Lianora

The Feast of Ascension had come again, and the city was ablaze with firelight and fervor. I had heard them say it was a celebration of renewal—a time to release our burdens into the heavens. That night, the streets were alive. Incense hung thick in the air, and lanterns glowed like stars scattered across the crowd. The children’s laughter echoed, weaving between the soft chants of hymns and the deep tolling of the bells.

I should have felt something, I thought. Joy, perhaps? Belonging? Instead, I found myself clutching my lantern, my fingers gripping its delicate frame tighter than I should. Inside, my vessila rested—a slip of parchment bearing my unspoken words. I dared not voice them aloud, even as I wrote them.

They said the gods saw these lanterns, that our hopes and fears rose with the flames. Did the gods see me? Would they read what I’d written? I will not be bound forever. Those were the only words I could offer—a vow more to myself than to anything divine.

When I released the lantern, the weight in my chest grew heavier, not lighter. The wind caught it quickly, lifting it higher, up and away, until it vanished among the countless others. For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe it might matter, that someone—or something—might see it.

I left the festival before the final bell tolled. The laughter and light faded behind me as I slipped through the narrow streets, back to my room. There, with only the dim flicker of a candle to keep me company, I stared at the ink-stains on my fingers and wondered if rebellion could truly live in such small, fleeting acts.

Perhaps it could. Or perhaps that was the folly of hope. But tonight, at least for a moment, I let myself believe it.