Chapter 3 - Truths and Survivors

The festival was in full bloom even at night, the streets alive with color and song. Lanterns of deep gold and rich crimson swayed overhead, casting a warm glow upon the cobbled roads.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted almonds and spiced wine, and something sweet mingling with the sound of tambourines and flutes. Couples holding hands and visiting each stalls with hand full of food and face full of joy and affection. Children with their families happily walking among the street and joyfully stating their dream of how they too want to be a great warrior like Aisha and save Mithel from evil and their parents listening to this brushed their hair as they laughed, their faces painted with delicate patterns of stars and moons.

Vendors lined the streets, their stalls overflowing with trinkets and relics carved in honor of the legendary pair. Small wooden figurines of a warrior and a prince, their features painstakingly etched, stood proudly among the wares. Some depicted the warrior with a sword raised high, a fierce protector of the realm. Others showed the prince, golden-haired and resplendent, with hands outstretched as if offering solace. The legend of Aisha Aeroen and Zacchurs Fae was alive tonight, not just in stories but in every flickering lantern and every whispered tale passed between eager listeners.

The old man and the young woman strolled through the lively streets of the night market, stopping by every once in a while near the place where their curiosity shows. Just like now, where their eyes lingered on the dancers in their exotic dresses, the fabric shimmering under the torchlight as they spun in perfect harmony. Laughter and music swelled, wrapping around the festival-goers like a spell, pulling them deeper into the night's enchantment.

Yet, the old man felt that beneath the revelry, there was something almost eerie about the way the legend was celebrated—a tale of blood, of sacrifice, of a battle that had shaken the heavens and the earth. And yet, here it was, softened, polished, turned into something beautiful, something comforting. The old man glanced at the young woman beside him, wondering if she felt it too—the weight of truth lost beneath layers of myth.

By the time they returned to the tavern, the celebration still raged on outside, but within, the atmosphere was quieter, more intimate. A fire crackled in the hearth, its golden light flickering against the wooden walls. The old man sat by the fire, his fingers tracing the rim of a wooden cup, lost in thought. Across from him, a figure with crimson hair leaned back against the chair, their gaze distant yet watchful, observing the lingering awe in the eyes of those who had watched the play unfold.

The flickering flames cast shifting shadows on their face, obscuring all but their sharp, knowing eyes—dark eyes that had seen too much, remembered too much.

"They tell it well," the old man chuckled, breaking the silence. His voice was low, almost amused. "But do you ever wonder if that's really how it happened?"

The red-haired figure smirked, their lips curving with something that was neither agreement nor denial. "You doubt the legend?"

"Legends are crafted, not told," the old man replied, his voice tinged with something wistful, something tired. He swirled the liquid in his cup, watching as it caught the firelight. "I heard about Prince Zacchurs Fae from my father. He was not a man of sacrifice, not the way the legends claim."

Silence stretched between them. Outside, the music rose once more, a triumphant swell as voices cheered. The finishing act had ended—the tragic finale, where Aisha Aeroen knelt over the fallen body of Prince Zacchurs, weeping, her final words lost in the wind. The crowd outside murmured among themselves, caught up in the romance of it all, speaking of how touching it was, how tragic, how beautiful.

The red-haired figure laughed then, a soft, sharp sound. "Oh, it might be true—some parts, at least." Their voice was light, yet there was something beneath it, something edged. "Aisha longed for love, and the prince was desperate for freedom. The confrontation between them, the choices they made, those were real. But the words they spoke…" They exhaled, shaking their head. "Not so dramatic. Not so… poetic."

The old man studied them carefully, noting the way their fingers tapped absently against the wood, the way their gaze flickered toward the distant monument barely visible through the tavern's window. He hesitated before speaking again.

"The love, the sacrifice," he murmured. "Do you think they would have liked how they were remembered?"

The red-haired figure chuckled, leaning forward, their dark eyes glinting beneath the firelight. "Zacchurs would have hated it," they said without hesitation. "He wasn't a man who gave. He was a man who took. He fought because he enjoyed it. He stood beside her because he wanted to see how it all ended. There was no selflessness in him, no grand martyrdom. He was chaos wrapped in silk, a storm in a golden cage, and he wanted to break free."

The old man raised an eyebrow. "And Aisha?"

The smirk faded slightly, replaced by something quieter, something unreadable. "She wouldn't have cared," they said at last. "She got something valuable out of it all. Not the thing she wanted, perhaps. But something. And she was… thankful, in her own way."

The old man frowned. "Which was?"

The red-haired figure turned to him then, their expression unreadable, their voice quiet yet firm. "Freedom."

A heavy silence settled between them. The fire crackled, filling the space where words had once been. The old man exhaled, shaking his head.

"As you said," the red-haired figure continued after a moment, their gaze shifting toward the monument in the distance, "history is not written by victors, old man."

They tilted their head, studying the statues through the glass. Even from here, they could see them—the grand marble figures of Aisha Aeroen and Zacchurs Fae, standing eternal in their romanticized glory. The warrior, sorrowful yet strong, cradling the fallen prince as though her very soul had shattered. The prince, his golden hair forever caught in the wind, frozen in a moment of noble sacrifice. A story carved in stone. A story polished and refined until it fit neatly into the shape of something worth remembering.

"It is written by survivors," the red-haired figure murmured, their voice barely above a whisper. "The ones who hold power. The ones who decide what the masses believe. They turn men into myths, tragedies into poetry." They paused, their gaze flickering back to the fire. "Still, the fact remains—the one truth that cannot be changed."

The old man listened, waiting.

"She who knew only death now lives," the red-haired figure said, their voice distant, almost thoughtful. "She feels all the emotions he wished for her, in a world free of slavery, in a world full of happiness." A pause. A breath. Then, softer, "And he, who longed only to live, to see what the world had to offer… died next to her. Taking her heart with him."

The old man closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing the words in his mind, before nodding slowly. He cast one last glance at the monument outside before standing, stretching with the weariness of a man who had seen too much. Without another word, he turned and made his way toward his room.

The young woman lingered a moment longer, still watching the statues outside, still staring at the faces carved in honor of a tale she knew differently. A tale that had the same ending, and yet—so much had been rewritten.

She smirked then, a small, knowing curve of her lips, before rising from her seat and following the old man toward her own room.

Outside, the festival continued. The music, the laughter, the swirling colors of gold and red. The legend of Aisha Aeroen and Zacchurs Fae lived on, as it always had. As it always would.