On that day, Aslan was studying magic with Morgan when they heard a burst of distant clamor—laughter, cheers, and the faint rhythm of music drifting in from the nearby city. It sounded like a celebration.
Before long, someone approached the carriage and knocked gently at the door. The visitor was a thin, smiling boy, no older than thirteen, his clothes humble and patched from wear.
"Hello!" the boy greeted warmly. "We're holding a celebration in town. There's not much—no fine food or luxuries—but would you join us and share in our joy?"
Judging by the boy's appearance, he was just an ordinary borderland citizen. Aslan leaned out the window and saw clusters of townsfolk gathering in the streets beyond—smiling, dancing, waving down passersby and inviting them into their merriment.
Morgan, as always, sat with a composed indifference. Her face was hidden behind a black veil, her posture regal, as if none of it concerned her. The world outside might as well have been a dream.
In contrast, Melusine had already poked her head out of the window, her nose twitching eagerly. She sniffed the air, catching the smoky scent of roasted meat. It wasn't as delicious as the food Aslan cooked at home, but it was tempting nonetheless. Clearly, the townsfolk were taking the celebration seriously.
But why celebrate here, in a region scarred by conflict?
Aslan turned back to the boy at the window. With a polite smile, he asked, "Can you tell us what you're celebrating?"
The boy scratched his forehead and thought for a moment, then said with growing excitement, "We were once under the rule of the false king—Vortigern. There were battles all the time. We couldn't even live safely. But now… we've won! Our resistance succeeded!"
He clenched his fists with glee, practically bouncing on his toes. Maybe his joy was for the supposed freedom they'd gained. More likely, Aslan guessed, it was about the roasted meat wafting through the streets.
Still, the mood in the town was infectious. Joy rippled outward like sunlight through clouds, drawing even passing soldiers into the revelry.
Aslan glanced toward Morgan, still seated quietly in the carriage. Her veil concealed her face, but even so, he could feel her cool detachment. Still, as her traveling companion—and student—it was only right to consult her before making any decisions.
"Um… Morgan," he began awkwardly, unsure how to phrase the question.
But before he could finish, Morgan raised her hand. A pulse of magic shimmered through the air, blanketing the carriage in a light protective enchantment. The spell dissolved with a faint hum, leaving a strange stillness in its wake.
"No need to worry about me," she said quietly, her voice calm and toneless. Through her veil, her eyes met his. "I don't care for such things."
Celebration or not, noise or silence—it made no difference to her. She was merely a projection, a simulated personality created for survival. As long as no serious conflict arose, she would remain by Aslan's side.
Melusine pouted slightly. She wanted to retort, "Don't mind this antisocial magician!" But she held her tongue. Aslan was learning from Morgan—an important step in their journey, and one that affected Melusine directly. As his official (well, only) girlfriend, she couldn't sabotage things just because Morgan was moody.
Besides, what was there to be jealous of? The witch was still under a hundred years old—4.6 billion years younger than her. Why quarrel with a child?
That thought alone cheered her immensely.
Melusine beamed, then flopped playfully onto Aslan's back, her feet swinging lazily in the air. She hummed a strange tune, a whimsical remix of something Aslan had once sung. For a 4.6-billion-year-old dragon, she looked like a gleeful ten-year-old.
Eventually, the carriage rolled to a halt at the town's battered castle. It looked like it had endured years of siege and weather, but the townsfolk had done their best to decorate it. Colorful cloth strips fluttered in the wind, and laughter echoed from every direction. The celebration was rough and rustic—but sincere.
The boy clapped his hands together and pointed toward the crumbling structure. "The castle's empty now. We've turned it into guest housing for travelers. Most of the rooms are still intact."
Aslan inspected the half-ruined fortress, then nodded. A broken roof didn't matter, as long as it kept out the wind. They had tents anyway—better to stay here than sleep exposed under the stars.
Though he agreed to stay, Aslan didn't join the festivities. While the town danced and feasted, he remained in his room, quietly reviewing the magic he had learned.
Melusine, of course, did the opposite. She stuffed herself on grilled meat and other rare treats, content to indulge in a meal worthy of a dragon.
Morgan erected a tent inside her room with a flick of her fingers, and then shut herself away without another word.
The celebration continued until dusk. More and more villagers poured into the square. Only when night fell did the music fade, and people returned home, reluctantly letting the day's joy come to an end. Tables remained out in the streets, as if the party would resume at first light.
That night, the boy who had greeted them lay in bed with a smile on his face.
The moon rose high. Silvery light spilled through the cracks in his shutters.
Then, suddenly, the boy sat bolt upright, breath caught in his throat.
His smile was gone—his face now pale and stricken.
All across the village, others awoke, jolted from sleep as if by the same invisible hand. The boy looked down at his trembling fingers, then buried his face in his hands, tears leaking between his fingers.
This hadn't been a celebration. Not truly.
It was an illusion—a spell. A grand, beautiful lie woven into the air itself.
And now, the clock had struck midnight.
Just like in a fairy tale, the dream had ended.
And reality had returned.