Every year, the citizens of Liones lit floating lanterns, each a honor to the death who have passed away in the holy war. You'd gone with Tristan and the others, but somewhere between the laughter and fireworks, the two of you drifted away from the crowd.

He held a small lantern between his palms, its light flickering golden against his face. "They say if two people make the same wish," he murmured, glancing at you, "it's bound to come true."

You told him that sounded like superstition. He smiled - that mischievous, soft little grin of his. "Then I hope you believe in superstition, Sarah." You both stayed together, watching small lights rising into the night sky, side by side, refusing to drift apart.