The festival was still alive behind him.
Laughter. Music. The warm glow of lanterns drifting upward like prayers.
Ren didn't hear any of it.
His boots moved without thought, carrying him through the thinning crowd, past food stalls and dancing children, until he reached the small stage at the edge of the festival grounds.
The children were gone now.
The curtain closed.
Only the old narrator remained, folding his props with the careful hands of someone who had done this a thousand times.
Ren stopped in front of him.
The old man looked up — and to his credit, did not flinch at the sight of a prince standing in the dark with storm clouds behind his eyes.
"Your Highness," he said simply, bowing his head.
"That story," Ren said quietly. "Where did you hear it?"
The narrator blinked. "It is a festival tale, my lord. Passed down through—"
"No." Ren's voice was calm. Too calm. "That version is not the festival tale. The festival tale is about a king and a blessing. What you told tonight was different."
The old man was quiet for a moment.
Then he set down his props and sighed — the way old people sigh when they finally reach a story they've been carrying too long.
"…I wondered," he said softly, "if someone would ever notice."
Ren waited.
The narrator sat on the edge of the stage, his old joints creaking.
"It was many years ago," he began. "I was young then. Just starting out — telling stories at small village festivals, nothing grand." He smiled faintly at the memory. "A boy found me."
Ren's jaw tightened. "A boy."
"Yes. Small. Maybe eight or nine years old." The narrator's eyes grew distant. "He sat right in front of my stage — just like the children tonight. But he didn't laugh. Didn't clap. He just… watched. Very seriously."
"After the show," he continued,
"he came up to me. And he said—" The narrator paused, as if remembering the exact words.
"He said, That story you tell is wrong.
The moon doesn't give happy endings. Do you want to hear the real one?'"
The night breeze moved through the festival flags.
Ren said nothing.
"I thought he was a strange child," the narrator admitted. "But I listened.
And he told me everything." He gestured toward the stage. "What you saw tonight. The prince who held on too long. The outsider who didn't choose to leave. The moon that took without asking."
He shook his head slowly.
"When he finished… he looked at me with the oldest eyes I've ever seen on a child's face." The narrator's voice dropped. "And he said, *'How tragic, don't you think? To love someone the moon already decided to take.'"
Silence.
The lanterns drifted overhead, indifferent and glowing.
"Did he tell you his name?" Ren asked. His voice was barely there.
The narrator shook his head. "No. He just smiled — sad, small smile — and walked away into the crowd." He paused. "I never saw him again."
Ren stood completely still.
"But," the narrator added carefully, "before he left… he said one more thing."
Ren looked at him.
The old man met his gaze with quiet honesty.
"He said, 'When someone comes who calls the ending stupid — listen to them. They might be the one who changes it.'"
The world tilted slightly.
Ren exhaled — slow, controlled, like a man keeping himself from drowning.
Calls the ending stupid.
His golden eyes closed briefly.
Behind him, somewhere in the warm chaos of the festival—
He could hear her voice.
Loud. Complaining about portion sizes. Laughing at something Eliott said.
That's lazy writing.
The writer deserves a bad review.
Ren opened his eyes.
The narrator watched him with the patient expression of someone who had just handed over something heavy and was waiting to see if the other person could carry it.
"…Thank you," Ren said quietly.
He turned to leave.
"Your Highness," the narrator called after him gently.
Ren paused.
"That boy…" The old man's voice was soft.
"He seemed very tired for someone so young. Like he had been waiting a long time to tell someone that story."
Ren didn't turn around.
"…I know," he said.
And he walked back into the festival lights.
Back toward the noise.
Back toward the laughter.
Back toward the boy in the pale blue dress who had just called a moon blessed story lazy writing —
and had no idea she was already rewriting it.
Alaric steps out after Ren leaves the narrator
Ren didn't turn around.
"…I know," he said.
And he walked back into the festival lights.
The narrator watched him go, exhaling slowly.
Then — from the shadow beside the stage — another figure stepped forward.
Unhurried. Calm. As if he had been there the whole time.
The narrator looked up. "Oh— I didn't see you there, sir."
Alaric smiled pleasantly. "Forgive me. I have a quiet way of existing."
He stopped in front of the old man, hands folded over his cane.
"That boy," he said softly. "The one who told you the real story."
The narrator blinked. "Yes?"
"How many years ago was it exactly?"
The narrator thought carefully. "Oh… many. At least forty years now. Maybe more."
Alaric was quiet for a moment.
His expression unreadable.
"…I see," he said finally.
"Did you know him?" the narrator asked curiously.
Alaric smiled — small, private, like someone holding a secret so old it had grown roots.
"In a way," he said softly.
And walked back into the dark.