Chapter 5

  The next few days blurred together, the streets of Solari bustling with life as the population swelled. Travelers from distant regions poured in to partake in the festival, bringing with them a patchwork of cultures and appearances. It was always fascinating to see people from places he’d only heard about in passing—some with distinct, striking features, while others stood out more subtly, their origins revealed only through the colors and styles of their clothing.

  Xander found himself caught in the pre-festival chaos, helping out a family friend by ferrying cases of canvases from Johnil’s studio to the stall near the park. A small grunt escaped him as the weight of the box joined hands with gravity—his arms hot and throbbing, the ridges of the cardboard biting into his palms.

  His view was half-obstructed by the towering case, and he kept peeking around it, wary of accidentally plowing into someone. The streets were an orchestra of motion—vendors hauling supplies, artists securing displays, and festival workers hammering stakes into tents. It was a communal scramble, everyone racing to beat the clock before the festival began the next day.

  Luckily, the crowd seemed to sense his predicament. People moved aside as he approached, giving him a wide berth. Not that they were doing it for him, he thought wryly—they were probably more concerned about the precarious tower of canvases wobbling in his grip. A misstep would be catastrophic, and not just because of the paintings. If this thing landed on him, Xander thought grimly, he’d probably get an impromptu audience with the Arcana.

  With a relieved sigh, he finally lowered the case onto the wooden counter of Johnil’s stall. His arms throbbed with gratitude, the tingling rush of blood feeling both painful and satisfying. If Jor’dan had been around to witness the ordeal, he’d definitely have been laughing his ass off. Xander would, of course, blame it on being cardless. He smirked, they’d both know that wasn’t the case.

  He didn't mind helping out, though. His dad had asked him to lend a hand, and he couldn’t say no. Johnil had been a family friend for as long as he could remember, the kind of guy who always showed up when you needed it.

  Xander smiled faintly, a flicker of nostalgia warming his chest. When he was younger the man would let him come into his studio and play with some of the paints that were already close to running out. Those afternoons were magical—his tiny fingers smudged with color, his imagination spilling onto scrap canvases. He firmly believed that was why he loved art so much—it never lost that childlike excitement when new ideas zoomed into view.

  “I think that’s all of ’em,” Johnil said, leaning against the scuffed desk in the center of the booth. The older man stretched—a few pops responding back that had Xander chuckling.

  “Hey, this’ll be you sooner than you think,” He scolded lightly, reaching out in faux warning.

  Xander raised both hands in mock innocence, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I don’t doubt it—barely managed to get that case here with my arms still attached.”

  Johnil chuckled, shaking his head, but his tone softened. “I appreciate the help, though, Xander. Would’ve been hell getting all this here by myself—I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Xander waved him off with a casual shrug, “No worries, I wouldn’t even be an artist without you—you ask, I'm there.”

  A quiet moment stretched between them, comfortable and warm. The kind of silence that carried more meaning than words could.

  Johnil’s dark brown eyebrow raised—as if having a sudden thought, expression turning inquisitive, “Did you submit your art to the competition this year?”

  Xander’s grin faded, replaced by a small wince. He knew exactly where this was heading. With a reluctant sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, not this year. It’s just—”

  “It’s just nothing,” Johnil snapped, a sudden fierceness in his voice that even caught Xander off guard. “Boy you have talent, you work hard—yes, but you could be there on that stage.” He firmly pointed to where the Pentacles card holders were forming a stage, the platform gleaming in the park’s center.

  Xander opened his mouth to respond, but Johnil wasn’t finished.

  “If you’d just get out—” he poked Xander’s forehead with surprising force, “—of that big orb you call a head and submit your work, you’d be a shoo-in for the top five.”

  He wanted to believe it, he truly did. This conversation wasn’t the first he’d had with Johnil—even other people in general. Xander knew it was illogical to assume that everyone was just being polite—that they were lying through smiles, like they would with a child who’d shown them scribbles.

  But he also knew it was deeper than that. The self doubt started young—his body a playground for the seeds of doubt to take root, branches extending into different parts of his life. How long could he ignore it? What sense did it make to cry about stagnation—acting as if some invisible force was truly holding him down? His recent painting flashed in his mind: chains coiling like vines around him, making it all seem outside of himself—outside of his control. The problem was never external… it was internal, and he needed to accept that.

  He let out a sigh—he’d agreed with Johnil in the past numerous times, nodding along and promising to take action, only to let the days slip by in the same pattern. But this time… this time, something felt different.

  Xander gave the older man a genuine look as he spoke, words filled with a silent vow to himself—to do better. “Next year I’ll submit a piece. I promise.”

  Johnil studied him, those sharp blue eyes searching for any sign of doubt. Xander resisted the urge to squirm under the weight of that calculating look. Though finally, the older man’s expression softened, the lines around his eyes crinkling.

  “You’d better.” He grumbled, though the edge in his voice was dulled by affection. “If not, I’ll prove I’m not too old to toss you over my knee.”

  An awkwardness washed over Xander, his gaze landing on the nearest… anything that wasn’t Johnil—surely he was joking?

  Before the awkwardness could consume him a mischievous glint flickered in Johnil’s gaze. He waved a hand dismissively, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Alright, now git. I know you’ve got other things to do.”

  Scratching the back of his head, Xander gave him a sheepish wave before stepping back into the crowd.

  Now where the hell is Sydney at?

  He blended into the chaotic mess of the Vale, weaving through the tangled currents of people. The warm air carried a mix of spices, fresh bread, and the tang of Solite dust kicked up by passing boards. Two guys sped past, their laughter trailing behind like a wave, boards going right over the uneven ground.

  Sydney had asked him to stop by her booth, unlike him—she never hesitated to put herself out there. It was a trait he both envied and admired. Her art style was distinct—raw and unapologetic—and he couldn’t wait to see what she’d brought to the festival.

  Squinting through the crowd, he spotted a flash of fiery red hair bobbing above a sea of heads. Sydney was knee-deep in unpacked boxes, her movements frantic as she scrambled to set up her display. Xander pushed his way closer, mumbling quick apologies as he brushed shoulders and sidestepped errant elbows.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  When he finally reached the edge of her stall, he paused, taking in her progress. For someone who looked on the verge of a breakdown, she’d already made a decent headway. Two sturdy tables in the back held her crystal sculptures, the refracted light throwing delicate, shifting patterns onto the shaded walls of the booth. Paintings were propped up along the sides, their bold strokes catching his eye even from a distance.

  “Looks pretty good so far,” he called out, his voice cutting through the low hum of the crowd.

  Sydney whipped around, relief washing over her features as she spotted him. “Xander what do you think? Should the sculptures be on the side instead?” She didn’t even wait for a response before rushing over to one of the tables, already shifting pieces around.

  He chuckled, the sight of his usually unflappable friend so frazzled catching him off guard. “Nervous? Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

  She shot him a playful glare but didn’t deny it. It was her first year after all—she was only a year older than him, and the age requirement was set at 18, unless you had guardians manning the tables.

  “It’s coming together,” he reassured, stepping closer. He pointed to a cluster of sculptures crowded together on the right. “This one should go here, front and center. It’s hard to appreciate it when it’s packed like that.”

  He moved to her paintings, lifting one with bold reds and deep blues. “This should either be near the front or displayed on its own,” he suggested, carefully sliding it onto the rack on the left. “People need a hook, something familiar to draw them in before they explore the rest.”

  Sydney nodded along, her lips pressed into a focused line as they worked together. There was content silence as they rearranged the paintings and made them look more presentable. With the two of them, the contents of her boxes disappeared fast.

  It was set up in three sections, The left rack showcased her more traditional works, bold and colorful pieces that would immediately resonate with passersby. On the right, smaller items and affordable paintings catered to casual buyers who might not splurge on a large piece. And last but definitely not least, the back table was lined with Solite crystal sculptures. Their presence was captivating, one could argue they stood out even more in the back—their slow glow in the shade potentially pulling customers in.

  By the time they stepped back to admire their handiwork, the booth looked polished, inviting, and uniquely Sydney.

  “You’ve got this,” he said, glancing at her.

  “Thanks, Xander. I was losing my mind before you came,” Sydney said, wiping a streak of sweat from her forehead.

  Snickering, he clapped her on the shoulder, “The all-mighty Sydney, defeated by the festival? I’m not letting you live this one down.”

  She raised her fists in mock severity, her eyes glinting with amusement. “And you won’t live to tell the tale if you keep running your mouth.”

  He raised his hands in a show of innocence, backing away slowly. “Alright, alright, not a word to anyone.” He paused by the entrance of her stall, glancing back. “I’m gonna grab a bite—wanna come?”

  She smirked but shook her head, her red hair catching the sunlight as she turned back to her work. “Nah, you go ahead. I need to make sure everything’s perfect. First year, big impression—you know the drill.”

  “Yeah, I get it. But let’s hang after the festival, yeah?”

  “Deal.”

  With a wave, he melted back into the crowd.

  Xander debated unclipping his sunray board as he walked. It’d definitely be faster to get across the park, but… well, his skills left a lot to be desired. He wasn’t bad on the board, per se—he knew how to handle it—but he definitely wasn’t good enough to trust himself zooming through this throng of people without taking someone out.

  After a few painstaking minutes of dodging festival-goers, he made it back to the food truck area. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying the smell of sizzling meat and spices. The vendors were bustling, prepping massive batches for the next day’s crowds. Xander’s stomach growled in protest. With most restaurants closing for the festival, food trucks were the only option.

  As he strolled closer, a faint vibration buzzed in his pocket, accompanied by a tingling sensation that ran down his leg. He fished out the whisperglass, its smooth surface faintly warm to the touch.

  Holding it up to his ear, he raised an eyebrow. “Hello?”

  “Honey!” His mother’s voice came through muffled but clear enough to recognize the urgency in her tone. “We’re swamped at the shop right now, are you still helping Johnil, or could you come by and help clear some of these folks out?”

  ‘Yeah no problem,” He unclipped his board from his back, “I'll be there soon.”

  The soft hum of the crystal indicated the call was over. Tapping the back of the sunray, he activated the boost. Now that he was out of the dense crowds, he felt more comfortable weaving through the winding paths and narrow streets leading back home. The board hummed beneath his feet, smooth and responsive as he navigated around street vendors and festival decorations.

  He glanced down at the whisperglass, its translucent, yellowish gleam catching the sunlight. It looked almost fragile, but he knew better. The device was made from Solite, designed to recharge itself naturally. He smiled faintly, remembering the day he got it—a little after his tenth birthday.

  The festival had just announced the release of the communication crystals, and his parents had jumped at the chance to get them a pair. It was a way to keep in touch across the Vale, especially during busy times like this. The range didn’t extend beyond the region’s borders, but that didn’t matter much. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  As the shop came into view, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The spray-painted letters on the front, a little faded now, still carried a vibrant warmth.

  When he was thirteen, his parents moved shop from the old place they’d used to live in, a definite upgrade. More so in size than anything. The first thing they asked was for him to make the art for the shop front. He’d argued, of course, claiming they deserved something better than his amateur work. But they’d brushed off his protests, telling him it wasn’t just a shop—it was their home, his home. They wanted him to leave his mark on it.

  Xander blinked quickly, the faint sting of tears catching him off guard. Despite everything—the doubts, the frustrations, the restless yearning for something more—this place was home. It always would be.

  With a deep breath, he came to a stop, the hum of his board fading into silence as he stepped off. His fingers brushed the spray-painted letters, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

  Santuna’s Fortuna

  No matter what, this is where he'd always belong.

  Stepping into the shop felt like walking straight into a warzone. The lobby was a cacophony of sound and motion, packed with more people than he’d ever seen in there at once. Voices—his mother and fathers, echoed in the hall from separate rooms, overlapping with the chattering of the group in the lobby.

  He’d never seen the shop this packed in… well ever. There’d been times where they’d have the occasional rush, busy days at the shop usually meant a steady trickle— a handful of clients at a time. This? This was uncharted territory. Nearly a dozen people filled the small space, with some standing against the walls when seats ran out. With a quick glance he was able to tell it was mostly foreigners—festival-goers, probably—which really spoke to what kinda day it would be.

  The din of conversation ebbed and flowed. Some spoke in hushed tones, their words carrying the nervous energy of anticipation. Others groaned or sighed, their patience visibly wearing thin.

  Xander took a calming breath, then raised his voice to cut through the noise. “Next in line, follow me.”

  A faint scuffle of boots sounded behind him as he turned down the hallway, the soft tread of someone following closely. He pushed open the door to one of the reading rooms and stepped aside to let the client in, finally getting a good look at her.

  The woman’s appearance made him do a double-take. She had a roguish air about her, with tactical boots that looked more suited for a battlefield than a psychic shop. A sturdy belt was strapped around her waist, its many pockets bulging slightly with who-knows-what. Her sharp gaze swept the room, and Xander felt a flicker of unease under its weight.

  Okay… he thought, gesturing toward the chair across from his.

  He ducked into a nearby closet, retrieving the deck of cards and a stick of incense. Back at the table, he lit the herbal stick, letting the faint curls of smoke drift upward as the scent filled the small space. Placing the incense in its holder, he sat down and tried to focus, though it wasn’t easy.

  He tried to ignore the intense stare the lady was giving him—the woman’s gaze unblinking and intense. Xander couldn’t decide if she looked like she wanted to interrogate him or pounce.

  He cleared his throat and knocked gently on the deck of cards, offering a polite, if slightly cautious, smile. “So, what brings you here today?”

  The voice that came out of the woman caught him completely off guard.

  “So, about my ex…” she began, leaning forward with wide, desperate eyes. Her tone was high-pitched and full of drama, the complete opposite of the intimidating aura she’d radiated moments ago.

  Xander blinked. His eye twitched ever so slightly as her words sank in.

  This was going to be a long day.