The bar was alive with noise. Sounds of chatter and laughter, clinking mugs, the occasional burst of drunken song—all balancing together in a warm, melodical hum. Had Lennard been in a relaxed mood, perhaps he would have enjoyed some of the comradery.

  This time, unfortunately, he was not.

  He sat hunched over the counter, taking sporadic glances at his wristwatch, fingers drumming aimlessly on the counter. He paid no heed to the bartender staring strangely at him: Lennard had not yet bought a drink. He wasn't planning to. The business he had with the 'Sequined Stool' had nothing to with either food nor drink—It was a rather highly important matter. Few things mattered more to the man than state of his love life.

  Because of this, he had now been sitting in the same spot for the past 4 hours. Lennard was a type of man without any sense of embarrassment, yet even this was a bit... much.

  Seemingly having had enough of her unusual patron. The bartender crossed over to Lennard.

  "Got anything to buy?"

  He shook his head. "No. I'm waiting for someone."

  She gave him a strange look. 'If they were coming, then they'd be here.'

  Lennard chuckled.

  "I still think I'll wait." he said, ignoring the look of surprise on the lady's face as she realised he'd just read her mind.

  The bartender stiffened. "I—I wasn't aware that you were Tellemen" she stammered. "Please, stay as long as you wish." Then, as quickly as she came, the bartender retreated to her original position.

  Preparing to leave, Lennard rose from his stool, pausing only when he sensed a familiar consciousness approach.

  "I'm here, Mike." He announced as the young boy drew closer.

  Mike placed a large, rectangular object onto the counter with a soft thud. It was wrapped tightly in a thick opaque cloth that gave off no impression of its nature. The fabric hung tightly to the frame, disguising the painting hidden beneath. Lennard grinned, already certain that he'd pay Mike well.

  "Did you encounter any trouble?" He inquired. The boy shook his head, and Lennard detected no lies.

  He reached out and ruffled Mike's soft, woolly hair, earning a cry of dissatisfaction from the boy. Handing him his allotted four Duan—plus a three Duan bonus—Lennard gave his final message.

  "Say hi to Father Castellan for me."

  The message was more of a warning than it was a farewell, it would protect Mike during his journey back to the orphanage. Aghnrani or not, it would've taken a serious level of stupidity to target one of Castellan's wards.

  Placing the painting under his arm, Lennard left the bar with a wide smile on his face.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  So far, so good. He thought to himself, banishing any notions that his gift would not be welcome. Which acrobat wouldn't appreciate a painting of themselves? Even if she refused to date him, at least he'd get the satisfaction of having provided a good gift.

  As his mind churned with such thoughts, Lennard went back to her last performance. Serena, for that was her stage name, had been majestic. Lennard couldn't even describe the joy he'd felt seeing her on that big stage, performing in front of more than nine-thousand people for the Festival Of Strings. His favorite performer was up there! Lennard wanted to shout out that fact to the entire world. He'd watched her from the very beginning, when he was nothing but a street rat selling scraps for food. And Lennard had come a long way from then. Indeed he had.

  A little girl ran up to him, face flushed with joy and vibrance. She handed him a piece of red string, a traditional token of the festival—Legio Astolfo Gratia—and giggled as she continued down the road.

  Lennard stared at the red string for a moment. He had never been a fan of folklore, but if the sayings were true...

  He tied the piece of string to his wrist. For luck.

  The caravan's camp site was becoming increasingly visible. Green and red tent tops pierced the night sky like colourful spires. At this hour, the caravan would still be letting people in to see their exhibits. Lennard didn't care much for magical beasts, much less ones in captivity. However, the large crowd would certainly provide an avenue to place his gift.

  He moved toward the entrance, fusing seamlessly within the ever growing cluster of spectators. The sheer number of people helped disguise his heavy baggage. What did not help, though, were the innumerable thoughts threatening to erode his mental barriers. He had to move fast, lest he succumb to madness in the middle of a crowd.

  How shameful.

  Perhaps his statement about being 'without any sense of embarrassment' needed to be revised.

  After swerving through the crowd, he finally exited the suffocating mob right before a sign that read: 'Employees Only'

  Perfect.

  Lennard had it on good faith—and excessive amounts of money—that Serena's tent was only a few metres ahead. Taking ten steps forward, and then fifteen to the right, he came to a stop right before a small-ish brown tent and frowned. Those damned organizers probably couldn't tell a diamond from glass.

  To give Serena such a drab tent... How despicable!

  Lennard stepped into a tent, and was greeted with a magnificent sight. The inside was meticulously arranged. Each object placed with the care of someone who valued both order and sentimentality. Silken drapes of gold and crimson lined the walls, embroidered with beautiful patterns which shimmered softly under the glow of a crystal lamp hanging from the center pole, A delicate scent of jasmine and aged parchment filled the air, a strange yet oddly comforting mix.

  Trophies of all shapes and sizes gleaned from a sturdy wooden shelf, their plaques etched with years of triumph. Some bore the insignia of prestigious competitions, while others were smaller, more personal— awarded at smaller festivals long before she had gained renown. And Lennard recognised each and every one of them.

  There was the trophy from the Ledger's Gala. From Antares' Elysium. Even more surprising, hidden among the grander accolades, was a simple, unassuming second-place badge—her first ever award.

  A badge from her very first performance.

  The first performance he'd seen personally. and Lennard liked to think that he'd seen all of them.

  In the corner, a mannequin displayed her most iconic costume: a flowing, midnight-blue leotard embroidered with silver thread, mimicking the constellations above. The fabric shimmered as if woven from the night sky itself. She had not worn that costume during the Festival Opening. He did not know why: he considered it her best outfit.

  For all its elegance, the tent still felt lived-in, warm. It wasn’t just a performer's space; it was a shrine to Serena’s journey, a testament to the years of effort that had led her here.

  Lennard couldn't help but smile. Despite the dull exterior, this tent was Serena through and through—graceful, disciplined, and undeniably brilliant.

  Serena wasn't here yet, but...

  He placed the canvas down next to the mannequin—Just as it should be—and sat on a nearby stool.

  Lennard could certainly wait.