007

As night crept, the streets bustled with people and lanterns casting warm light over the cold evening. Sarang picked up  a green half mask from the wagon and turned to Lucian.

“What do you think, Master?” Sarang asked.

Lucian shook his head. “It doesn’t compliment your crown.”

“How about this?”

“It’s unflattering.”

“And this?”

“You lack the charm of a fox.”

Sarang frowned, folding his arms. “We will never obtain a mask if you are picky, Master. It is a festival–to celebrate and live carefree, not brood and critique.” He picked a red mask.

“The colour is–”

“This is for you,” Sarang interrupted. “You always wear dull colours. Red is considered a lucky and rich colour.”

Sarang slipped the mask onto Lucian’s face. It was shaped like an owl, adorned with rhinestones and feathers, cool against Lucian’s skin. Lucian studied his reflection, hands clasped behind him, giving a nod of approval. 

“Thank you.” Lucian said.

Sarang grinned in victory.

Lucian chose a blue mask and gently fastened it on Sarang’s face, his fingers caressed his cheeks as his dark eyes lingered.

“The blue compliments your eyes.” Lucian whispered, his voice low and deep before retracting his hands.

Sarang’s breath hitched, and his knees quivered; he was caught between confusion and embarrassment. Lucian’s voice—low, suggestive—wrapped around him, pulling his heart into a place it had no business going. It wasn’t right to perceive Lucian this way—an unclaimed alpha, a man whose intense, passionate gaze sent a tingling heat through Sarang’s lips and ignited his entire body. It was shameless. It was wrong.

Sarang sucked in a sharp breath, hollowing his chest as if to push the thoughts out. With a slap to his cheeks, he forced himself to banish the immoral desires threatening to take root in his heart. Hastily burying the emotions under layers of flimsy excuses, each one anchored by Nathan’s disapproval to permit his language... fuck him. He wasn’t a boy anymore.

Distracted, Sarang turned his attention to a man with a lute dancing and singing nearby. His lively voice lifted the crowd, who clapped and swayed to the music. Sarang found the sight, magical.

“The song is about a maiden who helped the fairy queen of spring. In return, the fairy queen blessed her frosty village with a bountiful spring and a rare flower that only blooms once a year on sacred ground which was where she lived. This festival honours the maiden, the fairy queen, and the flower. That is the name of the folklore.” Lucian explained.

“The maiden, the fairy queen, and the flower.” Sarang repeated. “Master, what brought you to New Borough many years ago?”

“A silly woman.” Lucian replied and smiled.

“Who? Does she live here? Is that why we came?”

“I made a promise to her.”

“What promise?”

Lucian’s gaze softened, his expression distant. Then he smirked. "I’ll tell you when you realise."

“Realise what?”

“Fate.”

Sarang frowned, frustrated by the vague response. What did he have to realise about fate? Lucian wasn’t usually so cryptic—he left that to Sebastian. Yet this mystery left him with a strange, nagging curiosity.

The sacred ground for the festival was at the outskirt of the village. A crowd gathered, holding lanterns illuminating the path and instruments adding a lively air. Sarang and Lucian moved side by side, alongside the villagers until someone jostled Sarang; he stumbled.

Lucian caught him, holding him close.

“Be careful. The path is steep.” Lucian warned gently. Sarang nodded then casted his eyes on Lucian’s tall hand engulfing his. He lowered his head and gently smiled at their interlocked hands.

They reached an open space with an enormous golden tree rooted beside a small stream. The ground was painted with a faded flower pattern resembling the sun, and droplets of golden water dripped from the tree, nurturing a single flower that hadn’t yet bloomed. Villagers spread out for a clear view of the flower, setting up tables and sharing food like at a grand wedding.

“Hello, sirs! Join us!” The innkeeper caked out, waving them over.

Sarang and Lucian took seats at her large table, joining other boarders of the inn. Sarang noticed the florist and her partners, who waved back cheerfully. An elderly man with glasses stood and raised his voice over the crowd.

“Family and guests! We are gathered here for another peaceful year of the flower festival. I, Evan Harvest, your mayor, thank you all for coming. It is time."

The crowd clapped as Sarang leaned closer to Lucian.

“What are we waiting for?” He whispered.

“Patience.” Lucian said and Sarang huffed

Time passed, yet the flower didn’t bloom. A murmur of unease spread through the crowd.“Master, what happens if the flower doesn’t bloom?” Sarang asked, agitated by the anxiety.

“The town believes it’s a bad omen—an ill-fated year with harsh winters,” Lucian explained, folding his arms. “If it doesn’t bloom within five days, they might resort to rituals, and I’d likely need to stay until next year to prevent any human sacrifice.”

A full year! Sarang couldn’t imagine this happy town deviating to barbaric habits. The thought of his master putting his life in danger again because of his obligations disturbed Sarang. Without warning, he stood, but Lucian grabbed his wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“To help.” Sarang replied, his voice determined.

“You can’t force the flower to bloom.”

“Let me try, please.” Sarang’s gaze softened, and Lucian released him reluctantly.

Everyone quietly watched him as he headed to the flower and squatted. He examined the flower from a distance and smiled.

All eyes followed Sarang as he approached the flower and examined it. Ignoring the whispers, he scooped plain water from the stream into his hands and poured it over the flower, startling the villagers who saw this as defiance of tradition.

Yet, as he watered in droplets, the flower trembled and radiated a golden glow, and the first petal unfolded.

“It’s blooming!” Someone cried.

The flower blossomed; its golden petals unfolded one by one. Tiny buds sprouted across the grass, blossoming in harmony, their sweet pollen perfuming the air. The flower’s golden aura shimmered; its sharp, intricate petals too numerous for Sarang to count amid the excitement. At its heart, a soft light began to dissipate, revealing a small, precious stone nestled within.

Take it. It is yours.

A gentle voice whispered in Sarang’s ears, though no one stood behind him. He froze, staring at the stone—blue and radiant, its lustrous hardness gleaming under the light. Compelled, he reached forward and plucked the stone. A pink petal sprang to life before fading to gold, marking the bloom of the last petal.