In this chapter, the village of Tuitoma bursts to life on the night of the festival, where torchlight and music offer temporary escape from the drudgery of rural life. Ser Sarrafin, young and heavy with unspoken grief, navigates the chaotic warmth of community: firelight, song, children’s laughter, and the sharp camaraderie of friends. He is swept into the celebration reluctantly, until an impromptu performance thrusts him into the center. His voice carries the weight of old wounds, and when he sings, the village listens.

But joy is fleeting. The night ends with Ser bloodied and silent, back in his uncle’s house, where alcohol and resentment take shape in fists. The next morning is no gentler—mud, chores, and the ever-tightening rhythm of survival return. Vera, brash and loyal, offers comfort without pity, while friends and neighbors quietly register the bruises Ser doesn’t speak of.

Life in Tuitoma presses on. The minstrels depart. The council squabbles over festival damage. Work fills the days with sweat and aching hands. And still, amid bruises and broken fences, something stubborn endures: the pull of song, the lift of Vera’s laugh, the hope stitched into fields that won’t stop needing tending. As the chapter closes, Ser learns that even in a place where the past bruises as much as fists, the future still demands showing up.