Pearl Gate knew how to celebrate without spectacle.
What outsiders noticed was the noise — laughter without urgency, disorder without chaos.
What they didn't notice was how quickly it could stop.
Tables filled the southern commons. Food appeared in pieces rather than courses. Elders argued, then grappled, then laughed. Children cheered not because someone might win, but because everyone knew when to yield.
Rayu moved through it easily, refilling cups that never stayed empty.
"You spill that on me again," Tomas Reedfall warned, "and I'll pretend to be offended."
"You were pretending?"
"Only for the first decade."
Nearby, two elders rolled into the grass in a grappling match that ended exactly where it should.
Hands locked.
Weight shifted.
One yielded.
The other helped him up.
THE MOMENT THAT DIDN'T BELONG
Later, Rayu watched his mother speaking with another healer.
For a moment, something slipped.
The world didn't vanish.
It overlapped.
Hands not hers.
A rhythm he recognized without knowing why.
You've done this before.
The thought arrived as certainty, not words.
Rayu staggered half a step.
"Rayu?" Ilyra's voice cut through.
The sensation vanished instantly, like mist under sunlight.
"I'm fine," he said too quickly.
She narrowed her eyes. "You went somewhere."
He didn't answer.
He had learned not to speak of moments like this — not because anyone forbade it, but because Pearl Gate taught restraint.
That night, as fires burned low, the feeling returned.
Not a vision.
Not a voice.
Just the certainty that something had noticed Pearl Gate.
He didn't tell anyone.
For years, restraint had been enough.