The city of Gravenhold rarely sees light, true light, not the flicker of forge-fire or the dull shimmer of Akrul veins or the weak glow of some bio luminescent plants. But tonight... tonight the streets of Xal’dren glow with lanterns strung between pillars, casting golden arcs over obsidian stone. The Festival of the Emperor. One of the only nights the clans pretend to smile at each other.

Music echoes faintly from far down the causeways. You can almost smell the spiced meats and oil-burnt bread through the old iron window slats. Smiling Children and people your age, even from high blood clans are already out in the open streets, watching the dancers. Laughing.

“You’re not going.”

Kagarask is sitting in the chair by the cold forge, sharpening a blade that doesn’t need sharpening as he often does. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His presence swallows the room.

“You think because the city’s lit up for once that the filth outside has disappeared? because someone lit a lantern? The other clans would let their spawn be gawked at by lowborns and drunkard fools. I will not.

He sets the blade down slowly and looks at you not angry, not shouting. Just... firm. Heavy. As if every word he says is law being written.

“I’ve seen what happens at these things. I’ve fought in the streets they dance on. You’re not like them. You don’t belong out there.”