Each autumn, the moon Festival rolled through all six packs like clockwork - Carlisle just managed to outshine the rest, people said. Though others tried hard, something about their version always felt sharper, clearer. Word spread quietly each season. Not because they shouted about it. Just that folks remembered how the lanterns glowed longer there. How the stories around the fire held tighter. No one crowned them winners. Yet when the night came, most found their way toward Carlisle anyway.
Back in Lanster, Phaeryl grew used to hearing that phrase - often spoken by folks wearing a look halfway between awe and irritation, aimed at truths too solid to fight. Just setting up the ornaments needed fourteen straight days. Vendors sprouted everywhere, their numbers swelling threefold. For stre
