Atlas stood in his room, with a calm expression covering his feelings of unease that rippled through him.
His whole street was quiet, like the rest of Little Alvar. Everyone was awaiting the hooting and hollering that would erupt at exactly sundown; the time drawing near as he watched the sun sink below the horizon out his window.
A huge bonfire would erupt in the town square, where a majority of the festivities began. This year, Atlas knew that people wouldn't be hiding behind shutters and doors as midnight struck, because sightings of the monsters had been few for years now.
That didn't stop Atlas from grabbing his silver, jagged blade that he hid under his pillow and shoving it down his boot. Something felt off about this night, and he could only hope Maora had picked up her penknife too.
Making his way over to the window, he pulled it open, and it banged hard against the frame with the force. He listened for his dad's footsteps, who always left out the front door. Atlas couldn't been seen by him, because then he'd know what his mask and inking was, and that was a rule that couldn't be broken during the festival.
So Atlas readied himself to jump out the window.
Maora was readying herself too, standing in their tiny attic with the top window open, where she would clamber onto the roof and jump onto the wall. She'd make her way that way to the town square, keep her eyes out for the man with the instrument and then slip out the shadows and begin her dance.
The wall was the safest way to travel looking like she did; the guards never dared to go within a metre of its first stones. She'd fastened some leather, fingerless gloves tightly on her hands, her penknife strapped to the inside of her arm, preparing herself for the worst.
Her head poked out the window on the roof, watching as the sun completely disappeared below the horizon.
Instantly, hollers and hoots, laughter, screaming and shouting erupted everywhere. She watched as her mother slunk out the back door of the house; despite it being against the rules of the evening she wanted to keep an eye on her.
Her mask left only her lips visible, and she put the image of it in the back of her mind, pulling herself out the window, and letting it close quietly. She paused for a moment, knelt down with her hand on the roof, listening to the noises that had erupted.
Maora looked for a while at Atlas' house, watching as he jumped out the window, rolling along the floor and getting straight to his feet, running behind the houses without a sound. She groaned as she realised she hadn't managed to get a look at his mask, and it was too dark on his street to look at the patterns he'd made.
Finally getting to her feet, the cold breeze winding around her like a silk blanket, she pushed herself into action and ran, leaping up onto the wall and finding a handhold, yanking the rest of her body up.
As soon as her feet hit the cobbled stones, she ran, hair flowing behind, feet hitting the floor rythmically.
Upon reaching the town square, she crouched behind the battlements of the wall, poking her head round to catch a glimpse.
It was packed with people, all drinking, eating, laughing, throwing stuff at the fire. A grin lit up her face, noticing the man. This year, he'd brought a flute, its silver glinting in the fire's flickering light.
Dropping off the wall with a quiet thud, she slipped into the crowd and made her way over to the man. As she got closer, she looked for the engraved C like shape on his mask, but it wasn't there.
