted to a crisp golden brown, its skin crackling as villagers tore into it, the meat dripping with honey and herbs; baskets of dark rye bread, its crusts flecked with caraway seeds, steam rising as they were broken apart; pitchers of cider, amber and frothy, poured into wooden cups that clinked in endless toasts. The air thickened with the scents—smoky meat, yeasty bread, the tart bite of apples stewed with cinnamon—and Kaelith's mouth watered despite the knot of emotions still unwinding in his chest.
Old Torvyn struck up a tune on his fiddle, the notes lively and sharp, skittering through the room like sparks. The villagers clapped and stomped, children weaving between legs with sticky fingers clutching tarts, their laughter piercing the hum of chatter. Lirien grabbed Kaelith's wrist, her grip firm and warm, and yanked him into the fray. "You're not sitting this out," she declared, her voice cutting through the noise as she pulled him into a dance.
His feet tangled with hers, the rhythm foreign and fast, but she spun him anyway, her laughter bright and relentless. "You're hopeless!" she shouted over the fiddle, her braid whipping as she twirled him, her boots stomping the beat. He stumbled, nearly crashing into Jorvyn, who raised his cup with a drunken cheer, cider sloshing over the rim. The room blurred—faces, lanterns, the flicker of candlelight—and Kaelith found himself laughing too, the sound pulled from him by Lirien's infectious joy, his earlier doubts dissolving in the chaos.
The dancing slowed as the night deepened, the fiddle's tempo easing into something softer, and the gifts began. Seraphine approached first, her dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, her presence a quiet command that parted the crowd. She held a leather-bound spellbook, its cover embossed with silver runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive with latent magic. The leather was supple, worn smooth at the edges, and the pages within rustled as she handed it to him, their weight solid in his grasp.
"For you," she said, her voice low and deliberate, cutting through the murmur of the room. "Spells beyond what I've taught you—fire conjurations, shadow weaves, a few wards strong enough to hold against a storm. You've earned it, Kaelith."
He took it, his fingers tracing the runes, their cool metal tingling against his skin. The book smelled of old parchment and faint incense, a scent that promised power and secrets. He opened it, the pages crackling, and glimpsed a diagram of a flame sigil, its lines sharp and intricate. "This is incredible," he said, looking up at her, his voice thick with awe. "Thank you, Seraphine."