Chadwick Rye

Five more days until the Festival of Ascending Lights. Five more endless, torturous days of pretending I care about arithmetic lessons and proper table manners when all I can think about are silver-blue flames rising into the winter sky and the secret I’ve kept since autumn’s first frost.

I trace today’s date on the frost-etched window of our kitchen, my breath creating a momentary canvas. Outside, Lumenvale prepares for its most sacred celebration. Already, the lamplighters are stringing crystalline orbs between the ancient oaks that line our town square. The orbs hang dormant now, waiting for festival night when they’ll awaken with enchanted fire that burns cold instead of hot, casting light without consuming.

“Emrys, stop daydreaming and finish your porridge,” Mother calls from where she kneads dough for festival bread, her forearms dusted white with flour. “Master Thornwood won’t appreciate tardiness, especially with winter evaluations approaching.”

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, though I dutifully return to the table and force another spoonful of cooling porridge past my lips. My stomach churns with anticipation rather than appetite.

Father glances up from his leather-bound almanac, one eyebrow raised in that way that always makes me feel transparent. “The festival preparations will continue whether you’re watching them or not, son. Your studies, however, won’t complete themselves.”

He doesn’t understand. Nobody does. The Festival of Ascending Lights isn’t merely my favorite holiday because of the sweet-spiced cakes or the midnight procession or even the gifts exchanged beneath the Constellation Tree. Those are wonderful, yes, but peripheral to what makes my heart race whenever I think about five days from now.

This year will be different. This year, I have something to contribute that no one, not even Father with his position on the Council of Elemental Wisdom, expects.

The secret weighs in my pocket, smooth and round and impossibly precious. I touch it through the fabric of my woolen trousers, feeling its subtle warmth even through the material—a perfect sphere of luminstone no larger than a robin’s egg, discovered three months ago in the crystal caves where no eight-year-old boy was supposed to venture alone.

“Emrys,” Mother’s voice sharpens with concern. “You’re flushed. Are you feeling feverish?”

I shake my head quickly. “Just excited for the festival.”

Her expression softens, flour-dusted fingers pausing in their work. “It’s always been your favorite, hasn’t it? Even when you were tiny, you’d stay awake the entire night, refusing to close your eyes lest you miss a single skylight.”

“Remember when he was four?” Father chuckles, setting aside his almanac. “He tried to climb the Constellation Tree to ‘help the lights reach the stars faster.’”

The memory draws a reluctant smile from me. I’d been so certain that the lights needed my assistance, that somehow my small hands could guide them toward their celestial destination. Master Silverleaf, our town’s venerable lumenmage, had found me halfway up the ancient pine, coaxing me down with stories about how the lights knew their own path.

Now I understand what he meant. Now I have proof nestled in my pocket, proof that I’m meant to be more than just a spectator at this year’s celebration.

“I should go,” I announce, pushing away from the table and gathering my worn satchel of learning materials. “Master Thornwood said we’re studying elemental affiliations today.”

Father’s gaze sharpens with interest. Every parent in Lumenvale hopes their child will show affinity for one of the five elements, earth, air, fire, water, or the rarest, light itself. Such a gift means a path to the Academy in Crystalline City rather than a life tending shops or fields in our small town.

“Pay close attention then,” he advises. “The early signs of affinity can be subtle.”

If only he knew. The luminstone burns gently against my leg, a constant reminder of what happened when I first touched it in those forbidden caves—how it had flared to life, responding to something in me I hadn’t known existed until that moment.

Mother presses a small packet of honeyed almonds into my hand. “For your midday meal. And Emrys?” She brushes a wayward curl from my forehead. “Try to keep your mind on your studies. The festival will arrive regardless of how much you watch for it.”

I nod dutifully and step into the crisp winter morning, the door closing behind me with a familiar creak. The air tastes of pine and woodsmoke, of frost-kissed stone and the faint sweetness of festival preparations. Townsfolk hurry about their morning routines, but their movements carry an undercurrent of anticipation. Shopkeepers hang silver-threaded garlands beside their signs. Children younger than me chase each other with makeshift “light wands”, simple sticks adorned with strips of reflective cloth.

Everyone in Lumenvale feels the approaching festival, but none of them carry what I do—both in my pocket and in my heart.

The schoolhouse sits at the edge of the town square, its stone walls older than anyone can remember. Master Thornwood awaits at the door, his tall frame silhouetted against the warm glow emanating from within. His silver-shot beard contains enough crumbs to feed a family of mice, the result of his habit of absentmindedly eating seed cakes while reading ancient texts.

“Young Master Nightshade,” he greets me, using my family name with the formal address he reserves for days when he feels particularly academic. “Your classmates have already begun today’s meditation.”

I mumble an apology and hurry inside, finding my place on one of the round cushions arranged in a circle at the center of the schoolroom. Twelve other children sit cross-legged, eyes closed, practicing the breathing techniques Master Thornwood insists will help identify our elemental affinities, if any exist.

I close my eyes and pretend to focus on my breath, but my thoughts drift inexorably to the festival. To most citizens of Lumenvale, the Festival of Ascending Lights commemorates the ancient covenant between our people and the celestial bodies that guide our magic. It marks the longest night of the year, when darkness would claim victory if not for our intervention.

The tradition began centuries ago when the first settlers realized that Lumenvale sat at a unique confluence of ley lines, invisible currents of magical energy that crisscross our world. On the winter solstice, these lines align perfectly with certain constellations, creating a rare opportunity to send messages directly to the heavens.

What started as simple gratitude offerings evolved into our most sacred ritual: the ignition and release of specially crafted lights, each containing prayers, hopes, and dreams for the coming year. These aren’t ordinary flames but enchanted illuminations, cold-burning, ever-lasting unless deliberately extinguished, capable of ascending beyond normal reach into the night sky where they hang like newly born stars for the duration of the longest night.

“Emrys Nightshade,” Master Thornwood’s voice slices through my daydream, “perhaps you’d care to demonstrate the proper breathing pattern for elemental attunement?”

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize everyone is staring at me. “Four counts in, hold for seven, release for eight,” I recite automatically, though I haven’t been practicing at all.

Master Thornwood sighs, his disappointment evident. “Correct in theory, though your actual breathing suggests you’ve been visiting the festival preparations in your mind rather than attending to your lessons.”

Laughter ripples through the classroom. Callum Fletcher, whose family oversees the town’s impressive aviary, leans over to whisper, “Nightshade’s probably planning how to steal extra festival cakes.”

I ignore him, focusing instead on the small glass containers arranged on Master Thornwood’s desk, one for each element. Earth, represented by rich black soil; water in a crystal vial; a single feather for air; a carefully contained flame dancing in a special lantern; and most compelling to me, a tiny shard of pure luminstone for light.

“Today,” Master Thornwood announces, returning to the front of the room, “we will conduct our first formal assessment of elemental affiliations. While most children show no particular connection until puberty, early signs occasionally manifest, especially in families with strong lineages.”

His gaze lingers briefly on Elara Silverleaf, whose grandfather serves as Lumenvale’s head lumenmage, and on the Emberhill twins, whose ancestors have produced fire-affiliates for generations. No one looks at me. The Nightshade family produces herbalists and astronomers, respectable professions but rarely connected to elemental magic.

“One by one, you will approach the elements and hold your hand above each, allowing yourself to feel any resonance that might exist,” Master Thornwood explains. “Expect nothing and be honest about what you experience. False claims benefit no one.”

I shift uncomfortably on my cushion as the first student, Thorne Blackbriar, approaches the elemental vessels. The luminstone in my pocket seems to pulse in rhythm with my quickening heartbeat. What will happen when it’s my turn? Will the shard on Master Thornwood’s desk recognize its kin in my possession? Will everyone somehow know what I’ve been hiding?

Student after student completes the exercise with expected results. Most feel nothing extraordinary from any element. Elara reports a slight tingling when her hand hovers over the luminstone, earning approving nods. The Emberhill twins both sense warmth from the flame beyond what ordinary proximity would cause.

Finally, Master Thornwood calls my name. I rise on legs that suddenly feel wooden, aware of the weight in my pocket growing heavier with each step. The secret I’ve kept since autumn presses against my consciousness, demanding acknowledgment.

I should have told someone. Should have shown Father the moment I discovered how the stone responded to my touch. But something held me back, the same intuition that had drawn me to the forbidden caves in the first place, that had guided my fingers to this particular stone among hundreds.

A voice that whispered: Wait for the festival. Wait for the alignment.

Now, standing before the elemental vessels, I extend my hand first over earth. Nothing unusual. Water provides only coolness against my palm. Air and fire similarly fail to evoke any special sensation.

Then my hand hovers above the luminstone shard.

The reaction is immediate and unmistakable. The shard flares brilliant silver-blue, its light intensifying until it casts pronounced shadows across the stunned faces of my classmates. Simultaneously, the stone in my pocket blazes with answering radiance, visible now through the fabric of my trousers.

Master Thornwood’s eyes widen, his composure momentarily shattered. “Emrys…what is that in your pocket?”

The secret can no longer be contained. With trembling fingers, I withdraw the luminstone, perfectly round and glowing with internal fire that doesn’t burn my skin but bathes it in gentle radiance.

“I found it,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “In the crystal caves beyond the western ridge.”

“Impossible,” someone murmurs. “Those caves are sealed.”

Master Thornwood approaches slowly, caution and wonder battling for dominance in his expression. “May I?” he asks, extending his palm.

I hesitate before carefully placing my treasure in his weathered hand. The stone’s light dims immediately, reducing to a faint glimmer rather than the brilliant illumination it produces in my grasp. When he returns it, the radiance surges back to full strength.

“Light affinity,” he breathes, using formal words that change everything. “True light affinity, not merely sensitivity. And at such a young age…”

The room erupts in excited chatter. Callum’s earlier mockery transforms to awestruck silence. Elara studies me with new respect and perhaps a touch of envy, despite her family’s prestigious lineage.

Master Thornwood raises a hand for quiet. “This discovery must be properly documented and reported to the Council.” His gaze softens as it returns to me. “Emrys, you should have come forward immediately upon discovering this connection.”

I clutch the stone protectively. “I was waiting for the festival,” I explain, the words pouring out in a rush. “The alignment of the ley lines with the Guiding Stars constellation, I thought, I wanted—”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You wished to contribute your own light to the Ascending.”

I nod, relieved that he comprehends what I’ve barely articulated even to myself. The Festival of Ascending Lights has always been my favorite holiday because something deep within me recognized where I belonged, not merely as an observer but as a participant, a creator of light meant to bridge earth and sky.

“Is it possible?” I ask. “Could I offer my light this year?”

Master Thornwood strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Such a thing hasn’t been done by one so young in living memory. Yet if the affinity is genuine…” He studies me intently. “The Council must be consulted. Your parents informed.”

The rest of the school day passes in a blur of excitement and administrative chaos. Messages are dispatched to my parents and to Council members. Other lessons are abandoned as Master Thornwood records every detail of my experience with the luminstone, from how I felt drawn to the sealed caves to the precise sensations when the stone first responded to my touch.

By mid-afternoon, my parents arrive, their expressions cycling through shock, concern, and ultimately, cautious pride. Father, usually so measured in his responses, embraces me with uncharacteristic emotion.

“A light-affiliate,” he murmurs. “In our family.”

Mother simply holds my hand, her fingers intertwined with mine as Master Thornwood explains what this means for my future, specialized training, eventual attendance at the Academy, responsibilities I’m too young to fully comprehend.

“But first,” Master Silverleaf announces, having arrived with other Council members, “we must address the boy’s request regarding the festival.”

All eyes turn to me, and for a moment, I wish I could shrink into invisibility. Yet the luminstone pulses reassuringly in my grasp, and I find courage in its gentle radiance.

“I want to create a skylight,” I state simply. “For the festival. My light.”

Master Silverleaf exchanges glances with the other Council members before approaching me. Unlike Master Thornwood’s academic demeanor, the old lumenmage carries himself with the serene confidence of one who has channeled light magic for decades. His robes shimmer with embedded crystals that catch and reflect every available source of illumination.

“Creating a skylight requires more than affinity alone,” he explains gently. “It demands focus, intention, and a measure of skill that takes years to develop.”

My heart sinks, disappointment washing through me like a winter stream. After everything—the discovery, the secret, today’s revelation, to be denied participation in the very ritual that has called to me since before I could speak…

Master Silverleaf must see this in my expression, for he continues, “However, there are ways for even novice affiliates to contribute.” He extends his hand. “May I?”

I surrender my luminstone once more, watching anxiously as he examines it with expert eyes.

“Extraordinary,” he murmurs. “Self-contained resonance, perfect attunement to your specific energy signature. This stone chose you as much as you chose it.” He returns it with a smile that transforms his austere features. “You shall indeed participate in this year’s festival, Emrys Nightshade. Not as a full lumenmage, but as an honored apprentice.”

Five days later, as twilight deepens toward the longest night of the year, I stand with Master Silverleaf atop Lumenvale’s ceremonial tower. Below, the entire town has gathered in the square, faces upturned in anticipation, breath visible in the cold winter air. The Constellation Tree rises at the center, adorned with hundreds of crystal ornaments that reflect the torchlight.

“Are you ready?” Master Silverleaf asks, his own luminstone, much larger than mine and shaped into a perfect eight-pointed star, cradled in his palms.

I nod, my heart thundering against my ribs. We’ve practiced for hours each day since my affinity was discovered, Master Silverleaf teaching me the fundamental techniques for channeling innate light magic through the conduit of a resonant stone.

“Remember,” he says gently, “intention before illumination. Clarity before casting. Your light carries your essence, make certain it represents what truly matters to you.”

I close my eyes, cradling my luminstone as the town below begins the traditional festival chant, voices rising in harmonic waves that seem to physically lift the air around us. The ancient words speak of darkness and light, of celestial guidance and earthly gratitude, of the eternal cycle that binds all living things.

The luminstone warms between my palms, responding to both my focused intention and the powerful convergence of ley lines beneath Lumenvale. Through closed eyelids, I sense its growing brilliance, feel the magic building like pressure behind a dam.

Master Silverleaf’s voice reaches me through my concentration. “Now, Emrys. Send your light to join the stars.”

I open my eyes and extend my arms skyward, the luminstone balanced on my upturned palms. With a thought that feels more like releasing than creating, I allow the magic to surge through me, adding my own essence to the stone’s inherent power.

The light erupts upward, a perfect column of silver-blue radiance that pierces the night sky. From below, a collective gasp rises from the assembled townspeople, followed by applause and cheers. My light, my contribution, joins dozens of others as Master Silverleaf and the full Council of Elemental Wisdom release their own carefully crafted skylights.

These magical illuminations don’t dissipate but hover high above Lumenvale, arranging themselves in constellations that mirror those hidden beyond winter clouds. They will remain until dawn breaks, holding darkness at bay during the longest night, carrying our collective hopes toward the distant stars that guide our magic.

As my arms lower, exhaustion washes through me, the natural consequence of channeling magic beyond my years. Yet the weariness cannot diminish my elation. For the first time in my life, I haven’t merely observed the Festival of Ascending Lights; I’ve become part of its ancient magic.

“Well done,” Master Silverleaf murmurs, steadying me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Your light burns true and strong.”

We descend the tower to rejoin my parents, who wait with expressions of wonder and pride. Father, never demonstrative, embraces me with fierce joy. Mother weeps silently, happy tears that catch the reflection of my skylight still burning brightly above.

“Now you understand,” Father says softly. “Why this has always been your favorite holiday.”

I nod, unable to express in words the completion I feel. The Festival of Ascending Lights is more than celebration, more than tradition. For me, it has always been recognition, my soul remembering its purpose before my mind could comprehend it.

As midnight approaches, the town gathers around the Constellation Tree for the exchange of gifts and sharing of spiced cider and festival cakes. Children laugh and dart between adults, sparklers trailing momentary constellations in their wake. Songs rise and fade, stories are told and retold, memories created.

Through it all, I occasionally glance upward at my contribution to the night, the physical manifestation of my newfound identity burning alongside the ancient lights of Lumenvale. Master Silverleaf has explained that this is just the beginning, that years of training await before I fully understand the gift I’ve been given.

But tonight, watching my first skylight hold back the darkness of the longest night, I need no further explanation for why the Festival of Ascending Lights has always been and will always be my favorite holiday.

It is where I found my light. It is where my light found its purpose.

It is where I belong.