Page 15 of Aries

Sleep will be impossible tonight, but as I lie here listening to his carefully controlled breathing, I can’t stop my mind from racing. Tomorrow we’ll be exposed to hostile crowds again, performing under scrutiny with our lives hanging in the balance. At least we’ll face it together.

Chapter Ten

Aries

The harvest festival hits like a shock. After days of quiet in our cottage, the noise and color feel like too much all at once. Lights strung overhead sway in shifting patterns, throwing shadows over the packed crowd. The air’s thick with the scent of roasted meat, sweet pastries, cut hay, and late-season blooms—loud smells for a loud night.

“Remember,” the Committee member intones, their multifaceted eyes reflecting the festival lights, “you must complete three traditional challenges while bound by the Unity Cord. Physical contact is permitted only where the cord connects you. Failure to maintain proper distance elsewhere results in a mark against your progress.”

The Unity Cord is deceptively simple—a length of shimmering rope that binds us wrist-to-wrist, leaving about two feet of space between us.

“Your first challenge awaits at the Weaver’s Dance,” they continue. “Then the Harvest Race, and finally the Trial of Trust. You have until the first moon rises to complete all three.”

They ghost from view, leaving us alone in the crowd. Callie’s hair glows like honey in the festival lights, twisted into another intricate braid that my fingers created this morning.

The memory of her soft sounds as I worked makes my hands itch to touch her again. How is it that I avoided her forannumsand now, after only a few days crowded into our little cottage, I yearn for her?

“So,” she says brightly, clearly trying to dispel the tension, “Weaver’s Dance?”

“Might as well.” Following the flow of the crowd, we quickly discover the first challenge of simply walking while bound together. Our natural gaits don’t quite match, leading to several stumbles before we find a rhythm.

“Sorry,” she mutters after the third time we nearly trip. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“It’s not you,” I assure her. “We just need to…” Adapting my longer stride to match hers, I find the perfect synchronization. “There. Better?”

Her answering smile does something dangerous to my chest. “Much. Though I’m a little worried about what this Weaver’s Dance entails.”

The dance area comes into view—pairs of people moving in intricate patterns while somehow weaving ribbons into complex designs between them. As we watch, one couple creates a perfect star pattern, earning applause from the gathered crowd.

“That doesn’t look so bad,” Callie says uncertainly. “Just some basic weaving while we dance. How hard can it be?”

Very hard, as it turns out. Our first attempt ends with both of us hopelessly tangled in the ribbons, earning good-natured laughter from the onlookers. The Unity Cord doesn’t help. It limits our movement and forces constant awareness of each other’s space.

“Maybe if we…” Callie starts untangling us, careful not to touch me. “What if you lead with your left instead of right? Then I could…”

Working together, we eventually manage a simple pattern. The dance itself requires us to mirror each other’s movements, maintaining eye contact while weaving the ribbons between us. Each turn brings us tantalizingly close before we move to the edge of the Unity Cord’s bounds, so we don’t break the rules.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” she says during one such near-brush, her cheeks flushed from exertion. The scent of her—clean sweat and something floral—makes my head spin.

“Had some practice,” I admit, guiding us through another turn. “Childhood dance lessons which actually proved helpful in my gladiator training. Turns out it helps with balance and coordination in the arena.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “You never mentioned that before.”

“Never came up.” Another turn, another near-touch. “Besides, not many opportunities for conversation when we’re avoiding each other on different ships.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. Her rhythm falters slightly, but she recovers quickly. “No, I suppose not.”

Working together, we eventually create a passable butterfly pattern with the ribbons. Not perfect, but enough to satisfy the requirements. As we exit the dance area, a chime signals the completion of the first challenge.

“Two more to go,” Callie says, consulting the festival map with our bound hands. “The Harvest Race is next—looks like some kind of obstacle course through the fields.”

The course proves both more challenging and more amusing than expected. We have to navigate hay bales, crossed logs, and various farming implements while staying connected by the cord. Each obstacle requires careful coordination and communication.

“Left,” Callie calls as we balance on a narrow beam. “No, my left!”

“Same thing,” I grunt, adjusting my step to match hers. “We’re facing the same direction.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to be specific,” she retorts, but there’s laughter in her voice. “Duck!”

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