The festival unfolded around them.
Dragons danced in patterns that had been old when the lowlands were new. Musicians played instruments made of crystal and light. Food appeared on tables that had been empty a moment before, dishes that steamed and glowed and smelled like nothing Bai Yue had ever eaten.
She stood at the edge of it all, watching, and tried to remember that she belonged here.
"You're thinking too loudly," Han Shān said.
"I'm trying to figure out if this is real."
"It's real."
"The stars are falling."
"The Festival of Falling Stars. That's the point."
"But they're—they're falling. And then they're not. They're just—" she gestured vaguely, "—floating."
Han Shān's lips curved. It was barely a smile, but it was there. "They're light. Captured light. The dragons harvest it from the upper peaks. They release it during the festival. It's a tradition."
"It's beautiful."
"Yes."
He wasn't looking at the stars.
