Corban’s Old Quarter burned without consuming.

Every year on the winter solstice, the Festival of Fire turned the merged city into a living lantern. Paper phoenixes drifted overhead on warm updrafts. Street performers breathed dragon-flame that spelled out lovers’ names in mid-air. Children chased sparks that turned into snowflakes before they touched skin.

This year, the festival belonged to the people again.

No crimson-robed priests. No Blackwood banners. ...