Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 190: The Breath of Solmere

Evening settled over Solmere in a hush of golden haze and shifting clouds.

The town square pulsed with life—strings of warm lights stretched across wooden poles, flickering gently like stars that had come down to dance.

Booths hugged the edges, draped in fabric and flowers.

Laughter rose—light, unbothered—as if the weight of recent days had finally been shrugged off.

Children chased each other around the edges of the circle, ribbons tied to their wrists, leaving streaks of color in the dusk.

The air smelled of roasted corn, cinnamon cakes, and the slight tang of rain—just threatening enough to keep the elders murmuring under their breath.

"They said the rainforest predicted this," one of the older women said, squinting at the sky like it had personally betrayed her. "Didn’t I tell you this morning, Dand?"

Mr. Dand folded his arms, nodding. "You did. And you also said no one would believe it." He glanced up at the low clouds, the kind that pressed quietly overhead. "Might pass. Or it might not."

"Bah, it’s the season. Let it rain a little—it’ll cool the air," someone else said, already fanning their collar.

Near the main stage, Billy adjusted a lantern hook that had started to slip, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

Artur came up beside him, holding a basket of extra cords.

"Still standing?" Artur asked, gently elbowing him.

"Barely," Billy said, letting out a laugh that was breathy but warm. "But I can’t feel my arms anymore, so maybe that’s helping."

Artur leaned in, brushing a smudge of dust from Billy’s cheek with his thumb. "You’re doing great. Seriously. You opened a store today and helped organize half the festival."

"Only half?" Billy raised a brow.

"Alright, maybe more like... seventy percent." Artur’s grin was shameless.

From a few meters away, Jay called out, holding up a folded tarp. "Anyone know where this goes?"

Mark appeared beside him, hands in his pockets. "It was supposed to go over the music booth—if it rains."

Jay glanced at the sky, unconvinced. "We’ll gamble, then. Leave it folded."

"Bold move," Mark said dryly.

The crowd had thickened now—villagers from nearby, a few faces from other towns, even some familiar bookstore guests waving from the edge of the circle.

The drama kids were huddled backstage, some in painted masks, others fixing last-minute lines.

The dancers stretched near the platform, bare feet shifting on the boards, hair braided with herbs and ribbon.

Someone drummed lightly in the background, keeping time with the heartbeat of the town.

Sam zipped through the crowd with his camera again. "This light—ugh, it’s perfect. Everyone stay beautiful, please."

Billy rolled his eyes but smiled. "Like they could help it."

Artur handed him a cup of tamarind punch. "Drink before you collapse."

Billy took it with both hands. "Yes, sir."

They stood side by side for a second, letting it all sink in—the lights, the rhythm, the slow rise of voices around them.

It wasn’t polished or grand—just theirs.

Behind them, Mr. Dand let out a low whistle as a stronger breeze rustled the edges of the tents.

"I still say it might not rain," he said. "But if it does... we’ll dance under it anyway."

Someone cheered at that. The music picked up. The crowd shifted closer to the stage. A little more magic stirred in the air.

And as Billy looked around, at the glowing faces and soft clouds, he couldn’t help but feel it—not just relief, but gratitude.

Not everything was perfect. But it was enough.

And for the first time in a long while, that felt like everything.

The drumbeat softened. The chatter dwindled. A hush swept through the crowd like a tide pulling back to reveal something sacred underneath.

At the center of the stage stood the Master of Ceremony—an older man in a maroon robe with gold stitching on the collar, glasses perched low on his nose, and a paper trembling just slightly in his hand, more from the breeze than nerves.

He cleared his throat, holding the mic with a soft smile.

"Good people of Solmere," he began, his voice warm and seasoned, like someone who’d seen many nights just like this—and a few that changed everything. "Tonight, we gather not just for festivity... but to honor stories. Our past, our present, and maybe, just maybe, what’s yet to come."

A soft ripple of claps followed, polite and expectant.

The man glanced at his list, smiled wider. "And so, we begin—as tradition asks us to—with the keeper of old voices. Please welcome our beloved Elder Araya, with tonight’s tale: ’The River That Would Not Sleep.’"

From the side of the stage, an elderly woman emerged. Her spine was bent, but her steps held certainty.

She wore a faded blue wrap, and a thin silver staff knocked gently against the stage with each step.

The crowd leaned in.

Elder Araya sat on the storytelling stool at center stage, eyes glinting under the lantern light.

She didn’t use a microphone—she didn’t need one.

"When I was a girl," she began, "there was a river that never slept. Not for rain, not for stars, not for fire. It moved even when the wind didn’t..."

Her voice was a thread of smoke, winding through the crowd. Children stared, unmoving.

Some villagers closed their eyes, remembering the same story told to them long ago.

Billy, standing near the side of the stage, found himself transfixed.

Araya’s words weren’t just narration—they were rhythm, memory, and spellwork all at once.

When she finished, the crowd didn’t clap right away. They breathed out. Then the applause came—deep and grateful.

The emcee returned to the mic, wiping his eyes discreetly. "Thank you, Elder Araya. May the river continue to move within all of us."

He waited for the hush again.

"For our second performance," he said, voice regaining its cheer, "a special presentation by our local schoolchildren—students of Mr. Artur Dand himself!"

A soft whoop rose from the side of the stage. Artur, still backstage with Billy, raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I didn’t bribe them, I swear," he murmured, and Billy laughed.

The children rushed on stage, not in a perfect line, but in the chaotic harmony only kids could pull off.

They were dressed in simple white tunics, each with a different symbol painted on their chests—leaves, stars, suns, fish.

The lights dimmed slightly as music began—a soft instrumental version of the village’s song.

The children moved through their lines, half drama, half dance. One stepped forward:

"I am the tree that grew before names..."

Another turned and followed:

"I am the sky that watched, even when no one looked up..."

Then came:

"I am the child who dreamed of tomorrow... and woke it up."

Their voices were shaky but clear, each one fighting the nerves and stage lights with wide eyes and brave hearts.

They finished with a line spoken in unison:

"We are the breath of Solmere."

A moment of stunned quiet—and then the crowd burst into cheers.

Artur clapped loudly beside Billy. "They remembered the lines. Every single one."

Something in Billy’s chest eased at the sight—their voices were small, but they carried the same stubborn hope he’d once needed himself. "They didn’t just remember," he murmured. "They believed."

As the kids bowed, one of the younger girls scanned the audience and, upon spotting Artur, grinned and waved both arms.

He laughed, waved back, and shook his head. "I’m not crying," he muttered, "you’re crying."

Sam, already teary-eyed, was snapping pictures furiously.

The emcee returned once more, grinning now.

"We still have much to see, much to hear," he said, "but let us take a breath for this. For roots and wings."

People clapped again—some slower this time, not from boredom but awe.

Billy took a sip of water, heart full.

The night was only beginning, but already, it was unforgettable.

The last stomp still echoed in the floorboards when the lanterns shifted to amber.

No one had to be told what was next—people leaned in as if the night itself were about to speak.

The emcee stepped forward once more, his voice mellow, yet laced with quiet pride.

"Our third performance," he said, adjusting his glasses, "is a tribute to the rhythm passed down through generations. A dance of soil and rain, of joy and belonging—performed by our very own youth."

A soft drumbeat pulsed through the speakers like a heartbeat awakening.

From both sides of the stage, boys and girls emerged in traditional attire—barefoot, heads held high.

The girls wore flowing skirts dyed in deep purples, reds, and soft gold, the fabric brushing against bare ankles with each turn.

Their hair ribbons caught the lantern light like sparks, flaring and fading as they moved.

The boys wore dark vests over cream tunics, patterned sashes across their chests.

Billy leaned forward from backstage, caught between admiration and quiet awe—thinking how each stomp and turn felt like a promise the town had kept.

Then the music began.

It wasn’t rushed—it moved like the rising of the sun, slow at first, then bursting into color.

The dancers circled, clapped, stepped—heels pounding the stage in rhythm with the drums.

They weaved between each other with practiced precision, but not robotic.

Each face showed feeling: pride, joy, and the occasional stifled grin.

A girl in the center turned in place, her skirt fanning like a flower in bloom, her eyes gleaming beneath the lantern lights.

Then came a shift in tempo—the boys clapped in sync, and the girls echoed with their feet.

It built and built, until the final unified stomp shook the stage, followed by complete silence.

Then cheers. Loud and uncontained.

The crowd was already on their feet before the emcee could return.

He waited for the applause to settle just enough before speaking again.

"Let’s not forget," he said with a gentle smile, "the ones who danced before we were born. The ones who still hold rhythm in their bones, and laughter in their feet."

The lights shifted again—now a softer amber hue, like the fading warmth of dusk.