Thanksgiving on Titanumas: Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam and Galaxbeam Unite:Moonlit Thanksgiving in Lunna

 

Lunartopia's highest balcony opened out into a night of pure sapphire.

Lady Moonbeam stood at its center, hands resting lightly on the cold stone rail, long dark-blue hair streaming in the wind. Below, Lunna's capital sprawled in layers of domes, towers, and quiet canals, every rooftop touched by the pale glow of the full moon that hung huge behind her like a guardian eye. The city felt calm, but not asleep—windows flickered, patrols moved, distant songs drifted up from taverns and homes.

On the little device in her gloved hand, Sunbeam's message remained open, the small video clip of Solpathra's speed-dating night paused on a frame full of blurred, laughing faces.

"You really did it," she murmured, blue eyes softening. "You turned paperwork into people meeting."

She tapped the screen once more, reread the line—'We will stand with you until your hand finds another'—and smiled in spite of herself.

Then she straightened, the light in her eyes sharpening into command.

"Moonwis," she called.

The balcony doors opened almost instantly. Moonwis entered in a crisp blue uniform, tablet already in hand; behind her, Moonwisdom followed, glasses glinting, fingers moving across her own keyboard.

"You summoned us, Lady Moonbeam?" Moonwis asked.

Moonbeam turned, cloak swirling like a dark wave. "Wake the Supreme Commanders," she said. "Tell them this is not a war council and that they may breathe accordingly. We are planning a festival."

Moonwis blinked, visibly intrigued. "A festival, my Lady?"

"A Lunar Thanksgiving," Moonbeam replied. "Our answer to Sunbeam's orange revolution of warmth. We will do it in blue."

Moonwisdom's lips curved. "At once."

Within minutes, the balcony's adjoining hall filled with the highest-ranking commanders of the Lunar Regime.

Lunarstride arrived first, strides measured, her long blue coat swishing against polished tiles. Lunarpuff followed, cheeks faintly rosy from a run through the corridors, hair in a loose ponytail that made her look younger than her rank. Lunardye entered with a data-slate already lit, Lunardale carried a folded map case, Lunarstream had a small holo-receiver slung at his side, and Lunarstorm drifted in last, eyes still reflecting whatever auroral project he had been tinkering with on the palace roof.

They formed a half-circle before her, the crescent crest gleaming on each cap.

"Report: curious," Lunarstream said lightly. "You rarely call us all at once unless someone has angered you, the moon, or both."

"Tonight I am only angry at the concept of unmet loneliness," Moonbeam replied. "Sit."

They took their places around the long, low table. Moonbeam remained standing at its head.

"You have all seen the Solar broadcasts," she began. "General Sunbeam's Thanksgiving feasts. His speech on prosocialism and romanticism. His ridiculous—but effective—speed-dating crusade."

Lunarpuff's eyes twinkled. "The one where he promised no one would be left eating alone if they did not wish to?"

"The same," Moonbeam said. "He has turned his doctrine into practice. Sollarisca is lighting itself with orange lanterns and awkward first dates. Our citizens have been watching."

Lunarstride nodded once. "Our media metrics show a spike in viewership whenever his speeches air. Especially among younger demographics and...older, widowed demographics."

Lunardye tapped his slate. "Search terms related to 'Sunrise Connection' have appeared in Lunna's net channels as well," he confirmed. "Several forums are already debating whether such programs could work here."

Moonbeam lifted a brow. "What do they say?"

"Some say Lunna is too reserved," Lunardye answered. "Too nocturnal, too cautious. Others say the night is the perfect time for honest conversation, that our people have been waiting for permission to gather for reasons other than duty."

Lunarpuff leaned forward. "And you, my Lady?"

Moonbeam's gaze swept over them.

"I say," she replied, "that I will not let Sunbeam's orange continent be the only place where loneliness is treated as an enemy. The night will not remain a sanctuary only for solitude. It will also be a stage for togetherness."

Lunarstorm's lips quirked. "So we are to weaponize ice skating now?"

"Exactly," Moonbeam said without missing a beat. "Lunna has its own traditions—winter lakes, midnight parades, the first frost on Lunnet's canals, the music of Lunargopa's night markets. We will weave his doctrines into our own fabric, not copy his patterns."

She placed both hands on the table, blue gloves pale under the hall's lanterns.

"We will host a series of public events across Lunna, starting in Lunartopia and spiraling outward. Mass ice skating, street parades, open-air concerts, lantern walks. Sunrise Connection becomes"—her eyes glinted with mischief—"Moonrise Union."

Lunarpuff softly repeated the name, tasting it. "Moonrise Union," she said. "I like it."

"It sounds like a very gentle coup against loneliness," Lunarstream remarked.

"It is," Moonbeam said. "We will also implement structured social activities—speed-friendship, speed-dating—for those who wish. But we will do it our way. Quiet corners, soft music, warm blue light instead of blinding orange. No one will be dragged from the shadows; they will be invited, and the shadows themselves will become softer."

She looked each Supreme Commander in the eye.

"Assignments."

Lunarstride straightened unconsciously.

"Lunarstride," Moonbeam said, "you will coordinate the physical routes of our parades and skating venues. I want the main boulevards of Lunartopia, Lunarbliss, Lunargopa, and Lunartamarin open, safe, and welcoming. No choke points. No narrow alleys where one can hide and regret coming."

Lunarstride inclined her head. "We will design paths like crescent arcs," she said. "Wide, looping, always returning to central squares so no one drifts too far."

"Lunarpuff," Moonbeam continued, "you will handle morale programming. Music, hosts, activities that encourage strangers to become acquaintances without forcing artificial smiles."

Lunarpuff nodded, eyes already alight. "I will make the night feel like a shared secret," she promised. "Ice skating games, lantern storytelling circles, slow dances for those who dare."

"Lunardye," Moonbeam said, "you will work with Moonwis and Moonwisdom to set up feedback systems. I want real numbers on how many attend, how many return, how many sign up for Moonrise Union circles. We will not merely feel better; we will know if we are helping."

Lunardye tapped quickly. "Surveys, anonymous mood logs, participation graphs. I will give you charts shaped like crescents of progress."

"Lunardale," she went on, "you will oversee construction and maintenance. Temporary ice rinks, street stages, safety rails along frozen canals. I will not have our first mass skating festival remembered for broken ankles."

"Understood," Lunardale said, voice low and steady. "We'll have the engineers polish the ice so smoothly the moon will see itself in it."

"Lunarstream," Moonbeam said, "you will turn this into a story Lunna can follow. Live broadcasts, interviews with ordinary citizens, highlight reels of shy smiles behind blue scarves. But no empty propaganda. If someone is uncertain or critical, we show that too."

Lunarstream gave a crisp salute. "The people will see themselves, not a staged play. And... shall we coordinate with Solar media?"

Moonbeam's expression softened. "Yes. We will send clips to Sollarisca's networks. Let them see that the blue continent has heard their General's words and answered."

"Lunarstorm," she finished, "you will handle the sky. Soft auroras, crescent-shaped light waves, maybe falling star illusions. Nothing that looks like an attack. Only wonders."

His grin finally broke free. "I have been waiting my whole career to be officially ordered to make miracles."

"Consider it done," Moonbeam said.

Then she straightened to her full, commanding height.

"We begin in Lunartopia," she said. "On the Night of Thanks Under the Moon. I will address the nation from Moonlume Plaza. Prepare."

The Supreme Commanders rose as one.

"As you command, Lady Moonbeam," they said.

The Night of Thanks Under the Moon began with a hush rather than a cheer.

Moonlume Plaza, Lunartopia's largest open square, lay between the silver-roofed Parliament Hall and the canal-lined district of old stone bridges. Tonight, its central fountain had been drained and turned into a wide ice rink, the water frozen in perfect glass by Lunarstorm's careful power. Blue lanterns hung from every balcony and archway, their reflections scattering like stars across the ice.

Crowds filled the plaza and spilled into surrounding streets. Moon Soldiers stood at relaxed attention along the edges, cloaks fluttering, visors up so their faces were visible, human, approachable. Elites mingled among the civilians in full deep-blue uniforms: Moonshire, Moonsphere, Moonsuna, Moonnon, Moonliz, Moongirl, Moonflower, Moonset, Moonray, Moonbreeze, Moonvale, Moonrose, Moonlove, Moonwater, Moonflow, and dozens more.

High above, the balcony of the Lunar Citadel opened. The murmuring crowd stilled.

Lady Moonbeam stepped forward into the spotlight of the moon itself.

Her coat was immaculate midnight blue, cinched with a matching belt; her cap bore a silver crescent, and a similar emblem glowed softly at her collar. Her eyes, bright blue and unwavering, looked down upon her people with an expression that was both regal and unmistakably fond.

"People of Lunna," she began, her voice carrying through the plaza, echoing down side streets, traveling via Lunarstream's broadcast to cities and villages across the continent. "Tonight, I stand before you not to order a march or announce a campaign. Tonight, I stand before you to talk about something far more dangerous than armies and far more subtle than spies."

She paused.

"Loneliness."

The word dropped into the silence like a small stone into deep water.

"Recently," she went on, "many of you have watched the transmissions from our orange counterpart across the sea. You have seen General Sunbeam—yes, that Sunbeam—dress his continent in lanterns and feasts, speak of prosocialism and romanticism, host gatherings where strangers sit at long tables and leave as friends."

A ripple of soft laughter ran through the crowd at her dry emphasis on "that Sunbeam."

Moonbeam's lips quirked.

"You have also seen him do something quietly radical," she continued. "He declared that no citizen of Sollarisca who wished for companionship would be left to eat alone in silence."

She let that settle.

"I watched those broadcasts as you did," she said, "sometimes with a commander's skepticism... and sometimes with a woman's heart."

Several elites in the crowd—Moonflower and Moonrose among them—exchanged knowing glances.

"I saw the tremble in the hands of those who attended his speed-dating," Moonbeam said. "I heard the laughter breaking through old caution at his Lantern Nights. I admit this to you openly: I was proud of him."

A gentle murmur swept through the plaza.

"But then," she continued, voice softening, "I thought of Lunna. Of Lunartopia's balconies, where some of you stand alone to watch the canals. Of Lunarbliss's frozen lakes, where a single skater makes circles at midnight with no one to hold their coat. Of Lunargopa's night markets, where hands brush at stalls and quickly retreat. Of Lunnet's streets, where those who survived war still walk like ghosts among the living."

Her gaze turned from the capital itself toward the distant horizons.

"I realized that if he can challenge his suns to meet each other, I must challenge my moons to do the same."

She raised one gloved hand.

"Pro-socialism and romanticism do not belong only to Sollarisca," she declared. "They are not orange concepts. They are human needs. Lunna has its own ways to express them—quiet talks under blue lamps, shared walks along moonlit canals, hands tucked together inside one cloak when the wind is sharp. Tonight, we begin honoring those needs openly."

Her voice steadied, gaining subtle power.

"I promise you this: as long as I wear this uniform, I will work to ensure that no one in Lunna who wishes for company is left without paths to find it. We will build those paths not only in policy, but in streets and schedules, in rinks and parades, in events where entry is not a favor but a right."

A low thrill went through the crowd.

"Welcome," Lady Moonbeam said, "to the first night of Moonrise Union."

Blue light surged from the edges of the plaza as Lunarstorm unleashed a gentle spectacle: a ribbon of pale luminescence unfurling across the sky like a slow, shimmering aurora, forming a vast crescent that cradled the moon.

The crowd gasped.

"In the days ahead," Moonbeam continued, "Lunarpuff and our elites will host open gatherings in every major city—ice skating on the canals of Lunarbliss, lantern parades through Lunargopa's harbor streets, music nights in Lunartamarin, tea-walks in Lunlight City on Celebluu Island. Lunarstride and Lunardale will ensure our paths are safe and our rinks sound. Lunardye, Moonwis, and Moonwisdom will listen to your feedback so we can improve."

She offered a small, conspiratorial smile.

"We will also hold speed-friendship and speed-dating circles—Moonrise Meetings—for those brave enough to sit across from someone new and say, 'This is who I am. Would you like to walk with me awhile?'"

Nervous laughter, excited murmurs, and a few delighted cheers rose from pockets of the plaza.

"No one will be forced to attend," she assured them. "Some of you prefer solitude. I respect that deeply. But solitude should be a choice, not a sentence. If you ever grow tired of your own echo... know that there will be rooms in Lunna where people gather with the quiet intention of not being alone."

Her gaze softened even further.

"General Sunbeam is not only my ally in battle," she said, to the delighted squeals of a cluster of younger citizens near the front. "He is my ally in believing that humanity is worth preserving not just biologically, but emotionally. Tonight, I openly praise his determination and borrow his courage. He lit his continent in orange for his people. We will answer in blue."

She extended one hand over the crowd, palm open.

"Walk with me," she said. "Skate with me. Parade with me. Let us teach the night that it can hold more than watchful eyes—it can hold shared smiles, clasped hands, and the warmth of being known."

The plaza erupted into applause, cheers, and the soft chiming of hand-bells that children shook wildly.

Moonbeam stepped back from the rail as Lunarstream's feed zoomed in on her calm, satisfied smile.

"Begin," she said quietly.

The Lunar Regime obeyed.

The ice in Moonlume Plaza filled first.

Lunardale's engineers had outdone themselves: the former fountain's bowl was now a perfect oval rink, its edges lined with low blue barriers etched with crescent symbols that glowed faintly. Piles of skates in all sizes waited at the four access points.

Moonsuna and Moonnon managed one of the stations, both already wearing their own skates, laces wrapped neatly around boots.

"Next!" Moonsuna called. "If you have never skated before, you get a 'first star.' That means you are allowed to fall as often as you like without being embarrassed."

A young man with a stiff posture stepped up. "I am an archivist," he said defensively. "I do not... sk—" He stumbled on the word.

"Perfect," Moonnon said gently. "Archivists are excellent at remembering instructions. Try these."

She helped him into the skates, her fingers quick and assured. When he stood, wobbling, Moonsuna held out both hands.

"You will not fall," he announced grandly.

"That is unlikely," Moonnon murmured.

"But if you do," Moonsuna added, "I'll fall with you. It is important for morale."

The archivist actually smiled.

On another side of the rink, Moonshire, Moonliz, and Moonbreeze had formed an informal chain, pulling a small cluster of children along behind them in a zigzag, shrieking line. Moonflower skated backward, teaching older couples how to move together without stepping on each other's blades.

"Look up, not at your feet," she told one pair gently. "The moon is more interesting than the ice."

At the very center of the rink, Lady Moonbeam herself stepped onto the frozen surface.

Her Supreme Commanders, who had watched her approach with mild alarm, all spoke at once.

"My Lady, perhaps—" Lunarstride started.

"We can demonstrate in your place—" Lunarpuff offered.

"It would be statistically unfavorable for the Head of State to—" Lunardye began.

Moonbeam simply glided forward, pushing off with one smooth motion, cutting a graceful path through the center of the rink as if the ice had been waiting for her.

Lunarstream blinked. "Did we know she could skate like that?"

Lunarstorm grinned. "I did. I installed extra lighting in the old palace rink years ago. She thinks I believed she was practicing alone."

Moonbeam turned slowly, cloak fanning behind her, and extended one hand toward the nearest cluster of onlookers.

"Come," she said. "I promise not to ask for your rank when you fall."

A young Moon Soldier with a shaved head and wide eyes swallowed hard, then stepped onto the ice.

Lunarpuff skated over to him. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Moonhart, Commander," he stammered.

"Moonhart," Moonbeam said, gliding up beside him, "you will skate between myself and Lunarpuff. If you drop, we will both catch you. You may brag about this later and exaggerate freely."

He laughed, the tension breaking out of his shoulders.

Soon, the rink became a swirling painting of blue coats, scarves, and hair. People clung to each other, let go, found rhythm, laughed as they crashed into the barriers. For once, the only orders from the Supreme Commanders were variations of "Relax," "Breathe," and "Yes, you are allowed to enjoy this."

Moonwis and Moonwisdom, standing at the edge with tablets, watched the chaos with the analytical gaze of scholars studying an evolving experiment.

"How does it look?" Lunardye asked them quietly.

Moonwis scrolled through preliminary mood surveys. "When asked to rate their current loneliness on a scale of one to ten," she said, "most respondents dropped three points within an hour."

Moonwisdom pointed at a heat map of the city. "And there is a new pattern forming. People who came alone are leaving in clusters."

"Good," Lunardye said, taking a rare moment to smile.

Lunarbliss City, known for its wide moon-mirroring lake, received Moonrise Union with a quieter kind of joy.

At the center of the frozen water, Lunardale's crews had created a vast circular rink, lit from underneath by soft, pulsating blue lights that made skaters look as if they were gliding over a piece of the sky itself. Snowbanks formed natural seating areas along the shore; braziers burned with blue-tinged fire, casting gentle warmth.

Lady Moonbeam's arrival here was less ceremonious. She walked down to the lakeshore with her cloak wrapped tight against the cold, accompanied only by Lunarstride and Lunarpuff.

Moonsphere and Moonset met them partway, each carrying a tray—one with steaming cups of dark blue tea, the other with small moon-shaped pastries.

"You did not have to bring food yourselves," Moonbeam said, accepting a cup.

"We wanted to see your reaction," Moonsphere replied. "Moonpuff perfected the recipe."

"It is not my fault you all decided that rice flour shaped like the moon is romantic," Lunarpuff said lightly, though the faint pink in her cheeks suggested she did not mind.

On the ice, pairs and groups skated slowly to a live orchestra stationed on a floating platform—violin, wind instruments, soft drums. Some couples held each other close; others moved in playful spins.

Moonbeam watched as an older woman approached the ticket stand, hesitated, then turned away.

"Stay," Moonbeam said quietly.

Lunarpuff nodded and moved, intercepting her gently.

"Is something wrong?" Lunarpuff asked.

"I have not skated since before the war," the woman said. "My partner... is no longer here. The ice reminds me of what is gone."

Lunarpuff's gaze softened. "We designed tonight for people like you as much as for the young and hopeful," she said. "But we will not push you."

The woman shook her head. "I am tired of being brave alone," she murmured. "I'm just... not sure how to be brave with others again."

Lunarpuff lifted a hand, signaling discreetly.

Three elites—Moonrose, Moonlove, and Moonwater—glided up the shore, slowing to a stop nearby.

"If you step onto the ice," Lunarpuff said to the woman, "you do not have to dance with a stranger. You can skate in a ring, holding the hands of three very noisy elites who promise to tell you ridiculous stories until you remember how to laugh while moving."

Moonrose grinned, Moonlove offered a hand, and Moonwater gave a theatrical bow.

The woman looked at the three of them, then at the lake, then at the moon.

"Very noisy?" she asked.

"Painfully," Lunarpuff assured her.

"Then... all right," the woman whispered.

As she stepped onto the ice between them, the camera crews—under Lunarstream's strict orders—kept their distance, focusing instead on the broader scene: circles forming, arms linking, a city that had once known only the harsh discipline of survival now discovering that moving together in patterns could heal in ways no speech alone could.

In Lunargopa City, the port of blues and deep waters, Moonrise Union manifested as a parade.

Harbor streets lined with dark stone and hanging nets transformed overnight into avenues of silver arches. Blue banners bearing the crescent crest fluttered from every mast. Stalls that usually sold fish and rope now offered glowing moon candies, lanterns, and hot seaweed noodles.

Lunarstream rode at the front of the procession on a low platform, microphone in hand, relaying the scene live.

"To those watching from Lunnet, Lunntropica, Blumerideera, and all the far reaches of Lunna," he said, smiling into the camera, "this is Lunargopa's Night Tide Parade—the city's way of saying, 'If the sea can keep returning, so can your hope.'"

Moonbeam walked on foot behind the first band, no carriage, no elevated throne. Her cloak caught the wind, her boots splashed occasionally in leftover puddles from high tide. Moon Soldiers marched loosely on either side; elites like Moongirl, Moonsasha, Moonsprinkle, and Moonplay distributed small blue glow-sticks and crescent pins to children who held their hands out eagerly.

A fisherman stepped forward as the procession slowed near his stall.

"Lady Moonbeam!" he called.

She turned, pausing.

He hesitated, then spoke loudly enough for those near him—and, thanks to Lunarstream's careful positioning, the broadcasting microphones—to hear.

"We have watched Sunbeam's orange feasts," he said. "We were glad for them, but thought... 'That is for them, not for us.' Tonight, seeing you walk our streets like this... it feels different."

"How so?" Moonbeam asked.

He swallowed. "Closer," he said simply. "As if the doctrines he spoke of crossed the sea and put on blue coats for us."

Moonbeam's expression softened.

"They did not change color," she replied. "They simply met the night. But yes. Prosocialism and romanticism are not elite amusements; they are guarantees I intend to extend to fishermen as much as to generals."

She stepped closer, out of the neat parade path, ignoring the mild panic in the eyes of the security detail.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Moonrill, my Lady."

"Moonrill," she said, "if you ever find yourself standing by these boats watching couples walk the harbor and thinking, 'That is not for me'... remember this night. Remember that your Lady walked the same stones and declared that you, too, are invited."

His eyes shone. "Yes, my Lady."

She moved on, the parade flowing like water around the moment.

From balconies, dancers—coordinated by Lunarpuff—performed slow, synchronized movements to the rhythm of drums and flutes, blue ribbons trailing behind them like streams of fabric moonlight. At certain corners, the parade paused for "Moonrise Meetings"—short stations where volunteers and citizens who had signed up beforehand sat at small tables for timed conversations.

At one such station, Moonsphere leaned over her table to address Lunarstream's roaming camera.

"For those afraid speed-dating might be too bright, too fast," she said, "we have speed-listening. You sit, you listen to someone describe a favorite memory. You do not have to share your own if you are not ready. Sometimes, hearing another person's warmth is the first step toward feeling your own again."

Behind her, a quiet pair—a dockworker and a night-shift healer—leaned close, trading stories under a blue paper lantern.

On Celebluu Island's Lunlight City, the events took on a more playful tone.

The entire central district turned its streets into a temporary ice labyrinth: narrow alleys iced over, wider avenues turned into gentle slopes, all lit by pale blue orbs suspended in midair. Children and adults alike glided through, following maps posted at intersections.

Lady Moonbeam stood at the entrance arch, watching as a group of teenagers argued over which route to take.

"You see that sign?" Moonflow said, pointing. "If we go left, we get to the 'stranger challenge'—you have to skate three turns with someone you don't know."

"I'm not doing that," one boy said instantly, face flushing.

"Then you go right," Moonvale suggested, smiling. "Right leads to the 'friendship bench,' where you sit and answer questions with whoever happens to arrive next. Slightly less terrifying."

Moonbeam chuckled quietly.

Moonsuna skated up, coming to a neat stop.

"Your people are adapting quickly," she said to Moonbeam.

"Our people," Moonbeam corrected gently.

Moonsuna's smile widened. "Our people, then. The feedback forms at the exit station are full already. Many write that they 'felt strangely safe being awkward.'"

"That is the ideal state," Moonbeam replied. "Awkwardness without shame is a sign of healthy romanticism."

A small group of Moon Soldiers approached then, one nervously clearing her throat.

"Lady Moonbeam?" the soldier said. "Permission to ask a disrespectfully personal question?"

Moonbeam tilted her head. "Permission granted within limits."

The soldier flushed. "Do you... personally... believe in all this? Speed-dating. Public gatherings. Openly encouraging romance."

Moonbeam considered her for a long moment.

"I believe," she said softly, "that when someone stands on a balcony night after night, keeping watch over a city, they should not have to do it alone forever... unless they choose to. I believe that if I am allowed to love, so is every soldier under my command."

The soldier's eyes widened. "You mean General Sunbeam."

"I mean that I am not exempt from the doctrines I endorse," Moonbeam replied. "If I can feel warmth in my chest when my orange fool sends me videos of his people laughing, then you are allowed to feel your heart trip when someone takes your hand on the ice."

The soldier swallowed hard. "Thank you, my Lady."

"Now go get lost in the ice maze," Moonbeam added. "And if you emerge holding someone's glove, I expect a full report."

The headlines across Lunna over the following days were unlike any the Lunar networks had carried before.

"Lady Moonbeam Launches Moonrise Union – Night No Longer for Loneliness Alone."
"Supreme Commanders Seen Skating, Laughing with Citizens in Lunartopia."
"Lunarbliss Widow Returns to the Ice—Romanticism in Blue."
"Lunargopa Fishermen Parade Beside Their Lady—'I Felt Seen,' Says Moonrill."
"Celebluu Teenagers Describe 'Safe Awkwardness' in Ice Labyrinth Challenge."

In each article, Moonbeam's own words about Sunbeam were prominently quoted.

"General Sunbeam is my colleague, my ally, and my beloved," one headline excerpted. "His prosocialism and romanticism are acts of courage, not softness. Lunna honors his example and adapts it to our nights."

On one particularly popular talk program, Lunarstream hosted a live broadcast discussion with Lunarpuff, Moonwisdom, and a remote connection to Solarpuff from Sollarisca.

"From orange to blue," Lunarstream said, smiling into the camera, "it appears loneliness is under attack on multiple fronts."

Solarpuff laughed warmly on the screen. "We saw the ice rinks," she said. "They're beautiful. Our General kept replaying the broadcast where Lady Moonbeam caught that soldier's hand."

"Tell him," Lunarpuff replied, "that the moon approves of his chaos. We will keep building from what he started."

Moonwisdom tapped her tablet. "Cross-continental participation in social programs is already rising," she added. "There are discussion boards where Solar and Lunar citizens compare notes on Lantern Nights versus Moonrise circles."

"So we have accidental diplomacy through shared awkwardness," Lunarstream concluded. "Ideal."

Back in Lunartopia, a few nights after the first wave of events, Lady Moonbeam returned to her balcony, the city once again spread beneath her like a map painted in deep blues and scattered light.

She rested her elbows on the rail, phone in hand.

Notifications blinked across the screen: reports from Lunardye, recordings from Lunarstream, photos from Lunarpuff of ice-skating mishaps and successful Moonrise Meetings. There were also dozens of messages from citizens—some simple "thank you" notes, others longer confessions of how the new gatherings had helped them step out of years-old isolation.

She scrolled carefully, absorbing every word.

Then she switched to her personal thread.

"Sunbeam," she typed, thumbs moving slowly. "Consider this an official Lunar report."

She attached a short video compilation: Moonlume Plaza's rink full of people, Lunarbliss's lake shimmering with blue lights, Lunargopa's parade winding along the harbor, Celebluu's ice maze glowing like a crystalline dream. Over the footage, Lunarpuff's voice narrated softly: "On this side of the sea, too, we are learning to reach out."

Moonbeam added:

"Your prosocialism has crossed the ocean. Your romanticism has been translated into moonlight. My Supreme Commanders are exhausted, my elites are hoarse from laughing, and my citizens are... different. Lighter. Some are holding hands who never dared before. Some are simply sitting in rooms where others are breathing and finding that this is enough for now."

She hesitated, then continued.

"I have praised you in front of the entire continent. I will not repeat all of it here; your ego would swell like a second sun. But know this: I am proud of you. And I am determined that Lunna will stand beside Sollarisca not only in war, but in the art of making sure no one faces the night alone."

She finished with one last line:

"Next time, perhaps, we plan a joint festival. An eclipse of loneliness—half orange, half blue."

She sent the message and leaned back, eyes closing briefly as the wind brushed her face, carrying the faint music of another late-night Moonrise circle somewhere in the city below.

When she opened them again, the moon was still there, vast and watching, reflected in a hundred canals where people now walked not singly, but in twos and threes.

Lady Moonbeam smiled, a small, satisfied curve.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Lunna," she whispered to her continent. "And thank you, Sunbeam."

The device in her hand buzzed softly as a reply crossed the sea.

The night above Titanumas glowed a little warmer—orange and blue unseen but undeniably entwined—as Solar and Lunar doctrines of warmth, friendship, and gentle romance continued to unfold, one shared step, one nervous greeting, one held hand at a time.

Lunna did not let Moonrise Union fade into a single weekend.
It unfolded into a season.

Moonbeam refused to remain a distant architect. If her Supreme Commanders were going to host events, she would walk, skate, sing, and eat her way through every one of them.

The Lunar transport grid bent itself around her schedule.

On some nights she rode the midnight express skimmer-train, blue lights streaking across the countryside. On others she took patrol craft that usually carried Moon Soldiers, sitting among them as if this were the most natural thing in the world, cloak folded neatly on her lap.

"Are you sure about this, my Lady?" Lunarstride asked on the second week, studying the itinerary hovering in holo-blue above the table. "You intend to attend all six major events personally?"

Moonbeam sipped her tea, unbothered. "If my people can make time to leave their homes, I can make time to arrive."

Lunarstream whistled softly. "You are going to be the most overbooked guest star in the history of this continent."

"Good," Moonbeam said. "Let the night complain later. For now, we move."

—

Lunarstride's event came first.

In Lunnet State, the city of Lunnetvale had long, sloping avenues and a reputation for sleeplessness—a place where shift workers swapped positions beneath street lamps and quiet crime once found easy shadows. Lunarstride had taken that reputation personally.

Her Moonrise Union project was a "Night Walk of A Thousand Lanterns."

By the time Moonbeam arrived, the main boulevard had transformed into a river of soft blue light. Citizens walked in slow, steady streams, each holding a small lantern on a long handle. Children rode on shoulders, couples strolled arm in arm, elderly neighbors walked in carefully paced pods.

Moon Soldiers in lighter uniforms paced alongside, not as guards but as guides, pointing out rest stations where hot mulled tea steamed in big urns.

Moonbeam joined the walk at the mid-point, stepping quietly into the current of people. Lunarstride appeared at her side, posture as precise as ever, but her eyes warmer than usual.

"Reporting, my Lady," she said. "No incidents. Three lost children recovered, two sprained ankles treated, zero citizens too afraid to join."

Moonbeam glanced at the crowd around them. "I see many who would once have hurried home alone by this hour," she observed.

"That was the point," Lunarstride replied. "We close the small shops early, not as punishment but so their owners can walk with everyone else. All major intersections now have crosswalk marshals. There is nowhere on this route where a person cannot ask for help without fear."

A young man edged closer, lantern clutched in hand. "Excuse me... Lady Moonbeam?"

She turned, lanternlight catching in her eyes. "Yes?"

He swallowed. "I—I usually work back-of-house at a factory. I'm not used to... crowds. But here, walking... it's like I can breathe with everyone instead of by myself."

Moonbeam smiled. "Are you walking alone now?"

He hesitated. "No. I started beside an empty stretch of road. Now I am walking beside you."

Lunarstride's lips twitched.

"There are worse neighbors," Moonbeam said. "Stay with us as long as you like."

He nodded, cheeks flushing in the blue glow.

Ahead of them, Lunarstream's roving camera drone floated above the boulevard, capturing not a staged march but an endless, gently shifting procession of linked silhouettes.

"This is Lunna Nightwalk," Lunarstream narrated for the broadcast. "We used to say you should never walk alone at night. Tonight, that warning has become... an invitation."

—

Lunarpuff's event in Lunarbliss was louder.

The city's old opera house—once a stern hall where grim war announcements had been delivered—had been repurposed as the "Moonheart Chorus."

The stage was lined with microphones, the seats filled with citizens holding lyric sheets printed in blue ink. A banner over the proscenium read:

"YOU DO NOT NEED A PERFECT VOICE TO BELONG TO THE SONG."

Moonbeam slipped into the aisle seat beside a group of Moon Soldiers who visibly tried to sit straighter when she appeared.

"At ease," she said, taking a sheet. "You may sing off-key. I will not revoke your ranks."

Lunarpuff stood center-stage, arms spread.

"Lunna!" she called. "Tonight, we sing songs you know and songs you will learn in ten seconds. The objective is not perfection. The objective is hearing your own voice surrounded by others and realizing it is not alone."

Moonstream's cameras panned across faces—nervous, excited, shy.

The first song began softly, a familiar Lunnic lullaby. Voices rose, wavering at first, then steadying as neighbors found the notes together.

Moonbeam sang too.

Her voice was low and clear, not theatrical, but tuned from years of giving commands that needed to be heard. The Moon Soldiers beside her faltered, then adjusted to follow her pitch.

Between verses, Lunarpuff invited "solo bursts"—not solos, just small lines for anyone who dared.

"Pick a line in the next chorus and sing it a little louder," she said. "You don't have to stand. We'll feel you."

A teen girl two rows behind Moonbeam took a breath, squeezed her friend's hand, and did exactly that, voice cracking but bright.

Lunarpuff heard it over the general sound and pointed toward the section.

"There!" she said. "Beautiful. That line belongs to you now. Everyone, take it home and remember it on nights you think you don't matter."

After the chorus, Lunarstream approached a group exiting into the lobby for intermission.

"How does it feel," he asked a middle-aged clerk, "to sing in a hall where you once only received orders?"

The clerk laughed breathlessly. "Less terrifying than I expected," she said. "More... right. Like these walls were waiting to hear us be human."

"And you, sir?" Lunarstream turned his mic toward an older Moon Soldier.

The soldier cleared his throat. "I have shouted commands in this uniform for twenty-seven years," he said. "Tonight is the first time I shouted a love ballad with my squad. They're never going to let me live it down."

Moonbeam passed them, lips curved.

"If your squad teases you," she murmured as she went by, "tell them their Lady approves of loudly sung love ballads."

He snapped to attention, then quickly relaxed as she waved him back down.

—

Lunardye's event took place in Lunntropica, a dense riverside city known for its maze of alleys and study houses.

He called it the "Night of a Thousand Games."

The main library plaza had been transformed into an open-air game hall. Long tables hosted board games, cooperative puzzles, and strategy challenges designed to be solved only by teams of three or more. Lanterns glowed overhead in grid patterns; chalk arrows on the stone directed people toward game clusters.

Moonbeam arrived halfway through the evening, greeted by the sight of Moondust and Moonlogic arguing good-naturedly over a cooperative puzzle with a trio of teenage students.

"It is mathematically impossible for that piece to fit there," Moonlogic insisted.

Moondust, grinning, pressed it into place anyway. "Mathematics can bow to intuition once a year."

Lunardye approached Moonbeam with a tablet full of real-time stats.

"The objective," he explained, "was to create situations where people cannot solve alone. They must ask for help, explain their thoughts, listen to others. We pair strangers with regulars, older citizens with younger ones, introverts with what Lunarpuff calls 'walking fireworks'."

"Any injuries?" Moonbeam asked.

"Only to pride," Lunardye said. "And those wounds seem to heal quickly when someone finally gets to say, 'I was wrong, thank you for showing me.'"

At one table, a quiet woman in a simple blue dress found herself partnered with a small group of elites—Mooncipher, Moonarith, and Moonprime—over a complex logic board.

"I'm not smart enough for this," she protested.

Mooncipher shook her head. "Intelligence is not an entry fee," she said. "Curiosity is. You're here. You qualify."

Moonarith slid a piece toward the woman. "Try placing this where it feels right," she suggested.

When the woman tentatively moved a token to the center, the board lit up in concentric circles of pale blue.

"You solved the core," Moonprime said, genuinely delighted. "We were skirting it."

The woman stared at her hands. "I just... thought the board looked unbalanced."

"Exactly," Mooncipher replied. "Your eye saw what our equations did not."

Moonbeam watched from a distance, a flicker of pride in her eyes.

"See?" Lunardye murmured. "Romanticism is not only hearts and flowers. Sometimes it is the moment someone realizes their thoughts are worth listening to."

—

Lunardale's event in Lunartamarin took place in a park that had seen too many military drills and not enough picnics.

Under his direction, the entire Silverveil Park became a "Lantern Garden Workshop."

Citizens arrived to find tables piled with materials: paper, thin wire, glass beads, small blue crystals that glowed softly when touched. Elites like Mooncraft, Moonbuild, and Moonweaver guided them in crafting lanterns of all shapes and sizes.

"The mission today," Lunardale announced through a portable speaker, "is to construct beauty that will outlast this night. Lanterns will be hung along streets that used to only see patrol patterns. When you walk home next week and see the light you helped create, remember this feeling."

Moonbeam rolled up her sleeves and joined a table where a father and his two children struggled with a particularly ambitious crescent-shaped frame.

"Permission to assist?" she asked.

The father nearly swallowed his tongue. "My Lady—of course—"

Moonbeam gently took the wire. "I have experience with crescents," she said dryly. "Let me."

The younger child peered at her as she bent the wire. "Did you and General Sunbeam really kiss under an eclipse?" she blurted.

The father choked. "Moonika—"

Moonbeam's shoulders shook with a silent laugh. "That is classified," she said. "But I will say eclipses and kisses both require careful alignment."

The children giggled wildly.

Nearby, Lunarstream interviewed a lantern vendor who had temporarily closed her stall to volunteer.

"You're giving away your time and your trade secrets," he said. "Worth it?"

She held up a half-finished lantern, fingers stained with glue. "If people fall in love under something I helped them make," she answered, "I consider that very good advertising."

—

Lunarstream's own event took place back in Lunartopia: an open-air "Story of Us" night in a small amphitheater.

The stage was simple—just a crescent-shaped platform and a single microphone. Citizens signed up to speak for three minutes each about a moment when someone else made them feel less alone.

Moonbeam sat in the front row, cloak wrapped around her shoulders like a loyal shadow. Lunarstream moved between hosting and gently coaching nervous speakers.

"You don't have to be profound," he reminded them. "Just honest."

One by one, people stepped up.

A baker told of a Moon Soldier who bought bread at the end of every shift and always asked about her mother's health. A mechanic described how a stranger at a Lantern Night had stayed with him for an hour when he'd felt a panic attack coming on. A young woman shared how Moonpuff had remembered her name between events and greeted her like an old friend.

At one point, a quiet, pale-haired elite—Moonveil—took the stage, eyes flicking toward Moonbeam.

"I want to thank my Lady," Moonveil said, voice barely above a murmur. "For reading my report at two in the morning and sending back not only corrections, but a note that said, 'You did well. Sleep now.' I had not heard those words since my mother died. I slept for twelve hours."

The amphitheater went very still.

Moonbeam's eyes glistened. She did not stand or make a grand gesture. She simply pressed a hand over her heart.

After the session, Lunarstream's camera caught a small crowd forming naturally around Moonveil—people who wanted to say, "I've been there. I know that feeling."

—

Lunarstorm's event, naturally, lit the sky.

In the mountain city of Lunaarcrest, where the air was thin and stars felt close enough to touch, he hosted the "Falling Lights Festival."

Citizens lay on blankets spread across the high plateau, noses tipped toward the heavens as Lunarstorm orchestrated a slow cascade of light—illusionary comets that left trails of soft blue fire, meteor showers that never hit the ground, constellations re-drawn into linked hands.

Moonbeam arrived late, having already attended a community dinner in another town. Still, she found a spot on a shared blanket between two families, tucking her cloak around her legs.

"Watch this," Lunarstorm's voice came softly over a nearby speaker. "We call it the 'Gratitude Sweep.' Every light you see represents one registered Moonrise participant from the last month."

The sky blossomed.

Thousands of little flares erupted in gentle arcs, crossing and crisscrossing, forming intricate patterns that looked almost like a network of glowing pathways.

A child gasped. "I'm in there?"

"Yes," her mother said, pointing. "Somewhere, one of those lights is ours. Remember when we went to the Night Walk, and you held hands with that boy from your class? That counts."

The child wriggled with delight.

Moonbeam lay back, eyes reflecting the spectacle. Lunarstorm drifted over and dropped onto the blanket beside her.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied honestly. "But in a way I enjoy."

He smiled. "I thought as much. So I used only calm colors tonight. No strobe. Consider it the sky tucking the continent in."

She laughed softly. "Thank you, Lunarstorm."

"You're welcome, my Lady."

—

The culmination of it all came two weeks later, in a city that had never before hosted anything so grand: Moonmellow City in the state of Lunrissca.

Moonmellow was small, more known for its quiet lakeside park and cluster of dessert shops than for politics or power. That made it perfect.

"We chose it intentionally," Lunardye told a news anchor beforehand. "Prosocialism is not only for capitals. Romanticism does not require skyscraper skylines. Sometimes, the best place to say 'you belong' is a city that hasn't heard those words shouted before."

Silverlake Park, usually a tranquil spot with a few joggers and reading benches, became the site of the first Lunar Thanksgiving Public Dinner.

Long tables stretched under strings of blue lanterns. The air filled with the smell of steaming soups, grilled fish, spiced rice, and moon-shaped breads donated by eateries from across the city. Volunteers moved in orchestrated chaos—Moon Soldiers carrying trays, elites pouring drinks, Supreme Commanders circulating to keep the lines smooth.

Moonbeam walked between tables, no dais in sight. She carried a simple plate like everyone else, trading greetings, asking names.

At one table, two women sat shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined under the surface.

"First Moonrise Meeting success?" Moonbeam asked, nodding toward their clasped hands.

They both blushed.

"We met at Lunardye's game night," one confessed. "We argued over puzzle strategy. It... escalated."

"In a friendly way," the other added quickly. "Then we saw the Moonmellow announcement and thought... why not travel together?"

Moonbeam smiled. "I wish you many more puzzles you can only solve as a pair."

At another table, Moonvale and Moonflow led a group of teenagers in a makeshift "gratitude circle," where each person had to say one thing they appreciated about the person to their left. The first few attempts were shy, but soon the table melted into laughter and embarrassed smiles.

Lunarstream's crew wove through the crowd, microphones in hand.

"This is Moonrise News Network, broadcasting live from Moonmellow City," the anchor said to camera. "With me is dessert-shop owner Moontruffle, whose small café has suddenly become the center of what analysts are calling a 'Blue Friday' economic miracle."

Moontruffle, still wearing her flour-dusted apron, looked equal parts stunned and delighted.

"I just put a sign up that said 'Late-Night Moon Tarts for Moonrise Couples,'" she explained. "Then the Moonrise organizers announced a Dessert Fest Run after the park dinner and—"

"And?" the anchor prompted.

"And everything exploded," she finished helplessly. "In a good way."

The "Dessert Fest Run" had been Lunarpuff's idea—and Lunardye's nightmare-turned-miracle.

Following the public dinner, citizens were encouraged to stroll through Moonmellow's dessert district. Every participating shop had agreed to deep discounts, special Moonrise desserts, and extended hours. The goal was simple: turn shared sweetness into another excuse to stay together a little longer.

What happened exceeded even Moonpuff's wildest projections.

People poured from the park in steady streams, laughing, still full from dinner but somehow with room for more. Lines formed outside cafés, bakeries, ice-cream windows, and tiny dessert carts tucked into side streets.

"Welcome! Two for the Crescent Crème special?" Mooncustard called from her stall, barely able to keep up.

"We're sold out of Star Jelly," Moonflake told a disappointed group, then brightened. "But we have Moonlight Sorbet. It glows under the right lamp, I promise."

Inside Moontruffle's shop, every table was full—families, couples, new friends squeezed shoulder to shoulder. The air buzzed with sugar and conversation.

Lunarstream's anchor stuck her head inside, eyes wide.

"How many customers do you usually see on a normal night?" she asked.

"Maybe thirty," Moontruffle said. "Tonight? We passed three hundred an hour ago. I had to call my cousins from two cities over to help."

Moonbeam herself entered just then, accompanied by Lunarstride and Lunarpuff but without ceremony. The shop fell briefly silent.

"Please don't stop on my account," Moonbeam said, lifting her hands. "I am here strictly as a customer."

Moontruffle hurried to the counter. "My Lady—what can I get you?"

Moonbeam glanced at the display case filled with waning rows of pastries.

"What is everyone's favorite?" she asked.

A dozen voices shouted different answers at once.

Moonbeam laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "I will take one of each," she decided. "We will share them at that corner table. Consider it an investment in your inevitable franchise empire."

Moontruffle looked as if she might faint from happiness.

Outside, Lunarstorm's gentle sky-lights shimmered above Moonmellow's rooftops, casting the dessert district in shifting shades of blue. Moon Soldiers helped direct foot traffic to prevent overcrowding, but their faces looked as delighted as any tourist's.

Reporters from various networks—Moonrise News, Lunna Nightline, even a Solar affiliate crew that had flown in—interviewed citizens emerging from the dessert run.

"What was the best part of tonight?" one asked a young man who walked between two friends, each holding a bag of pastries.

"The food was... incredible," he said. "But honestly? It was looking around the park and realizing I didn't see a single table with only one person at it. Unless they were waiting for someone."

A woman with a Moon Soldiers' crest on her jacket chimed in. "I came off a twelve-hour shift expecting to eat whatever was left in the mess hall alone," she said. "Instead, I ended up at a table with my squad and three civilians. And now we're going to split this ridiculous moon cake six ways."

A pair of older men—clearly long-time friends—held up their dessert boxes.

"Forty years ago," one said, "we marched through cities like this with rifles and grim faces. Tonight we marched with spoons and complaints about which tart is superior. I prefer this version."

"Statistics," Lunardye told a different reporter, "show a spike in small-business revenue tonight equivalent to an entire month's normal profits. But what excites me more is that many customers wrote their names and contact codes on shop 'return boards,' pledging to come back for regular dessert nights. Economic prosocialism, if you will."

Moonbeam watched all of this from a small bench at the edge of the district, cloak folded neatly beside her, a half-finished moon tart in hand.

Lunarpuff sank down next to her, utterly exhausted, cheeks glowing.

"Success?" Moonpuff asked, head tilting toward the bustling streets.

Moonbeam looked out at the lines, the bright shop windows, the couples sharing bites, the friends trading plates, the strangers comparing recommendations.

Across the park, a large holo-screen looped clips from the night: Moonmellow's dinner tables, children skating in Lunnet, choruses in Lunarbliss, puzzles in Lunntropica, lanterns in Lunartamarin, sky-lights in Lunaarcrest. A small live caption ran along the bottom:

"NO ONE EATS ALONE BY NECESSITY. NO ONE WALKS THE NIGHT WITHOUT PATHS TO OTHERS."

"Yes," Moonbeam said, finally. "Success."

Lunarstream approached with a camera crew, pausing at a respectful distance.

"My Lady," he called. "Could we trouble you for a closing statement? People across Lunna—and in Sollarisca—are watching."

Moonbeam stood, smoothing her coat. Crumbs dusted her gloves; she brushed them off with only mild dignity.

"People of Lunna," she said, facing the camera squarely, the light from dessert shop windows painting her in warm blue. "Tonight, we have walked, sung, puzzled, built, told stories, watched the sky, eaten together, and bought more desserts than any economist thought possible."

Laughter rippled immediately from the watching crowd.

"You have proven," she continued, "that the night is large enough to hold both silence and song, both solitude and shared tables. You have shown that pro-socialism and romanticism are not fragile theories, but sturdy practices. Every lantern you hung, every hand you held on the ice, every conversation you began in a game or over a tart—these are bricks in a future where loneliness will find fewer and fewer places to hide."

She glanced up briefly, beyond the cameras, as if looking across the sea.

"To my counterpart in Sollarisca," she added, voice softening, "know that your doctrines found fertile soil here. Our moons shine a little brighter tonight in answer to your suns."

Then she looked back to her own people.

"To those who still stayed home," she said gently, "we do not forget you. There will be more nights. More walks. More songs. More desserts. When you are ready, we will be here, lanterns lit, benches open, tables set."

Her lips curved into a smile that was both regal and intimately kind.

"Thank you," she finished. "For trusting the night enough to share it."

The broadcast cut to wide shots of Silverlake Park glowing like a cluster of fallen stars, then to dessert shops with "SOLD OUT" signs and delighted, exhausted owners counting receipts and laughing with their neighbors.

In homes, barracks, small apartments, and quiet corners across Lunna, people watched the coverage and felt something warm settle into their ribs.

Later, long after the cameras powered down and the last pastry box was carried home, Lady Moonbeam walked once more through Moonmellow's now-quiet park. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze above empty tables. The air still smelled faintly of sugar and tea.

She reached out to touch the back of one chair.

"For tonight," she whispered, "we did well."

Above her, the moon—eternal, watchful—shone on a continent where, thanks to the determination of one blue-clad leader and a web of willing hearts, Thanksgiving had become not a single holiday, but a habit of the night:

to make room, over and over,
so that no one who wished for company
would ever have to walk, skate, sing, or eat alone.

The idea for the barefoot walk came to Lady Moonbeam on a night when Lunartopia looked almost too orderly from her balcony.

Reports from all over Lunna glowed on her tablet—graphs from Lunardye, footage from Lunarstream, notes from Lunarpuff. Moonrise Union was working: people were skating, singing, parading, eating together. The continent hummed with new patterns of warmth.

And still, when she looked down past the marble balustrade, all she saw were lines of stone and steel.

"We have brought people out of their rooms," she murmured to herself, "but we have not yet brought them back to the ground."

She turned away from the city and called out, "Moonwis, Moonwisdom."

The doors opened almost at once.

Moonwis entered first, straight-backed in a deep-blue elite coat, tablet already woken in his hand. His dark hair was a little out of place, as if he had run to answer. Behind him came Moonwisdom, her glasses catching the light, her own data-slate covered in neat annotations.

"You summoned us, Lady Moonbeam?" Moonwis asked, voice quiet but steady.

Moonbeam paced toward the center of the strategy table, the hem of her coat brushing the polished floor.

"Tell me," she said, "which public site near Lunartopia contains the most living plants and the least artillery?"

Moonwis blinked, then flicked his tablet. "The Moonpetal Conservatory gardens," he said after a moment. "Technically a botanical research park. Minimal fortifications."

Moonwisdom's mouth curled. "We've been trying to schedule a morale visit there for months," she added. "The planning committee kept saying, 'Later. After the next reform.'"

Moonbeam nodded once. "Later is over. We are going to invite the continent to walk through it barefoot."

Moonwis looked up sharply. "Barefoot, my Lady?"

"Yes," Moonbeam said. "No boots. No armor at the ankles. Just skin and soil." She tapped the table with one gloved finger. "We have filled the night with lights and voices. Now we will give it texture. I want our people to feel that they are not only residents of Lunna, but creatures standing on Lunna."

Moonwis exchanged a quick look with Moonwisdom. "We will draw up safety protocols," he said. "Surface scans, medical stations, sanitation."

"And symbolism notes," Moonwisdom added, already writing. "Footprints as temporary art. Evidence of existence. You will want language for that."

Moonbeam smiled faintly. "You know me well."

Preparations moved fast.

Lunardale's engineers visited Moonpetal Conservatory and walked every path with scanners, smoothing sharp stones, trimming roots, and laying down strips of springy moss warmed from below. Lunarstorm threaded small bioluminescent spores into the soil—tiny organisms that glowed softly when pressed and faded after a few minutes.

"This is the only time in my career," Lunardale said dryly as he supervised workers spreading moss, "that I have been ordered to make sure the ground is comfortable."

"You've just been waiting for the right order," Lunarpuff replied, skipping past with a clipboard. "Don't deny it."

Lunardye sat on a bench near the entrance, building the feedback forms.

"How do we measure success?" he asked Moonwis and Moonwisdom.

Moonwis thought. "Ask people to rate their sense of being 'in their own heads' before and after the walk," he said. "And whether they felt more or less alone while moving among others."

"Also," Moonwisdom added, "have a section for unexpected emotions. There will be many."

Lunarstream visited to film a preview segment.

"For those of you panicking at the phrase 'barefoot walking,'" he told the camera, standing in front of the still-closed gates, "rest assured—this is a grounding exercise, not a new conscription policy. The Lady herself says"—he consulted his notes—"'If the ground is too dangerous for my feet, it is too dangerous for yours. I would prefer to find out personally.'"

He grinned. "Knowing her, she means it."

The night of the event, Moonpetal Conservatory glowed like a low, blue star on Lunartopia's map.

Citizens arrived in a steady stream—families, soldiers, factory workers, students. At the entrance, medical staff and volunteers greeted them beside long benches lined with basins of warm water and neat stacks of towels.

A discreet sign read:

STEPS OF GRATITUDE – PLEASE REMOVE FOOTWEAR HERE.
NO RANK REQUIRED. NO COURAGE TESTS. JUST FEET.

Lady Moonbeam arrived early and, without fanfare, sat on one of the benches.

Moon Soldiers straightened, eyes wide, as she unlaced her boots, set them neatly at her side, and peeled off her socks. The stone beneath her bare soles felt cool and faintly rough.

She flexed her toes, then stood.

"Surface integrity test," she said calmly, stepping onto the first strip of moss.

It yielded just enough to cradle her foot, and a soft blue halo flared under her sole before fading. She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders melting.

"Oh," she murmured. "I had forgotten this."

Lunarstride approached, carrying her own boots with visible reluctance.

"My Lady," she said, brows drawn, "are you sure the Head of State should be the first one to risk splinters?"

"If there are splinters," Moonbeam replied, "I would prefer to meet them before any citizen does." She tilted her head. "Besides, you are about to walk as well."

Lunarstride stared at the moss as if it were a complicated tactical map. "I am more comfortable on reinforced flooring."

Lunarpuff, already barefoot and bouncing, laughed. "It's just moss, Commander, not a minefield."

"Many bad decisions have started with someone saying 'it's just,'" Lunarstride muttered, but she sat, removed her boots, and grudgingly joined the path.

A little boy near the entrance tugged his father's sleeve. "Look, Papa—the ground shines when they step on it!"

Soon the path filled.

Children ran ahead, giggling as their prints lit up. Adults moved more slowly, some stiff with self-consciousness, others sighing with relief as the warmed moss and earth pressed back against their skin.

Moonbeam walked among them, feeling every shift in texture: the soft give of moss, the fine grit of sand, the smooth tiles set between sections for contrast.

Near the transition from stone to soil, an elderly man stood frozen, boots in hand, toes gripping the last bit of safe, familiar surface.

Moonbeam slowed beside him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "My Lady... I fought three campaigns in these boots. I've worn them so long I forgot what the ground feels like. It seems... indecent to meet it bare."

"After fighting for Lunna," Moonbeam said gently, "you have more right than most to feel what you protected."

She stepped forward onto the dark earth. Her foot sank a little; the soil warmed quickly, another blue glow flaring.

She held out her hand.

"If this path hurts," she said, "we will change it. But if it is kind, perhaps you will let it remind you that you are still here."

He hesitated, then took her hand and stepped down.

The earth cupped his foot. His eyes widened, then softened.

"I had forgotten it could be... soft," he whispered.

"Not everything beneath us has to be hard," Moonbeam replied.

Lunarstream's camera, zooming from a respectful distance, caught the lines of their faces: the lines of age, the new softness.

"This is what it looks like," he narrated quietly for the broadcast, "when a soldier and a sovereign both remember they are also simply people standing on a planet."

Farther along, the path crossed a shallow bed of warm sand surrounding a mirror-still pool.

Here people slowed, toes digging in, leaving clear prints that Lunarstorm's bioluminescent spores traced in gentle blue.

Two teenagers—one with a buzzed undercut, the other with a messy ponytail—stood ankle-deep at the pool's edge, watching their footprints gradually smooth out as other walkers passed.

"Moonrin," the ponytailed one said, "you realize we're going to get sand between our toes and in the data. Lunardye will write a whole report about 'youthful tactile engagement.'"

Moonrin snorted. "Let him. Feels nice."

The other—Moonji, according to his name tag—tilted his head.

"But it all disappears," he said. "You step, it glows, then it fades. What's the point if no one remembers?"

Moonrin stuck her toes deeper into the sand, drawing a little crescent shape that flared and then blurred as a laughing group of kids ran through it.

"Maybe the point isn't to be remembered," she said slowly. "Maybe it's to finally notice that we're here right now. That's enough for tonight."

Moonji opened his mouth, closed it again, and then smiled. "That's... annoyingly wise."

"I have wise friends," Moonrin said. "It rubs off."

They both laughed, the sound carrying over the water.

Moonwis and Moonwisdom, seated on a nearby bench with their tablets, were busy recording observations.

"Look at the route heat map," Moonwis said. "People keep doubling back to this sand section. They're choosing to re-feel the texture, even though they've already done it once."

Moonwisdom tapped quickly. "We'll log that as 'voluntary repetition of grounding stimulus,'" she said. "It's a good sign. Also, notice the clusters forming—friends bringing friends back to favorite patches."

Moonwis's gaze softened as he watched a girl lead her hesitant grandmother onto the sand, both of them laughing as their footprints tangled.

"You were right," he admitted. "We could not have predicted this on a chart."

Moonwisdom smiled. "That's why we record after the Lady's intuition, not before."

At a bend where the path turned into a fragrant herb garden, Moonflower and Moonbreeze—both barefoot, skirts brushing their ankles—acted as informal guides.

"These plants remember you differently," Moonflower explained to a group gathered nearby. "Their stems bend slightly when you step near, then lift again. They don't keep your shape, but they keep the fact that something passed."

"Like people," Moonbreeze added. "We don't remember every detail of everyone who has walked with us, but the paths inside us are different afterward."

One woman, her face weathered by years of night shifts, knelt and pressed her palm down next to her foot.

"Then I am very grateful," she said, "that the ground still lets me make marks at all."

Moonbeam overheard this as she passed and felt something ease in her chest.

At the center of the garden, the path opened into a wide clearing of bare earth, its surface dark and warm. Here the glowing spores were thickest, ready to highlight any pattern.

Moonbeam stopped at the edge, bare toes curling slightly.

The citizens around her fell gradually silent.

"I promised no speeches," she said, voice carrying nonetheless, "and I will mostly keep that promise."

Soft laughter rippled through the clearing.

"I will only ask you to consider this," she continued. "For years, many of us—soldiers, workers, leaders—have walked this world as if we were hovering above it, our thoughts somewhere else, our feet wrapped in layers of leather and duty. Tonight, for a little while, there is nothing between us and Lunna herself."

She lifted one foot, showing the faint dust clinging to her heel.

"These marks will fade in minutes," she said. "But while they last, they say something simple and important: I am here. I liked being alive enough to feel the ground."

Then she stepped forward, leaving a clear, glowing footprint at the edge of the clearing.

Lunarpuff followed with a delighted little hop, her prints a scattered trail beside Moonbeam's deliberate line. Lunarstride made a slow, precise circle around the perimeter, each step measured as if she were laying out a defensive ring.

Lunarstorm walked straight to the center, then lay down on his back, toes digging into the dirt, hands folded behind his head.

"Research," he said calmly when a medic raised an eyebrow. "Testing gravitational appreciation."

People entered in ones and twos, then in waves. Families, squads, strangers. Some drew spirals. Some walked in figure-eights. Some simply stood still, feeling the warmth under their arches.

Lunardye watched the clearing from a shaded bench, stylus forgotten in his hand.

Moonwis sat beside him. "Not recording?" he asked.

Lunardye shook his head slowly. "Just this once," he said, "I think it is enough to see it."

Moonwis followed his gaze.

From above—Lunarstream's drone later confirmed this—the clearing looked like a blooming flower of light: overlapping arcs of footprints, bright at the edges, softly glowing in the middle where paths crossed most.

Lunarstream's closing broadcast showed that image to the continent.

"This is the Steps of Gratitude walk," he told the viewers. "No grand fireworks, no dramatic music—just people of Lunna leaving temporary constellations on the earth. Our Lady calls it a reminder that survival is not the only goal. Tonight, we practice being present."

—

As the evening wound down, citizens drifted back toward the exit paths, where basins of clean warm water waited. Volunteers handed out towels and small cards printed with a simple line:

"Thank you for leaving a mark tonight. The ground remembers for a moment. Your body remembers longer."

Moonbeam stood near the final gate, boots still off, accepting quiet nods and shy thanks.

A young Moon Soldier, helmet tucked under his arm, approached with visible nerves.

"My Lady," he said, "I... usually feel more comfortable in formation than in crowds like this. But walking here, seeing that everyone else had bare feet too, it felt... less like standing out. More like belonging."

"Armor has its place," Moonbeam replied. "So does remembering what we are without it."

He looked down at his dusty toes and smiled. "I'll remember this when I put the boots back on."

An older woman came next, holding the hand of a little boy who dangled his boots from two fingers.

"He wanted to come because he heard the ground glows," the woman explained.

"And you?" Moonbeam asked.

The woman hesitated. "I came because I needed proof that there is still something gentle in this world," she said. "I found it under my feet."

Moonbeam inclined her head. "Then Lunna has done her job."

At last, when the crowd had thinned and most of the glowing prints had faded back into ordinary soil, Moonwis and Moonwisdom approached her with a fresh towel and her boots.

"Symbolic summary?" Moonwis asked, unable to resist.

Moonbeam took the towel, wiping her feet slowly.

"Bare feet remind us that we are not just minds and uniforms," she said. "Footprints remind us that existing leaves patterns, even if they vanish quickly. Walking together reminds us that our paths cross, press against each other, and sometimes align for a while. That alignment is what we call connection."

Moonwis nodded, eyes thoughtful. Moonwisdom's smile was small but satisfied.

"And gratitude?" Moonwisdom prompted.

Moonbeam glanced back at the clearing one last time, where the faintest traces of light clung stubbornly to a few overlapping tracks.

"Gratitude," she said quietly, "is noticing that we are still able to make new footprints at all—and that, tonight, we chose to make them beside one another instead of alone."

She pulled on her boots, the leather suddenly heavier, more meaningful.

As they left Moonpetal Conservatory, the garden settled into darkness again. By morning, the moss and paths would look untouched.

But in apartments, barracks, and small houses across Lunna, people would wake with the memory of warm soil and glowing steps under their feet. Some would look at their boots by the door and smile, knowing that for one night they had not just walked through their world, but with it.

For Lady Moonbeam, that was enough: another quiet victory in her campaign to remind her people that being alive was not something to rush past—but something to feel, right down to the soles of their feet.

Moonbeam did not leave the garden right away.

When the last groups had drifted toward the gates and the glowing earth was fading back to a gentle dusk, she walked one more slow circuit around the clearing, boots in one hand, tablet in the other. Here and there, little clusters of light still clung to the soil where someone had stood a little longer than the rest.

She lifted the tablet and took a picture: an overlapping tangle of footprints around a spot where the glow was strongest, like a tiny blue campfire of steps. Another photo, closer, of a row of child-sized prints beside much larger ones. Then, on impulse, she stepped into a patch of untouched soil at the edge, pressed both feet down, waited for the soft halo, and took a shot looking straight down—pale toes, dark earth, and the crescent of her cloak shadow.

"Moonwis," she said.

He turned from his conversation with Moonwisdom. "Yes, my Lady?"

"Send me the best sky shot from Lunarstream's drone," she requested. "The one where the clearing looks like a flower."

"It's already in your shared folder," he replied. "I thought you might want it."

"Efficient as always." She smiled and tapped open her private thread.

Sunbeam's name sat there at the top of her messages, unchanged since the last video she had sent him of ice skating in Lunarbliss. He had replied with a picture of Solpathra's Lantern Night—tables and lanterns and blurs of orange hair everywhere, captioned: 'We tried to imitate your elegance. It became chaos. You would have laughed.'

She attached three images: the aerial shot of the glowing footprint flower, the close view of the child and adult prints together, and finally her own feet pressed into the soil.

Underneath, she typed:

"Thanksgiving in blue, grounded edition.

We borrowed a page from your book of 'being alive on purpose' and invited Lunna to feel the world under them. The ground lit up to prove they were really here. It suits you that your doctrines lead to people running around barefoot on my side of the sea."

She hesitated, then added:

"You once told me you liked days when you could smell grass and dirt and remember you were not just a uniform. Consider these little memoirs of feet my contribution to that preference. Lunna is grateful, and so am I."

She sent it before she could overthink it, watching the tiny "delivered" mark appear.

Lunarpuff peeked over her shoulder, unabashed. "You're sending him foot pictures now?" she teased.

Moonbeam gave her a long, regal look. "I am sending the General visual evidence that his doctrines of grounded gratitude are being implemented responsibly," she said. "If his imagination chooses to be overly enthusiastic, that is his problem."

Lunarpuff covered a grin. "Of course, my Lady."

Moonwis cleared his throat diplomatically. "Your transport is ready. The late-night tea gathering in Lunarglint will begin in one hour."

Moonbeam slipped her socks and boots back on, feeling the leather differently now—less like armor, more like a respectful layer over something she had just remembered was important. "Then we should not keep them waiting," she said. "Lunna has walked. Now we drink."

The skimmer-train to Lunarglint hummed across the dark countryside, city lights passing like slow constellations beneath the windows. Moonbeam sat near the front with Lunarstream, Moonwis, and Lunarpuff, nursing a thermos of simple hot water to rehydrate after the garden.

Lunarstream's tablet pinged. He glanced at it, smiled, and turned the screen so Moonbeam could see. Solar media had already picked up her garden images; a headline from a Sollariscian channel read:

"Lady Moonbeam Hosts Barefoot Night – 'Lunna Touches the Ground for Thanksgiving.' General Sunbeam Reported 'Smiling Quietly for Ten Minutes Straight.'"

"He's quoted as saying," Lunarstream read, "'The moon has excellent taste in public rituals.'"

Moonbeam's mouth softened. "Of course he is," she said, but her ears were faintly pink.

Lunarglint awaited them with quiet anticipation.

Where other cities were known for lakes or harbors, Lunarglint's heart was its terraces—long, stepped gardens rising along a hillside, each level lined with low stone walls and small pavilions. Tonight, lanterns hung at every level, and a thin mist curled in the chilly air, turning the lights into soft halos.

At the center terrace, a ring of tables had been arranged around a shallow pool. Steam rose from dozens of kettles and samovars, their lids rattling gently. Teapots and cups of every shape and size waited: porcelain painted with moons, thick clay mugs, slender glass cups where the tea would glow like diluted starlight.

Moonbeam stepped onto the terrace to a ripple of surprised applause. Many of those present had only seen her on holo-screens; seeing her in person, cloak swirling, boots still faintly dusty from the garden, was different.

Lunarpuff stepped into the center and clapped her hands for attention.

"Welcome to the first Moonrise Midnight Tea," she called. "Rule one: no one drinks alone. Rule two: you don't have to talk about anything serious, but you do have to talk to someone. Even if it's just arguing about which tea is superior."

"Moonrose's cinnamon," someone shouted.

"Moonwater's mint," argued another.

"Moonmek's roasted barley," a third voice added.

Moonbeam smiled. "Excellent," she said. "We already have causes worth fighting for."

She moved between the tables as volunteers poured, the fragrant steam wrapping around her like a softer version of battlefield smoke. Here, instead of gunpowder, she smelled jasmine, toasted rice, citrus peel, and earthy roots.

At one table, a group of university students sat stiffly, clutching their cups with the same intensity one might use for a firearm.

"First time at a Moonrise event?" Moonbeam asked, sliding into an empty chair.

A girl with short blue hair nodded. "Yes, my Lady. We almost didn't come. We... talk to each other all day for study. It felt strange to come and... talk for nothing."

"And now?" Moonbeam prompted.

A boy with ink stains on his fingers looked around at the terrace: older couples leaning together, Moon Soldiers comparing mugs, strangers laughing over some shared joke.

"It feels like we're allowed to exist without proving anything," he said.

"Good," Moonbeam replied. "You prove enough in your examinations. Tonight you simply exist and drink something warm."

At another table, Moonwis and Moonwisdom had been ambushed by a group of elderly residents determined to understand the data side of Moonrise Union.

"So you measure feelings now?" an old man demanded, squinting at Moonwis's tablet.

"We measure patterns," Moonwis corrected gently. "Feelings remain sovereign."

"But you can see if people are less lonely?" an older woman pressed.

"We can see if more people say they feel less alone after events like this," Moonwis said. "We cannot open your hearts to check, so we trust your words."

Moonwisdom poured more tea into their cups. "We are learning that sometimes," she added, "a cup of tea shared at midnight changes a chart more than any law decree."

The woman sipped thoughtfully. "Then make sure your charts have pictures of teapots."

Lunarstream roamed the terraces with his crew, interviewing without turning the night into a show.

"What brought you here?" he asked a Moon Soldier who sat with his armor unfastened at the neck, cup cradled between both hands.

"My squad," the soldier said. "They said, 'If you can stand watch six hours, you can sit and drink for one.'"

"Does it feel different, sitting like this?" Lunarstream asked.

The soldier looked at his cup. "On watch, I listen for danger," he said. "Here, I listen for laughter. It's... a better sound to fall asleep to."

On a lower terrace, a pair of dessert-shop owners from Moonmellow had set up a modest stall, offering small pastries to go with the tea. The "Dessert Fest Run" had left them flush with income and delighted with new customers; tonight they had come simply to give back.

"We sold out on Thanksgiving night," Moontruffle told the camera, handing Moonbeam a tiny moon tart on a plate. "This time, everything is free. Consider it interest paid on all the warmth we earned."

Moonbeam accepted the pastry, then deliberately wandered to a table where a lone woman sat, turning her empty cup in her hands.

"Has someone poured for you yet?" Moonbeam asked, topping up the cup before the woman could answer.

The woman startled. "My Lady—I was just resting between conversations."

"Resting is allowed," Moonbeam said. "So is staying at the table when others move on. May I sit?"

"Of course."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the murmur of other tables washing around them.

"Did you come alone?" Moonbeam asked eventually.

"Yes," the woman said. "But I will not leave that way. I have four invitations to future tea nights in my pocket."

Moonbeam's lips softened. "Then the evening has done its work."

Around them, cups clicked gently against saucers. Someone started a soft song; others joined in without taking over the space. The terraces were full, but the night did not feel crowded, only held.

Near midnight, Lunarpuff rang a small bell.

"We'll let the official part end here," she announced. "You're free to stay, wander, or drift home. Remember: the point is not to make this the best night of your life. The point is to have enough nights like this that 'being with people' stops feeling rare."

Moonbeam stayed until the crowd thinned, then helped the volunteers carry trays and stack cups—despite Moonstride's protests that this was "not an efficient use of an Absolute Leader."

"Lunna will not crumble because I carried porcelain," Moonbeam said, balancing a stack expertly. "Go schedule our next ridiculous event."

At last, well past midnight, she rode the skimmer-train back to Lunartopia. The cabin lights were dim; most of the staff dozed in their seats. Moonwis sat opposite her, tablet finally off, head leaned back against the window.

Moonbeam unlocked her phone again.

Sunbeam had replied.

Her screen filled with orange: a picture of his own bare feet half-buried in warm sand on some Sollariscian beach, prints trailing behind him like little suns. Another, of a park path in Solpathra where hundreds of footprints overlapped, forming a bright halo pattern. And a short video—him walking slowly, camera pointed down, laughing quietly as his boots dangled from one hand.

His message read:

"Lunna's footprints are beautiful. Your soil has good taste.

Thank you for letting your people feel what my people have been learning to feel.

I am grateful that we are both still here to walk, on different continents, toward the same thing."

She smiled at the screen, thumbs hovering for a moment before she replied:

"Then consider tonight my blue-footed Thanksgiving. The garden and the tea terraces say hello to your beaches and plazas. Rest, Sunbeam. Tomorrow I will invent another way to make our people remember they are alive."

She sent it, then finally let herself lean back, eyes closing.

Outside, the night slipped past—fields, towns, quiet roads. On one continent, orange lanterns were going out. On another, blue ones burned low. Between them, two leaders who refused to let loneliness rule quietly traded pictures of earth and tea and footprints, weaving their separate efforts into a shared promise.

By the time the train slid into Lunartopia's station, Lady Moonbeam was half asleep. Lunarstride woke her gently, and together with Moonwis and Moonwisdom, she walked through the nearly empty palace corridors to her rooms.

She paused at her window before drawing the curtains, looking out at the city—at all the little lights where people now sat with friends, lovers, or simply with the memory of warm soil under their feet and hot tea in their hands.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Lunna," she whispered again, soft enough that only the moon could hear. "We have done well for one night."

Then she let the darkness have the city for a few hours more, and called it a night.

The night after Moonbeam's barefoot walk, another part of Lunna was quietly arming itself—with clipboards, lanterns, and an unreasonable number of colored tokens.

On Celebluu Island, in the capital city of Lunascendoria Falls, moonlight spilled over tiers of cascading water that cut the city into shining ribbons. Walkways and plazas wrapped around the falls in spirals, connected by bridges and terraces. It was a place made for flow, for movement—and Supreme Commander Lunardye intended to make every flow tonight carry gratitude.

He stood on the highest public balcony above the central falls, long coat buttoned to his throat, silver crescent pins aligned with mathematical precision. His hair was a deep midnight blue, clipped short at the sides and longer at the top, combed back so neatly that a single rebellious strand seemed like an act of treason.

Three holo-screens floated around him, each flickering with graphs and map overlays.

"Zone capacity within safe limits," he murmured. "Projected crowd density: acceptable. Food supply: redundant. Token count: intentionally excessive."

Below, the city prepared.

Elites moved like streaks of darker blue through the lantern light. Moonflower oversaw rows of long tables near the lower pools, hanging soft-blue cloths and setting out steaming dishes. Moonset and Moonfield worked along the bridges, tying lanterns so they dipped low enough to warm the air but not so low they interfered with the view of the falls. Moonbreeze, hair streaming behind her like an actual gust of wind, zipped between plazas dropping off boxes of tokens and laughing with volunteers.

Beside Lunardye, Moonwis scrolled through his own tablet, while Moonwisdom balanced a datapad and an analog notebook, scribbling in both.

"You know," Moonwis said, glancing at the graphs, "there are cultures that would simply put out food and music and trust that people will have a good time."

Lunardye's eyes remained on the screens. "Trust is excellent," he replied. "Verification is better. I want to know how many people leave tonight less lonely than they arrived. That requires structure."

"So your idea of a romantic evening," Moonwis murmured, "is controlled experiments."

Moonwisdom smiled over the top of her glasses. "There are worse ways to show you care than staying up three nights designing gratitude flow charts."

Lunardye's mouth twitched. "You say that as if I slept."

Moonwis and Moonwisdom traded a look that said of course you didn't.

Below, a projection flickered to life over the main plaza: the logo of tonight's event, designed by Moonbreeze—an intricate web of little crescent moons connected by glowing lines. Underneath, the words:

"Lunascendoria Thanksgiving – Paths of Gratitude."

"This is not just a festival," Lunardye said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. "It is a live map of how kindness moves."

"And you are going to watch every step," Moonwis said.

"Obviously," Lunardye answered.

The bells of Lunascendoria chimed, delicate notes carrying across the rushing waterfalls, and the city began to fill.

Citizens poured into the terraces from every direction: families from Lunlight City who had taken the ferry across Celebluu's waters, workers and students from Lunacove and Lunafleur, even a few visiting shopkeepers from Nightbluelunbolm in distant Nighttenbright State who had insisted on seeing "what the numbers-Commander does for fun."

At each entrance, volunteers greeted them with trays of small blue hexagonal tokens.

"Each token is a thank-you," Moonset explained to a hesitant man, dropping three into his palm. "If someone does you a kindness tonight—invites you to join a game, explains a rule, shares dessert, even just gives you a seat—you can hand them one. At the end of the night, Supreme Commander Lunardye will show us the pattern all those tiny 'thank-yous' make."

"And if I don't know who to thank?" the man asked.

Moonset's smile broadened. "Then you can thank yourself for showing up."

On one of the mid-level terraces, Moonlady and Moonfield supervised the setting up of "Connection Boards"—large crystal screens divided into categories: "Looking for friends for board games," "Seeking people who love late-night tea," "Interested in volunteering," "Open to romance," and smaller, stranger headings like "Wants to talk about old Lunar myths" and "Needs someone to rant to about work for exactly five minutes."

People could tap their names into categories or scan a code with their devices.

Moonfield tested one panel, then waved excitedly when her own name popped up under "Loves terrible puns."

"If no one taps that," Moonlady said, "I will personally recruit them."

Lunardye watched the first dots appear on the boards. "Good," he murmured. "We create intentional overlap. Chance meetings, guided by choice."

Moonwis bumped his shoulder lightly. "You talk about people like databases," he said. "And yet somehow they leave your events with genuine friendships."

"I prefer to think of them as living datasets," Lunardye answered. "They update themselves if you give them enough interesting inputs."

Moonwisdom shook her head fondly. "One day, you will learn to say 'heart' instead of 'dataset' and you will scare fewer poets."

"Poets are resilient," Lunardye replied. "I ran the numbers."

Night deepened. Lanterns multiplied until it felt as if the falls poured starlight instead of water.

On the lowest level, near the roar of the main cascade, Moonbreeze launched the first activity.

"All right, Lunascendoria!" she shouted, voice echoing. "Zone One: 'Shared Stories.' Look for the blue circles on the ground—each one is a story pod. Sit in one, listen, and when you feel grateful for the person speaking, give them a token. We'll see which circle glows brightest by the end of the hour!"

Small glowing rings pulsed on the stone at regular intervals. People filtered into them: a trio of factory workers in one, grandparents with children in another, a group of Moon Soldiers loosening their collars in a third.

Lunardye tapped his screen. Blue dots began to appear over Zone One.

"Initial engagement: strong," he said. "Age distribution: pleasantly mixed."

Moonwis peered over his shoulder. "Is there a graph for 'people who arrived thinking they would just watch but ended up talking'?"

"There will be," Lunardye said. "I have observers noting body language shifts."

Moonwis actually chuckled. "You're hopeless."

"Accurate," Lunardye agreed. "But effective."

In one story pod, an Elite in a neat coat—Moonclaricence—was finishing a tale about carrying groceries up four flights of stairs for a stranger during the Blackened incursion months ago.

"I know it was a small thing," she said, hands wrapped around a cup of hot citrus tea, "but she cried when I reached her door. Not because the bags were so heavy—but because someone had noticed she needed help."

A middle-aged woman across from her shifted, eyes shining. "That was me," she said softly.

Moonclaricence froze. "You lived in Lunafleur Block C?"

"Yes," the woman said. "I didn't recognize you at first without armor."

Moonbreeze, acting as facilitator here, grinned. "Token time?"

The woman fumbled in her pocket and pressed all three of her blue pieces into Moonclaricence's hand.

"You fixed more than my back," she said. "You fixed my week."

Around them, the other listeners added their own tokens, moved simply by the story.

The ring on the ground brightened, responding to the accumulation.

Higher up, in Zone Three, Moonflower and Moonsoft guided strangers into cooperative puzzle games that required constant conversation—logic boards where no one had all the pieces, towers of blocks that could only be moved when everyone agreed, memory cards scattered over a projected map of Lunna, each pair discovered unlocking a small recorded thank-you from someone in another city.

A pair of young women sat opposite each other, laughing as they darted for cards.

"You're from Lunamare too?" one asked.

"Yes," the other replied. "I thought I knew all the cafes there."

"You don't," the first said. "You haven't met me yet."

They both laughed, then paused, looked at each other—and each slid a token across the table at the same time.

"Grateful for finding you," they said in unison.

The tower beside them trembled as a little boy bumped into it. He froze, panicked. Lunardye, watching from the stairs, saw it tilt.

Moonsoft caught the tower with both hands, steadying it.

"No disaster," she said cheerfully. "Just surprise physics. Thank you for keeping our reflexes sharp."

The boy giggled with relief and offered her one of his tokens.

Up on an observation terrace, a cluster of screens showed the city as Lunardye saw it: colored zones, lines flowing between them, dots pulsing each time a token changed hands. The map looked like a nervous system firing signals between its parts.

Moonwis whistled softly. "It's beautiful," he said.

Moonwisdom nodded, fingers dancing as she tagged notable spikes. "Look at that surge between Zone Two and Zone Five," she said. "Someone must have started a particularly effective conversation."

As if in answer, Lunarstream's feed zoomed to Zone Five, "Quiet Gratitude," where people wrote thank-you notes at long communal tables.

An older man sat hunched over a card, pen hovering.

"I'm not good with words," he muttered.

Moonfine, perched on the opposite bench, swung her feet. "Then don't use good ones," she said. "Use honest ones. Those are more valuable."

He glanced at her. "What are you writing?"

She tilted her card just enough for him to see: "Thank you to myself, for not giving up when everyone said I was too old to start over."

He stared, then smiled. "I might steal that idea. For my own name."

"Good," Moonfine said. "We offer plagiarism rights for self-kindness."

The man snorted and began to write, shoulders relaxing.

Lunardye watched it all, absorbing details: the way people's spines slowly uncurled, the pattern of movement between zones, the number of times someone entered alone and left surrounded.

He almost didn't notice when a new dot appeared on his map—one marked in soft silver, tagged automatically to the Absolute Leader's ID.

Moonbeam had arrived.

He looked up from his screens toward the upper bridge just in time to see her cross, cloak trailing behind her like a slice of night cut from the sky. Her hair rippled in the breeze, and her expression held the tired, satisfied softness of someone who had given a great deal already and still wanted to give more.

She descended the stairs without fanfare, a few citizens gasping, others bowing, but most simply smiling in the oddly casual way Lunna had developed around their Mistress: reverent, but familiar.

Lunardye stepped down to meet her.

"Lady Moonbeam," he said, offering a shallow bow.

"Lunardye," she replied, eyes glancing over the glowing zones, the moving people, the hovering graphs. "You've turned a city into a living chart."

"It was this or a slide presentation," he deadpanned. "I decided falling into the river would be the lesser risk."

She laughed, a quiet, delighted sound.

"How does it look from your vantage?" she asked.

He turned his tablet so she could see. "We have steady cross-zone traffic," he said. "High density of token exchanges in story pods and game areas. The 'Connection Boards' are... overperforming."

The camera zoomed briefly to a board where the "Open to romance" category was flickering with new names.

Moonbeam's brows lifted. "Pro-socialism and romanticism in one night," she said. "Sunbeam would applaud."

"He already sent sixteen messages asking for anonymized data," Lunardye replied. "I told him he could have the graphs after he sends us his latest speed-dating layout from Solpathra."

"Fair trade," she said.

They walked together along one of the terraces, side by side, Lunardye's longer stride unconsciously matching her measured pace.

A group of teens passed them, arms linked, laughing about some card game. One girl, recognizing Moonbeam, nearly tripped, then recovered, cheeks flushing.

"Enjoying the night?" Moonbeam asked.

"Yes, my Lady!" the girl blurted. "I... I thought I would stand at the edge and watch, but Commander Lunardye's volunteers pulled me into a puzzle table. Now I have three new contacts and more dessert than I can eat."

Lunardye inclined his head. "I'm pleased my algorithms were so... nutritionally effective."

The teens laughed and moved on.

"You see?" Moonbeam murmured. "You call them algorithms; they call it being pulled into the group. That is the magic in your numbers."

He looked away for a moment, ears reddening. "Someone has to build the scaffolding," he said softly. "So that when people climb, they find each other and not an empty ledge."

Moonbeam's gaze lingered on him, appreciative. "Tonight," she said, "Lunascendoria is overflowing with scaffolding and people climbing it."

As the night stretched on, the city's energy shifted from excited to comfortably full. The falls kept roaring, but voices settled into a warm murmur.

Lunardye climbed back up to the central balcony and lifted a small device.

"Attention, Lunascendoria Falls," his voice echoed across the terraces, amplified by subtle speakers. "If you still have tokens, you may keep one as a memory. The rest, please drop into the bowls at your nearest zone. We are about to see what your gratitude looks like when it's drawn all at once."

Slowly, blue pieces clinked into crystal basins all around the city. Moonbreeze and Moonflower, Moonlady and Moonsoft, Moonray and Moonlu—elites at every zone—poured the tokens into collectors that glowed in response, feeding data to Lunardye's console.

Lines shot across his map. Bars rose. A three-dimensional web blossomed over the falls—a hologram projected by devices hidden along the cliffs. Dots of light showed where tokens had been exchanged; lines connected zones that had traded the most gratitude.

Children pointed, gasping. Adults fell silent.

From the air, it looked like someone had draped a glowing net of constellations over Lunascendoria Falls.

"This," Lunardye said, stepping to the rail so everyone could hear, "is the path your 'thank-yous' took tonight. Every line represents two people who chose not to stay strangers."

He zoomed a section where several lines converged.

"Here," he continued, "is a story pod where an elite carried groceries and met her neighbour again. Here, a puzzle table where two students from different towns discovered they shared the same dream. Here, a quiet writing corner where someone finally wrote a thank-you to themselves."

Moonwis and Moonwisdom stood a little behind him, watching both the hologram and the faces turned up toward it.

"You could have just told them 'good job' and ended there," Moonwis whispered.

"This is better," Lunardye replied. "They can see what they did together. Most of the time people feel they are scattered points. I want them to see they are a network."

He lowered his voice slightly, but it still carried.

"Thanksgiving," he said, "is not a single dinner. It is the decision to notice the threads between us and to tug them gently until they glow. Tonight, Lunascendoria, you did that more beautifully than any model I could have predicted."

He bowed, deep and sincere.

"For that," he finished, "I am thankful to you."

Applause swept through the terraces, not as a roaring cheer, but as a long, sustained wave—hands clapping, tokens clinking, voices calling thanks back to him.

Moonbeam watched from the side, arms folded, eyes bright.

"Nicely done, Lunardye," she said when he stepped back, a little dazed by the response.

He blinked, then looked at his tablet again as if needing its solidity. "The ratios are... very promising," he managed.

Moonbeam laughed softly. "You turned statistics into starlight. Sunbeam would be insufferably proud."

"He already is," Lunardye said. "He sent me a message earlier: 'Don't forget to leave a few graphs for your own heart.'"

"And will you?" she asked.

He glanced at the people slowly drifting toward each other, some exchanging contact codes under the holographic web, some simply standing together in comfortable silence.

"Yes," Lunardye said, and this time his smile was unguarded. "I think tonight, I already have."

The festival wound down in the quiet, late hours. Volunteers carried crates, elites walked citizens to ferry docks and tram stops. The glowing web over the falls dimmed, line by line, until only the real stars remained, reflected in the water.

On the balcony, Moonwis closed his notebook with a soft snap.

"You know," he mused, "if you keep doing nights like this, we might actually see a measurable drop in loneliness metrics across Celebluu."

"That is the plan," Lunardye replied.

Moonwisdom nodded. "And even if we didn't, I would still call tonight a success."

Lunardye tilted his head. "Because of the graphs?"

"Because of them," she said, "and because I saw you step away from the screen long enough to listen when that girl from Lunamare thanked you for 'forcing them' into games."

He looked embarrassed. "She overstated my role."

"She did not," Moonwis said.

Moonbeam approached then, her cloak gathered over one arm.

"Supreme Commander," she said gently, "Lunascendoria Falls will talk about this Thanksgiving for a long time. Not as 'the night of charts,' but as 'the night we met people we did not know we needed.' You did well."

He bowed again, this time to her alone. "Thank you, my Lady. It was...honourable work."

She placed a light hand on his shoulder. "And necessary work," she added. "Sunbeam and I can speak of doctrines and ideals. But it is commanders like you who translate them into bus routes, token flows, puzzle tables, and holograms. Without you, pro-socialism and romanticism would be slogans on paper. With you, they become evenings like this."

Lunardye swallowed, then nodded once.

"I will... schedule more evenings like this," he said.

Moonbeam smiled, the tired kind that meant she trusted him with that task.

"Do," she said. "Lunna's numbers—and her hearts—will both be better for it."

As she departed toward her skimmer, Lunardye stood for a moment at the railing, looking down at his city: the fading glow of lanterns, the last clusters of people leaving together in pairs and groups instead of alone.

He saved the holographic pattern from the night, archived all the graphs—and then, almost shyly, snapped one picture on his personal device: the view of Lunascendoria Falls, with a handful of strangers still laughing together on a terrace that had been empty this time last year.

He sent it to Sunbeam with a simple caption:

"Thanksgiving in blue—Lunascendoria edition.

Our people are learning your lesson well: no one has to stay a single dot on the map."

Then he put the device away, took a deep breath of river-cooled air, and finally allowed himself the smallest reward: walking down to Zone One, accepting a leftover cup of tea from Moonflower, and sitting on a story circle's stone where, for the first time that night, he listened without calculating anything at all—just another man in blue, grateful to be surrounded by voices.

By the time the last lantern over Lunascendoria Falls dimmed, Lunna's news feeds were already full of graphs and glowing webs. Commentators were busy arguing over which zone of Lunardye's "Paths of Gratitude" had been the most life-changing. Some loved the story circles. Others swore the connection boards had quietly saved their social lives.

Far from the waterfalls and data displays, Supreme Commander Lunardale watched those same broadcasts from the back of a rattling cargo tram and decided, firmly:

"That is all very beautiful," she said, tucking her tablet away, "and entirely useless for what I need to do today."

The tram jolted as it climbed into the hill districts of Lunargent Ridge, a working-class city in the stony heart of Lunna. Here, the moonlight did not shimmer on elegant rivers; it flashed off scaffolding, steel beams, and the windows of long apartment blocks clinging to terraced slopes.

Lunardale fit the place.

Her uniform coat was the same deep Lunar blue as the others', but worn in at the seams, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms marked with small engineering scars. Her long hair was braided tight and looped at the nape of her neck, more for practicality than style. She carried a hardhat under one arm and a thermos of strong tea in the other.

Across from her, Elite Moonterrace tried to balance a stack of rolled blueprints on her knees without losing any out the open side door.

"You could have told Lady Moonbeam you wanted a few more days to recover," Moonterrace said. "You were the one who oversaw all the safety checks for the Moonpetal garden and half of Lunardye's token dispensers."

"And?" Lunardale asked.

"And most people would be sleeping," Moonterrace replied.

Lunardale glanced out at the rows of old buildings gliding past, their patched roofs and flickering stairway lights.

"These hills have been asking for repairs for three winters," she said. "We always say 'after the next crisis.' Thanksgiving felt like the right time to tell 'next crisis' to wait."

The tram creaked to a halt at Ridgegate Square, a wide shelf carved out of the hillside. The place looked tired. Retaining walls bore spiderweb cracks. Handrails along the steep stairs were rusted, some missing. A cluster of small shops leaned against each other like old friends with bad backs.

Waiting for her there were a dozen elites and engineers in work coveralls: Moonbridge, Moonfloor, Moonbeamwright, Moonbrick, Moonsoft in a too-clean jacket she would surely ruin in an hour, and Moonfield already in gloves, bouncing on her toes.

A crowd of residents had gathered too, drawn by the banners strung between lampposts:

"RIDGEGATE THANKSGIVING – REPAIR & RENEWAL DAY."

"Supreme Commander!" Moonbridge called, saluting with a wrench.

Lunardale returned the salute more informally. "Status?"

Moonfloor pointed to a large holo-map projected over the square, sections of the district highlighted in different shades of blue.

"Priority staircases here and here," she said. "Collapsed handrails, broken steps. Drainage blocked along the mid-terraces. Cracked retaining wall above the lower market. We have materials staged and teams assigned."

"And the feast?" Lunardale asked.

Moonfield pointed uphill. "Moonlady and Moonbreeze have the cooking crews set up on the school roof," she said. "They promised not to test any new recipes on the load-bearing beams."

Moonsoft coughed delicately. "To be precise, I promised we would keep the heaviest dishes on the sturdier side of the roof."

Lunardale smirked. "I will inspect that. With a plate in hand."

She stepped to the center of the square and raised her voice.

"Residents of Lunargent Ridge," she called, not shouting but projecting with the steady authority that carried in barracks and storm shelters alike, "Happy Thanksgiving."

Murmurs and a few scattered cheers answered.

"You have seen the broadcasts from Lunntropica and Lunascendoria," she continued. "Lady Moonbeam and Supreme Commander Lunardye have shown us gatherings of lanterns, of stories, of gratitude. Here on the Ridge, I want us to gather something else."

She pointed up at the cracked stairs that zigzagged between buildings, at the sagging rails, at the patched walls stained from years of wet winters.

"We are going to gather stability," she said. "No more walking home with one hand on the wall because the railing snapped last year. No more watching the walls above you and wondering if tonight is the night a crack becomes a slide."

A rumble of agreement ran through the crowd.

A middle-aged woman with a baby on her hip called out, "So this is not a party, Commander?"

Lunardale smiled. "It is absolutely a party. We simply start the party by fixing the things that make you anxious when you walk at night. We will eat after."

Moonbrick raised his hammer like a toast. "Best kind of party!"

Moonsoft leaned toward Moonfield. "Do we have data on parties involving power tools?"

"We will after today," Moonfield whispered back.

Lunardale clapped her hands once.

"All right," she said. "Teams of mixed residents and elites. No one works alone unless they insist and pass the stubbornness safety check. If you don't know how to use a tool, you will learn. If you can't climb stairs easily, you can direct traffic, hand out water, or sit and tell us where the worst problems are. No contribution too small."

An old man raised his cane. "Can I supervise and complain if you do it wrong?"

"Yes," Lunardale said solemnly. "That is a vital role. You will be issued an official grumbling chair."

Laughter broke the thin shell of reserve. The mood shifted: not euphoric, but engaged.

Work began.

Lunardale took the steepest route first.

The "Black Thread Stair"—a notorious series of steps connecting three terraces—had become a local joke, and then a local fear. Several steps were missing, replaced with improvised planks. In one section, the handrail had been gone so long that children dared each other to run along the edge.

Today, scaffolding already hugged its sides. Moonbridge and Moonfloor scrambled over it like spiders, securing harnesses.

Lunardale put on her hardhat and clipped herself in.

"Commander, we can handle the worst section," Moonbridge said. "You don't have to—"

"If these steps are safe for my people," Lunardale replied, "they will be tested by my weight first."

Moonfloor sighed. "You leaders and your dramatic mass."

She moved with practiced ease: setting anchors, testing bolts, guiding residents who had volunteered to carry loads. A teenage boy watched her for a while, then asked cautiously, "Can I try the drill?"

"Have you used one before?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "But I'm good at games."

"Games are systems," Lunardale said. "So are tools." She adjusted the harness on him. "Moonbridge, give him a supervised hole."

Moonbridge handed over the drill. "Hold it like this. If it tries to dance out of your hands, don't fight, just ease off."

The boy pressed the trigger; the drill whirred, bit into the stone. His eyes widened.

"I'm making it safer," he said, almost to himself.

"Yes," Lunardale said. "Direct upgrades to your walking experience."

When they paused for water, a little girl tugged at Lunardale's coat.

"Commander," she said, "why didn't you just send workers to do this? Why come yourself?"

Lunardale crouched so they were eye to eye.

"Because safety is not a gift dropped from the sky," she said. "It is something we build together. If you help fix these stairs, you will feel differently every time you climb them."

"How?" the girl asked.

"You will feel that this place belongs to you," Lunardale answered. "Not in the way of ownership papers, but in the way of fingerprints."

The girl looked down at her dusty hands, then grinned and wiped them on her knees as if signing the stone.

Across the district, similar scenes unfolded.

At a clogged drainage channel, Moonterrace directed a mixed crew of elites and residents as they cleared debris, reinforced the walls, and installed simple water-flow monitors that would ping the community network if levels rose dangerously.

"This is overkill, Commander," one older man joked. "Our grandmothers used to poke the ditch with sticks."

"And how many times did that fail?" Lunardale asked, checking a sensor.

He scratched his beard. "...Enough."

"Then consider this an upgrade from sticks," she said.

On another terrace, Moonsoft and Moonfield organized a "Fix-it Line" where people could bring small broken things—lamps, chairs, radios. Volunteers with tools and repair training sat behind tables, working while chatting.

"So this is your Thanksgiving?" a young woman asked Moonsoft as he rewired a lamp.

"Yes," he said. "I enjoy making objects function properly. Today I also enjoy watching faces when they realize they don't have to throw something away."

She hesitated, then placed a photo frame on the table, glass cracked, corner bent.

"This isn't... electronic," she said.

"Is it important?" Moonsoft asked.

"It's my parents," she said. "The only good picture I have."

"Then it qualifies," he said simply.

He and Moonfield carefully fitted new glass, smoothed the corner, and polished the wood. When they handed it back, the woman's eyes filled.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Moonfield dug into her pocket, pulled out a tiny blue ribbon leftover from Lunardye's token runs, and tied it around the frame. "Consider it a medal for surviving everything you've been through," she said.

By midafternoon, the Ridge had changed.

The Black Thread Stair had a new rail, solid and smooth. Cracked steps had been replaced. The worst drainage channels were clear. The market wall was reinforced and freshly painted—children had been given brushes to add little moons and stars along the lower stones.

Lunardale stood at a vantage point and let herself take it in: the way people walked already slightly differently, shoulders looser, steps surer.

Moonterrace came to stand beside her.

"You do realize," Moonterrace said, "that you have just ruined every excuse this district had for not hosting large parties."

"Excellent," Lunardale replied.

Right on cue, the sound of drums floated down from above.

The feast on the school roof had begun.

The climb up was different now—new rail under hand, even steps beneath feet. Residents commented on it automatically.

"It feels shorter," someone said.

"No," another answered. "It feels less worrying. That's different."

On the roof, long tables had been arranged around the edge, leaving the center open. From this height, the view over Lunargent Ridge was wide and sharp: terraces stepping down into the valley, distant lights turning on one by one as evening crept closer.

Moonlady and Moonbreeze presided over an organized chaos of food.

"Line up, but not in straight lines," Moonbreeze instructed. "We want friendly clusters, not military rations. If you came alone, you are legally required to leave with at least one new conversation."

Moonlady whacked a serving spoon lightly against a pot. "And don't pretend you're 'not hungry,'" she said. "We have statistics on how much work you all did today. Your muscles will revolt if you try to be modest."

Lunardale moved through the crowd, accepting greetings, letting others sit before she did. A plate appeared in her hands courtesy of Moonfield—rice, roasted vegetables, spiced stews, and a suspiciously perfect pastry.

"Tested recipe?" Lunardale asked.

"You are the test," Moonfield replied.

Lunardale took a bite, chewed, and nodded. "Approved for civilian consumption."

Moonfield pumped a fist quietly.

At one end of the table, Lunardye had arrived by late shuttle, still in formal coat but with a faint smear of dust on his sleeve that suggested he'd helped move something heavy on the way.

"I came to compare gratitude metrics," he said when Lunardale raised an eyebrow.

"We don't have tokens," she replied. "We have stairs."

"Stairs are harder to count," he observed.

"They are also harder to ignore," she said.

Moonbeam joined them a short while later, cloak fluttering slightly in the cooling air. She sat between her Supreme Commanders like a blue crescent between two stars.

"I watched your feeds," she told Lunardale, unfolding her napkin. "I am impressed."

"We only did what was overdue," Lunardale said.

Moonbeam shook her head gently. "Many things are overdue. Few are chosen as Thanksgiving gifts."

Children ran between tables, showing off fresh scrapes from "approved" climbing adventures on newly safe rails. At one spot, an elderly woman and a teenager argued cheerfully about which terrace had the best view. Near the parapet, a group of young adults compared calluses, laughing about how they'd learned to use drills and saws in one day.

Moonwis and Moonwisdom sat under a string of lanterns with a small group of residents, collecting stories, not for charts this time but for an archive of "Ridge Voices" they planned to broadcast later.

"So today," Moonwis said, "tell us one moment that made you feel...less alone."

A shopkeeper with flour on her sleeves thought for a moment.

"When the Commander held the beam with me," she said. "She could have ordered me off the scaffold, but she didn't. We lifted together. It felt like we were both holding up more than wood."

Lunardale, overhearing from a few seats away, pretended not to, but her grip tightened slightly on her cup.

As the sky darkened, someone lit a small bonfire in a safe, stone-lined pit. People drifted closer, pulling their chairs into a loose circle.

Moonbreeze nudged Lunardale. "You should say something," she whispered.

"I already gave a speech," Lunardale protested.

"That was a briefing," Moonbreeze said. "This is the mushy part."

Lunardale considered protesting further, then sighed and stood, brushing crumbs from her hands.

The chatter died down gradually. Faces turned toward her: tired, smudged, open.

She cleared her throat, searching for words that weren't just logistics.

"Today," she began, "you let us into your daily paths. We walked your worst stairs, stood under your oldest walls, listened to the stories only people who live here know."

She took a breath, feeling the weight of a hundred gazes and the solid reassurance of the newly reinforced roof beneath her boots.

"I am thankful," she said, "for your willingness to admit that something was not good enough—and to help fix it. Pride can build walls. Today, pride held beams and carried bricks."

Soft laughter answered.

"You will still have hard days," Lunardale continued. "Repairs do not erase grief. Safer stairs do not magically fill empty chairs. But tonight, when you go home, I hope you feel at least one worry loosen. I hope you feel your steps land a little more firmly. And I hope, when you touch the new railings, you remember that your hands helped put them there."

A breeze tugged at her braid; lanterns swayed.

"Sunbeam says," she added, glancing at Moonbeam with a faint smile, "that pro-socialism and romanticism are about building a world where people find it easier to reach each other. My version today was to make sure you can reach each other without tripping, slipping, or falling off a cracked step."

The crowd chuckled.

"So," she finished, "thank you—for letting a Supreme Commander spend Thanksgiving not at a formal table, but up to her elbows in stone dust with you. It is the kind of command I always hoped I'd have."

Someone started clapping. Others joined. It wasn't thunderous; it was steady, like rain on solid roofs.

Moonbeam watched her with quiet pride, then leaned over to Lunardye.

"Do you have a metric," she murmured, "for how many hearts feel safer tonight because of Lunardale?"

"Not yet," Lunardye said. "But I have a feeling the numbers will be very good."

Later, when the fire burned low and people began drifting home down the newly solid stairs, Lunardale found a moment of stillness at the parapet. The city spread out below her, terraces dotted with lights. Somewhere a child's voice sang a snatch of a song about strong walls and kinder streets.

Moonterrace joined her, hands in her pockets.

"Successful Thanksgiving?" she asked.

Lunardale let her shoulders relax. "Yes," she said. "No one fell. Many things were fixed. People laughed more at the end of the day than at the beginning. By my standards, that is success."

Moonterrace tilted her head. "And by your heart's standards?"

Lunardale watched a pair of residents walking down the Black Thread Stair together, hands on the new rail, steps easy.

"My heart," she said slowly, "is... unusually quiet. In a good way."

Moonterrace smiled. "Then Happy Thanksgiving, Commander."

"Happy Thanksgiving," Lunardale replied.

Down in the valley, Lunargent Ridge settled for the night on stronger foundations, every repaired step and reinforced wall a silent kind of gratitude—a promise that, in this corner of Lunna at least, the path home would be a little safer, and no one had to walk it worrying alone.

When Lunardale's rooftop feast finally thinned and the fires on Lunargent Ridge died down to comfortable embers, the cameras that had quietly documented the day powered down one by one.

All except one.

On a nearby terrace, a slim figure in a long officer's coat adjusted the strap of his camera bag and checked the time on his tablet. The lantern light caught the silver crescent pin at his collar and the easy, foxlike curve of his smile.

Supreme Commander Lunarstream had watched Lunardye's glowing webs and Lunardale's repaired stairways from just behind the lens. He had narrated, recorded, and packaged their work for the rest of Lunna. His deep, steady voice had been everywhere on Thanksgiving: in living rooms, cafes, barracks.

Now, for once, the schedule in his hands was not someone else's.

"All right," he murmured to himself, flipping through the plan, "my turn."

The title at the top of the page glowed softly:

"Lunarstream's Night Train – Thanksgiving Live Across Lunna."

He slung the bag over his shoulder, nodded to the last of Lunardale's crews as they descended the new stairs, and headed for the station.

The Moonrail Nightline hummed like a living thing as it left Lunargent Ridge behind, sliding through tunnels and over bridges, its windows full of reflected faces and drifting conversations. Tonight, one entire carriage had been turned into a mobile studio: cables taped neatly to the floor, small holo-projectors mounted above the seats, a compact console at one end.

Lunarstream stood in the center aisle, sleeves rolled up, adjusting a headset. Around him sat a mixed crew of elites and civilians: Moonbreeze, Moonray, Moonlu, a couple of young Moon Soldiers, a handful of student volunteers from Lunartopia, even an elderly retiree clutching a knitting bag.

"Let me confirm the concept one more time," Moonray said, raising a hand. "We're... riding this train all night, stopping in different cities, and doing live call-ins from whoever happens to be there?"

"Essentially," Lunarstream replied.

Moonlu frowned thoughtfully. "That's not a very... controlled sample."

"It isn't meant to be," Lunarstream said, grinning. "Lunardye has the graphs. I get the chaos."

Moonbreeze swung her legs over the seat in front of her. "And what exactly is your Thanksgiving, Commander? Broadcasting other people's feelings all night?"

Lunarstream clicked a switch. The carriage lights dimmed; a soft blue "ON AIR SOON" symbol shimmered above the console.

"My Thanksgiving," he said, "is making sure no one who has something to say has to keep it trapped inside their own head. Tonight, Lunna talks. I listen. That's the deal."

Moonwis's voice came through the headset from a remote booth back in Lunartopia. "All channels clear, Lunarstream. When you go live, every major network will be carrying the signal."

"Even the stubborn ones?" Lunarstream asked.

"They want ratings," Moonwis said. "You promised unscripted feelings. They practically begged."

"Perfect," Lunarstream replied. "Let's give them sincerity so raw they don't know what to do with it."

He took a breath as the train emerged from a tunnel, the lights of their first destination—Lunarbliss City, in Moonshore State—spreading out below like a cluster of fallen stars.

"Going live in five," Moonwis counted in his ear. "Four... three... two..."

A small red icon lit above the doorway.

Lunarstream straightened, the camera drone hovering in front of him, and smiled into the lens.

"Good evening, Lunna," he said, voice sliding into that familiar broadcaster warmth that had soothed people during bombing raids and midnight storms alike. "This is Supreme Commander Lunarstream, not in a studio tonight, but on the Moonrail Nightline, somewhere between Lunargent Ridge and the rest of your lives."

The carriage passengers chuckled quietly.

"Tonight," he continued, "our Absolute Lady Moonbeam has walked gardens barefoot. Lunardye has turned gratitude into constellations. Lunardale has put new bones under old streets. My own Thanksgiving will be simpler: I want to hear you. All across the continent. No scripts, no slogans. Just voices."

The camera drone swivelled, showing glimpses of the other passengers—Moonbreeze waving, a Moon Soldier making an awkward peace sign, the elderly knitter lifting her needles with a shy grin.

"We'll be stopping in cities and towns all night," Lunarstream said. "If we cross your path, you'll see this sign—"

He gestured toward a holo-panel near the door, flickering from Lunar blue to a gentle white.

"'Talk to Lunarstream.' If you see it, it means: step closer. Tell us what you're thankful for, or what you're still hoping for. Either is welcome."

Moonbreeze leaned toward his mic. "You can also just say hi," she stage-whispered. "We accept awkward greetings."

Lunarstream laughed. "Yes. Awkwardness is very on-brand for Lunna." He pointed out the window as Lunarbliss drew nearer. "First stop: the city of bridges and bakeries, Lunarbliss. You're up, if you're awake."

Lunarbliss Station at night smelled like sugar and river mist.

The platform was busy despite the hour—workers getting off late shifts, couples returning from the ice rink, a group of kids dragging sleepy parents by the hands. When the Nightline doors opened and the "Talk to Lunarstream" sign pulsed on, there was a moment of curious hesitation.

Then a boy of about ten marched forward, dragging his older sister behind him.

"Commander!" he blurted as the camera tilted down to him. "My name is Moonyan and my feet still hurt from skating but I wanted to say Thanksgiving is good because Auntie didn't have to work late and we all ate cake that looked like the moon."

His sister groaned. "He just wanted to be on TV."

Lunarstream knelt slightly so the mic was closer. "And what are you thankful for?" he asked her.

The girl looked at the lens, cheeks coloring. "That no one got hurt on the rink this year," she said. "Last time my friend broke her arm. The new safety rails were fixed before the festival... I heard Lunardale made that happen."

"Then consider this a cross-Thanksgiving," Lunarstream said. "Lunardale's repairs, Lunardye's metrics, Moonbeam's doctrines, and your cake. All in one family."

He handed Moonyan a small pin in the shape of a tiny microphone. "For bravery," he said.

More people stepped forward.

A bakery owner, flour on his sleeves, thanked the Lunar Regime for subsidized oven replacements that had let him hire three apprentices. Two women holding hands thanked Moonbeam "for saying out loud that love between adults is something to be protected, not hidden." A tram operator, still in uniform, simply said, "I'm grateful I got home in time to tuck my kids into bed," and then, after a beat, "and that there was still hot food in the pot, because my husband actually followed the recipe this time."

Moonbreeze tried not to laugh into her own mic. "Bold of you to roast him on live intercontinental broadcast," she said.

"He'll forgive me," the operator replied, grinning. "He's watching."

As the train pulled away from Lunarbliss, Lunarstream leaned back against the carriage wall, expression thoughtful.

Moonray nudged him. "You look like you're narrating in your own head," she said.

"I am," he admitted. "Collecting threads. Every answer tonight is a little light. By morning, we'll have a skyful."

The Nightline glided on.

In Lunargopa, a harbor city lit by ships and pier lamps, Lunarstream set up the pop-up studio at the end of a long dock. Fishermen returning from night runs spoke into his mic about being thankful for calmer seas this year, for better storm warnings, for the new satellite beacons Galaxenchi had helped launch.

"My dad says they're too expensive," a teenage girl said, rolling her eyes, "but also he's the one who checks them every hour when I'm out. So I'm grateful even if he isn't."

"You know he is," Lunarstream said. "He's just bad at saying it."

"Yeah," she sighed. "That's why I'm here instead."

In Lunartamarin, a coastal resort city now turned into a community hub after the war years, Lunarstream and his crew hosted a small circle on the beach. People came wrapped in blankets, toes buried in cold sand, breath misting.

A man in his twenties confessed he was grateful that "speed-dating actually worked," and that he'd met his boyfriend at one of Sunbeam-inspired events. His boyfriend, shoved into frame, stammered something about being thankful for "someone who doesn't mind I talk too much about old Lunar comics."

"Comics are culture," Lunarstream said gravely. "We approve."

In Moonpetaltown, near the conservatory gardens where Moonbeam had led the barefoot walk, a group of participants talked about how strange and calming it had been to feel the earth directly.

"I thought it would make me feel vulnerable," one woman said, "but it made me feel... anchored."

"Like the world was saying, 'I've got you,'" another added.

Lunarstream nodded. "The moon has hands too," he said. "Sometimes they are made of soil."

Between stops, the carriage became a second kind of studio.

Moonlu edited clips on the fly, sending them to the central feed. Moonray scribbled down particularly striking phrases for later compilation. Moonbreeze moved up and down the aisle handing out tea, interviewing their own crew.

At one quiet moment, she swung the camera around to Lunarstream himself.

"You keep putting everyone else in front of the mic," she said. "What are you thankful for, Supreme Commander?"

He blinked, caught off guard, then chuckled. "That was a cheap tactic," he said. "Very effective."

The crew watched him, expectant.

Lunarstream leaned back, gaze drifting to the window where the faint outline of hills slid by.

"I'm thankful," he said slowly, "that my job is to listen instead of command. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be the person giving orders on the front lines. Then the war taught me that sometimes the most important thing someone hears all day is simply: 'Tell me what it was like for you.'"

He glanced at the lens.

"I am grateful," he continued, "that Moonbeam trusts me to hold our people's stories without twisting them. And I'm grateful that tonight, I haven't had to coax anyone. Once you give people a microphone and a little time, they spill entire galaxies."

Moonbreeze softened. "You also talk pretty," she said.

"I practice," he replied. "On long train rides."

Near the darkest point of the night, the Nightline curved inland toward Nightbluelunbolm in Nighttenbright State, a city that had seen some of the worst Blackened bombardments years ago. Its skyline still bore scars: tower stumps where buildings had once stood taller, construction cranes frozen like skeletal trees.

Lunarstream stepped onto the platform with unusual quiet.

"Last time we broadcast from here," he murmured to Moonray, "it was while smoke was still rising."

Moonray slipped a hand over his shoulder briefly. "Tonight we record something else."

The "Talk to Lunarstream" sign lit.

For a while, no one approached. People watched from a distance—faces in the shadows, silhouettes at doors.

Finally, an older woman with short grey hair stepped forward. She wore a simple coat, sleeves neatly mended, and held herself with a kind of careful dignity.

"I'm Moonclare," she said into the mic. "I live three streets over."

"Thank you for coming," Lunarstream said gently. "What are you thankful for tonight, Moonclare?"

She looked down at her hands. "I am thankful," she said, "that my grandson snores."

The crew blinked; Lunarstream waited.

"When the bombs fell," Moonclare went on, "the silence after each hit was the worst. A silence that made you feel like the whole world had stopped breathing. Now, every night, when the city is quiet and my old brain starts to remember, I hear that boy in the next room snoring like he's wrestling dragons, and I think, 'Good. The world is still breathing.'"

Her voice shook, but she smiled.

"So, Lady Moonbeam, Supreme Commanders, whoever is listening," she said, "I am thankful for obnoxious, alive snoring."

Lunarstream swallowed.

"So am I," he said softly. "May it echo for many years."

A few more people came after that.

A young construction worker: "I'm thankful we have more cranes than smoke now."
A café owner: "I'm thankful my regulars argue about pastry flavors instead of food rations."
A teenager: "I'm thankful my little sister was born after the sirens stopped."

As they boarded the train again, Moonlu wiped at his eyes.

"You okay?" Moonbreeze asked.

He nodded. "I just... remember watching those early broadcasts. Your voice on the radio. It felt like we weren't alone in the rubble."

"You weren't," Lunarstream said quietly. "Neither were we, in the studio. Your fear reached us too. Tonight, we send something back."

Just before dawn, the Nightline began its final approach toward Lunartopia, Lunna's capital, where Lady Moonbeam's palace rose like a carved slice of midnight above the city.

The carriage was quieter now. Some volunteers dozed with headphones askew. Moonbreeze's hair was a sleepy tangle. The elderly knitter had produced half a scarf in Lunar Regime blue.

Lunarstream stood by the window, headset off, watching the horizon lighten.

Moonwis's voice came through the cabin speakers this time.

"We've compiled enough material for three specials and a dozen short features," he reported. "Viewership stayed high all night. People are clipping and sharing their favorite moments already."

"Good," Lunarstream said. "They should keep each other's words more than mine."

"And you?" Moonwis added. "You've been standing for nine hours."

"I sat while the train was braking," Lunarstream protested.

"Sit now," Moonwis insisted. "Consider it a direct order from the Department of Reasonableness."

Lunarstream laughed and dropped into a seat as the camera drone pivoted for one last segment.

"Lunna," he said, voice a little hoarser now, "we're almost home."

Behind him, through the window, the outlines of Lunartopia came into full view: domes and towers, terraces and spires, the great Moonplaza already filling with early risers setting up markets and morning tea stalls.

"Tonight," he continued, "you heard your own voices from Lunarbliss, Lunargopa, Lunartamarin, Moonpetaltown, Nightbluelunbolm, and a dozen stops in between. You thanked each other for cake, for speed-dating, for safety rails, for satellites and snoring."

He smiled, tired and sincere.

"I don't have a grand closing speech," he said. "I only have this: Thank you for trusting me with your words. I promise to carry them carefully to Moonbeam, to Sunbeam, to anyone who needs reminding that this world is full of small, stubborn reasons to keep going."

He glanced sideways as the palace came into view, a single balcony lit.

"And," he added, "on a personal note... I am thankful for train windows. For letting me see how big Lunna really is, and how every light out there tonight was someone awake, someone alive, someone choosing connection over silence, even for a moment."

He lifted a hand in a casual half-salute.

"From the Nightline, this is Supreme Commander Lunarstream, signing off. Happy Thanksgiving, Lunna. Keep talking to each other—my microphones can't be everywhere forever."

Moonbreeze, off-camera, sang softly, "Yet," and everyone laughed.

The red icon above the door went dark.

As the train slid into Lunartopia's station, Lunarstream took off his headset and rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache of a long night's work.

Waiting on the platform, in a simple coat and boots still bearing faint traces of garden soil, stood Lady Moonbeam.

She greeted each crew member first, thanking them by name. When Lunarstream stepped down, she met his eyes with a warm, steady gaze.

"I watched most of the night," she said. "Lunna is very loud and very beautiful when you give it a channel."

"Lunna did the hard part," he replied. "I just held the mic."

"That is not a 'just,'" she said. "You gave people a place to put their gratitude, and their grief, without demanding they be perfect. That is... very much in line with the doctrines Sunbeam and I keep talking about."

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "Then I suppose my Thanksgiving is complete."

Moonbeam's lips curved. "Go sleep, Lunarstream. Later, when we review the recordings, we will remember that for one long night, our continent sounded less like war reports and more like a thousand different ways of saying, 'I am glad we are still here.'"

He nodded, feeling the weight of the camera bag on his shoulder and the lighter, quieter weight of all those voices in his chest.

As he followed the others out into the waking city, the sky over Lunna brightened from deep blue to pale, and the Night of Thanksgiving—Sunbeam's feasts, Moonbeam's gardens and tea, Lunardye's graphs, Lunardale's repairs, and Lunarstream's rolling broadcast—folded into morning.

The work would continue. There would be new reports, new crises, new long nights.

But for now, somewhere in every city he'd passed, someone was replaying their own words on a screen and thinking, That's me. I exist. Someone heard me.

And that, Lunarstream decided, was a pretty good thing to be thankful for.

When Lunarstream finally stepped off the Nightline and into the first pale wash of morning over Lunartopia, the city felt like it was exhaling. His voice had carried through Lunna all night; now it slipped into well-earned silence.

In the eastern barracks of the Lunar Regime, however, another Supreme Commander's day was just beginning.

Lunarstorm was already awake.

He stood on the open roof of the Stormwatch Hangar, a long coat of deep navy snapping around his boots, short blue hair ruffled by the real wind and the artificial gusts from the idling transports below. His eyes, the same sharp blue as winter sky, were fixed on the horizon where a line of clouds marched in—thin, harmless, but dramatic enough to make him smile.

"Good morning, Lunna," he murmured, stretching his shoulders as if warming up for a fight. "Let's see how loud we can make gratitude sound."

Behind him, Elite Moonbrass clanked up the stairs, every piece of his armor somehow noisier than regulation allowed.

"Commander!" Moonbrass boomed. "All flight paths plotted. All charity drops loaded. All surprise events double-checked for fun density."

"Fun density?" Lunarstorm asked.

Moonbrass shrugged. "Lunardye insisted we measure something. I improvised."

Lunarstorm laughed. "Good enough."

He glanced at the hovering transport nearest them—sleek, crescent-winged, painted a darker blue than the sky with the words LUNAR STORMWING – RELIEF & RAPID RESPONSE stenciled in silver along the side.

"Remember," he said, turning back to his team, "other commanders have given speeches, built graphs, fixed staircases, and listened to voices all night. Our job is different. We're the ones who arrive when things go wrong. Today, I want us to arrive when things are already right—and make them even better."

Elites gathered around him: Moonbond, coat for once unrumpled; Moonsam, bouncing on his heels; Moonlance, tall and silent as a spear; Moonblue, calm and watchful; and a handful of others, all in shades of blue with the Stormwing badge on their shoulders.

Moonsam raised a hand. "So this is... not an emergency deployment?"

"It is an emergency," Lunarstorm said. "A happiness emergency. Some parts of Lunna think they're not included in the big celebrations. We're going to prove them wrong."

Moonbond adjusted his gloves. "Targets?"

Lunarstorm tapped the holo-map projected over the roof. "Three states, four cities, one long day. First stop: Moonpeak Ridge in Coldglow State. Snowstorm yesterday. They have power, but the roads are a mess. We're bringing heaters, warm clothes, and enough hot soup to drown a small regiment."

Moonsam grinned. "And after that?"

"Moonshore State—a little fishing town called Lunacrest Harbor that keeps sending letters saying they're 'too small' for big events. We're about to be 'too large' in their sky. Then we swing by Nighttenbright State, to Nightbluelunbolm, for something... gentler."

Moonlance raised an eyebrow. "Gentler? From you?"

"You'll see," Lunarstorm said.

Moonbrass slammed a fist to his chest. "Stormwing Thanksgiving Tour! I like it."

"Good," Lunarstorm replied. "Because we leave in sixty seconds."

They boarded with the ease of veterans. Engines hummed, the deck shook, and Lunartopia dropped away beneath them, the palace spires shining pale blue in the early light. As they climbed, Lunarstorm looked down once and spotted Lady Moonbeam standing on a high balcony, cloak wrapped around her, watching the transport rise.

She lifted a hand in a small salute.

Lunarstorm returned it, then turned his face toward the clouds.

"Stormwing, Thanksgiving route," he said into the comm. "Let's make this continent feel us."

The transport arrowed north.

Moonpeak Ridge greeted them with snow.

Not the soft, storybook kind, but piles of it—banks on the corners, slush in the streets, roofs weighed down. The town's blue-stone buildings huddled close against the cold. Children in mismatched mittens watched wide-eyed as the Stormwing transport roared overhead, then circled and descended toward the open square.

Lunarstorm stepped down into air so cold it snatched every breath and turned it into steam. He loved it instantly.

"Commander, welcome to Moonpeak Ridge," called the mayor, a stout woman in three layers of coats, cheeks red from the wind. "We weren't expecting—"

"That's the point," Lunarstorm said, giving her a quick, respectful bow. "Consider this a surprise inspection of your ability to enjoy yourself."

Moonbrass and Moonsam were already lowering crates to the ground. The lids swung open to reveal portable heaters, bundles of blue blankets, insulated boots, and huge metal vats of soup that steamed like miniature geysers.

"Stormwing Rapid Warmth Unit," Moonbond announced, reading off a clipboard. "Designed to prevent the traditional winter festival from being cancelled because someone forgot to salt the steps."

Children swarmed the blankets. Elderly residents shuffled closer to the heaters, exhaling grateful sighs as warmth shaped itself around their fingers.

A boy tugged at Lunarstorm's coat. "Commander, is this... all free?"

Lunarstorm crouched to meet his eyes. "Of course," he said. "Our Lady says no one should have to choose between cold and pride. Today, the only thing you pay is attention—because there will also be snowball safety briefings."

Moonsam, already scooping up snow, froze. "Snowball... safety?"

"We are in uniform," Moonlance intoned. "We must model responsible chaos."

What followed felt like something between a relief operation and an anime festival episode.

Stormwing elites helped clear heavy snow from roofs, laughing as they worked. Lunarstorm himself climbed ladders, cracking jokes, while Moonlance directed from below like a very serious traffic officer. Moonsam taught children how to build snow walls that didn't collapse. Moonblue set up a "warming tent" where hot soup and tea flowed constantly, no questions asked.

At some point, someone started tossing snowballs.

"Commander!" Moonsam yelped as one hit his shoulder. "We're under attack!"

"Counter-offensive," Moonbrass roared, scooping up snow with comical fury. "For Lunna!"

Within minutes, the entire square was a snowball battleground—Stormwing against townsfolk, though the lines blurred quickly as alliances shifted every few seconds. Lunarstorm charged through the drifts with a grin, coat unbuttoned, avoiding hits with the reflexes that had once dodged real shrapnel.

A teenage girl nailed him square in the back of the head.

He turned, astonished, to see her standing there, eyes wide, hand over her mouth.

"Um," she said. "I didn't mean—"

"That was an excellent throw," Lunarstorm said solemnly. "Report to Moonbrass for advanced artillery training."

Laughter exploded around them. The girl relaxed and stuck out her chest proudly.

Later, when the snowball storm calmed and people sprawled around the heaters, Lunarstorm climbed onto a crate.

"Moonpeak Ridge," he called, blue breath fogging the air, "today's mission is simple: no one goes to sleep still shivering. If your neighbor looks cold, shove a blanket at them. If someone insists they 'don't need help,' give them soup anyway. And if anyone says they feel forgotten up here in the hills..." He spread his arms, taking in the transport behind him. "Point at the giant aircraft and tell them the Stormwing begs to differ."

The mayor lifted her cup of tea. "Moonpeak Ridge is no longer forgotten," she said. "We've been stormed."

"Happy Thanksgiving," Lunarstorm replied.

They left to cheers and the sound of new boots crunching on safer, salted steps.

By midday, the Stormwing transport descended over warmer waters.

Lunacrest Harbor, in Moonshore State, was a small crescent of a town wrapped around a quiet bay. Fishing boats bobbed at their moorings. Laundry lines snapped softly in the sea breeze. It was the kind of place that rarely made news; Lunarstorm had read the letters himself—polite notes insisting they were "too small to bother Lady Moonbeam."

He planned to bother them anyway.

As the transport approached, colorful kites already rose into the air—Moonbreeze's pre-deployed team had done its work. Long ribbons of blue and white snapped overhead, shaped like stylized waves and crescent moons.

They'd turned the rocky jetty into a makeshift festival ground.

Moonbreeze herself sprinted to meet the transport as it touched down, hair whipping.

"Storm Commander!" she yelled, laughing. "Welcome to Operation 'Harbor Can't Hide'!"

Lanardye stood nearby, coat a little less formal than usual, tablet in hand. Numbers flickered across his screens.

"I asked him to come," Lunarstorm said to Moonbond as they disembarked. "Someone has to keep track of how many shy people we drag into this."

Lunardye lifted a hand. "My predictive model says thirty-seven percent of residents will 'just watch from afar' unless specifically approached," he said. "I am here to see you prove it wrong."

Lunarstorm grinned. "Watch carefully."

He strode to the center of the jetty and raised both hands.

"Lunacrest Harbor!" he called, voice carrying over the water. "Word reached Lunartopia that you are 'too small' for a big Thanksgiving event. We disagree. Today, you are the eye of the storm."

A nervous ripple of laughter, then genuine smiles.

"In honor of that," he continued, "we've brought three things: first, free maintenance checks for every boat in the harbor—Moonbond and Moonlance will bully your engines into living longer. Second, a tidal kite parade courtesy of Moonbreeze. Third, something new: the Moonshore 'Stay For Dinner' program."

Moonsam, lugging a crate, blinked. "The what?"

Lunarstorm snapped his fingers. Volunteers in Stormwing jackets and local blue aprons fanned out, carrying boards covered in names and simple icons.

"If you live alone," Lunarstorm said, "or your family is far, or you just want to meet someone new, put your name here. If you have an extra chair at your table tonight, put your name here. My team will match you by walking distance and dietary preferences. No one eats by themselves unless they really, truly want to."

An older fisherman called out, "Commander, are you organizing speed-dinners now?"

"Yes," Lunarstorm replied without shame. "Sunbeam started it. I am scaling it. Do not fight the tide."

People drifted toward the boards. Slowly at first, then faster, they tapped in names, added little notes—"good at washing dishes," "terrible cook, can bring stories," "has room for two extra," "quiet but friendly."

Moonbreeze pulled a little girl away from her father's leg, gently.

"Come launch kites with us," she coaxed. "Your dad can still see you from the board."

Within an hour, the harbor sky was a tangle of color.

Kites shaped like crescent fish and moon-whales dove and soared. Children shrieked as gusts tugged their lines. Grown men laughed like kids when their tangled strings required them to work together to avoid catastrophic knots.

Lunarstorm moved among them, not broadcasting, not making speeches, just nudging people gently.

"Join that group," he told a young man hovering at the edge. "They need someone tall to keep their kite out of the water."

"Try that boat," he advised a woman staring at her phone. "Moonbond says they've been looking for another pair of hands for the net repairs. You'll make at least three friends and one enemy—that's healthy balance."

At one point, he found Lunardye standing a little apart, looking at his tablet.

"Don't tell me you're working," Lunarstorm said.

"I am watching," Lunardye replied. He turned the screen to show a simple graph: two lines—"wants to host" and "needs a place"—meeting perfectly in the middle. "We already have more invitations than guests."

"So what you're saying," Lunarstorm said, "is that this town has been secretly starving for company."

"Precisely," Lunardye said. "And you just gave them permission."

As the sun dipped lower, Moonbreeze announced the final kite event: everyone would let their kites drift up together, then slowly lower them, as if the sky itself was bowing.

Lunarstorm watched the lines rise and fall, the harbor full of silhouettes leaning back with faces turned upward.

He leaned close to the nearest camera drone, which had followed them here from Lunarstream's team.

"For the record," he said softly, "Lunacrest Harbor is not small. It is exactly the size of its people's courage."

That clip would later circulate widely—Sunbeam's offices in Sollarisca, according to rumor, replaying it often.

Their final major stop brought them back to Nighttenbright State, to the wounded city of Nightbluelunbolm—but this time, not for interviews.

Lunarstorm remembered the broadcasts Lunarstream had done here hours earlier: the stories of snoring grandsons, cranes instead of smoke. His plan for Thanksgiving here had been the most carefully guarded.

As Stormwing's transport descended, the city was already gathering in the central square. The ruins had been cleared; new construction rose along the edges. Lanterns hung, but they were dim, as if the city still wasn't sure how bright it was allowed to be.

Moonwis and Moonwisdom waited at the landing pad, along with Mayor Moonclare, the grandmother whose words about snoring Lunarstream had broadcast.

"Commander," she said, smiling despite the tired lines in her face. "What storm do you bring us tonight?"

"Not the loud kind," Lunarstorm answered. "You've had enough of those. Tonight is... quiet thunder."

He walked to the center of the square with his team. Above them, the sky was a deep, cloudless blue, stars faint.

"Residents of Nightbluelunbolm," he called, and the murmur faded immediately. "In the war years, the sky for you meant danger. Sirens, bombardment, all the things we train to intercept. Tonight, I want to give you a different sky."

He signaled to Moonbrass.

On rooftops around the square, Stormwing elites triggered launchers—not for weapons, but for drones: hundreds of small, crescent-shaped machines that shot upward with a soft hum, then spread out in a dome over the city.

No explosions. No noise. Just light.

The drones lit one by one, each a soft, pulsing blue. They drifted slowly, tracing patterns: waves, crescents, constellations drawn from old Lunar myths. Occasionally they flared white for a heartbeat, then settled back to blue.

Children gasped. Adults tilted their faces up cautiously, then, when nothing fell, relaxed by degrees.

"This is the Silent Storm," Lunarstorm said, voice low but carrying. "Every light you see is programmed with a message from someone else in Lunna—a word of thanks, or hope, or remembrance. No sound, no shrapnel, no shockwaves. Just a storm of good wishes that will pass over you and leave nothing broken behind."

Moonwis tapped his pad, and a simple overlay appeared, projected onto a side building: short messages flickering with each drone's ID.

"From Moonpeak Ridge: 'We remember when you sent us blankets.'"
"From Lunacrest Harbor: 'If you ever visit, we will cook too much fish for you.'"
"From Lunascendoria Falls: 'Your name looked like a bruise to us when we saw the news. Now it looks like a survivor.'"

Moonclare's mouth trembled.

Someone in the crowd started clapping. The sound spread slowly, then faster, until the whole square was applauding the quiet sky.

Lunarstorm let himself breathe out.

He turned to his team. "No speeches," he murmured. "Let them just... be here."

They moved among the people without cameras, without microphones, just offering steady presence: Moonsam carrying chairs for elders, Moonblue helping a child onto his shoulders for a better view, Moonlance simply standing like a guard between the crowd and the old crater line as if defying the ghosts.

At one point, a young man approached Lunarstorm.

"Commander," he said, voice tight, "we used to count impacts. One, two, three... waiting for the fourth. Tonight I keep counting those lights instead. One, two, three... and nothing horrible follows. I don't know what to do with that feeling."

"Keep it," Lunarstorm said. "We trained to stop the old storms. Let us give you permission to trust the new ones."

The young man nodded, eyes wet.

When the drones finally dimmed and descended, they left nothing but gentle afterimages and a square full of people who had watched the sky without flinching.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Nightbluelunbolm," Lunarstorm said quietly. "May your storms be beautiful from now on."

By the time Stormwing's transport returned to Lunartopia, the sky was sliding from evening to full night again. Thanksgiving had stretched into almost two days for Lunarstorm, but fatigue felt distant, softened by the memory of snowball fights, harbor kites, and silent light.

As they landed on the palace platform, all three other Supreme Commanders were there: Lunardye with his tablet, Lunardale with dust still on her boots, Lunarstream with a fresh cup of tea he clearly hadn't brewed himself.

Lady Moonbeam stood in front of them, cloak fluttering, the city lights arrayed behind her like a crown.

"You have been busy," she said, eyes glittering.

Lunarstorm hopped down from the transport, coat still unbuttoned, hair slightly wild.

"Just stretching my legs," he said. "And our wings."

Lunardye held up his tablet. "Reports from Moonpeak Ridge, Lunacrest Harbor, and Nightbluelunbolm are flooding in. Gratitude metrics are... messy. In a good way."

"Lunacrest Harbor's 'Stay For Dinner' board crashed twice," Lunarstream added. "Too many people insisting on feeding each other."

"Nightbluelunbolm," Lunardale said, "sent a message to Stormwatch HQ: 'Thank you for the first sky in years that didn't make us flinch.'"

Moonbeam's expression softened into something that was almost hurt, if not for the pride threading through it.

"You've all done well," she said. "Today, Lunna walked, talked, built, repaired, listened, and looked up. Sunbeam's doctrines feel less like words and more like... air."

She stepped closer to Lunarstorm.

"Your storms used to terrify our enemies," she said. "Today, they warmed cold towns and made traumatized cities breathe easier. I am thankful for that."

Lunarstorm rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly boyish. "I like this kind of mission," he admitted. "No one shooting back. Just snowballs."

"Do not underestimate snowballs," Lunardale said dryly. "They are excellent training."

They all laughed.

Moonbeam turned to look out over Lunartopia. In the distance, smaller neighborhood celebrations still flickered: rooftop dinners, park lanterns, street musicians playing soft tunes.

"Lunna has had a long Thanksgiving," she murmured. "Solar Regime feasted under lantern suns. We walked gardens and tea terraces. You, my commanders, carried that spirit into every corner that thought it had been overlooked."

She faced them again, the four men in varying states of exhaustion and satisfaction.

"Rest," she said. "Tomorrow, we return to the usual work of protecting borders and planning contingencies. But remember what you did today. Remember that sometimes, the best kind of power is the kind that shows up unannounced with blankets, kites, repaired rails, microphones, and quiet light."

Lunarstorm saluted, this time with full, formal precision.

"Yes, my Lady," he said.

As the group dispersed—Lunardye chasing his metrics, Lunardale heading for the engineering offices, Lunarstream no doubt already drafting his "Thanksgiving Across Lunna" broadcast—Lunarstorm lingered a moment on the platform.

The city stretched beneath him, glowing blue.

He pulled out his device and snapped a quick picture: Moonbeam and her commanders walking back inside, four different silhouettes around her like cardinal directions of the same compass.

Then he opened a private thread labeled with a small orange sun.

He attached the photo and typed:

"Thanksgiving storm successfully deployed.

Snowballs in Moonpeak, kites in Moonshore, quiet thunder in Nightbluelunbolm.

Your doctrines are traveling well, Sunbeam. Lunna is louder and kinder because of them."

He hesitated, then added:

"Also, you would have loved the snowball physics. Next year, we host a joint front."

He hit send, pocketed the device, and finally turned toward his own quarters.

The storms he commanded would rage again someday, sharp and necessary.

For now, he was content with the one he had unleashed today—made of laughter, warmth, and a thousand small acts that rolled through Lunna like blue thunder, leaving only gratitude in their wake.

When the last of Stormwing's crews disappeared into the palace halls and the platform quieted, the night over Lunartopia settled into a deep, velvety blue. Lady Moonbeam lingered a moment longer, cloak stirring, watching the sky where Lunarstorm's transport had been.

Behind her, the sound of brisk, confident footsteps echoed along the marble colonnade.

"Report, my Lady," came a clear, steady voice. "The Stride Corps is assembled and waiting. All routes checked twice."

Moonbeam turned, the corners of her mouth lifting.

"Right on time, Lunarstride."

Supreme Commander Lunarstride stood at attention, every line of her posture sharp and sure. Her long coat fell almost to her boots, buttoned high; her dark-blue hair was tied back into a practical ponytail that still managed to sway with an elegant rhythm. If the others were storms, graphs, or midnight broadcasts, Lunarstride was motion itself—always halfway between one task and the next, as if she lived inside the space between steps.

"You saw Lunarstorm's feeds?" Moonbeam asked.

"Yes," Lunarstride replied. "Snowball warfare, harbor kites, silent sky storms. He did well." She allowed herself a small smile. "The people will sleep easier."

"And you?" Moonbeam tilted her head. "What does your heart want to do with this Thanksgiving?"

Lunarstride's fingers twitched at her sides, as if itching to reach for a map.

"Everyone moved today," she said. "They walked gardens with you, danced in Lunntropica, climbed repaired stairs with Lunardale, chased trains with Lunarstream, ran in the snow with Lunarstorm. I want to make sure that motion doesn't stop when the lanterns are taken down."

Moonbeam's eyes gleamed. "You want to make gratitude... habitual."

"I want to teach their feet to remember it," Lunarstride said. "One step at a time, in every state."

She held out a slim datapad.

"May I deploy the Moonstride Thanksgiving Routes, my Lady?"

Moonbeam took the pad, scanning the glowing paths crisscrossing Lunna like delicate veins of blue light. From Lunartopia to Lunarbliss, to Lunargopa, to Lunartamarin, to Nightbluelunbolm and little Moonpetaltown—loops and circuits designed not for armies, but for neighborhoods.

"This is not a one-city event," Moonbeam murmured.

"No," Lunarstride said. "Today, we walked with cameras and in bursts. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the week after, people will wake up and think, 'Where can I go that reminds me I am part of something?' I want to hand them ready-made answers. Routes that begin at their doorsteps."

Moonbeam smiled, a crescent of approval.

"Go, then," she said. "Make Thanksgiving into muscle memory."

Lunarstride saluted, the gesture smooth as a practiced stride, and turned on her heel.

Her boots rang once against the stone, and then she was already moving.

—

Dawn over Lunartopia found her in simpler clothes: a fitted Lunar-blue jacket, sturdy walking boots, and a scarf knotted neatly at her throat. Her rank pins remained, but they gleamed less like authority and more like small moons guiding a path.

Beside her jogged Elite Moonbreeze, cheeks already flushed from the early chill; Moonfield, carrying a bundle of folded maps; and Moonray, yawning into a travel mug of strong tea.

"You really don't like vehicles, do you, Commander?" Moonbreeze asked, stretching her arms. "You could have taken a shuttle to Lunarbliss in ten minutes."

Lunarstride adjusted the strap of the small pack on her shoulder.

"We will use the trains later," she said. "But the first route must be walked from the capital itself. People need to see that these paths can start on ordinary sidewalks."

Moonfield nodded, tapping on her tablet. "We've routed news drones to follow at a polite distance," she reported. "Lunarstream will cut in live segments without turning this into a parade."

Moonray blinked. "This isn't a parade?"

"Parades are one-day events," Lunarstride replied. "This is a habit. Habits grow quietly."

They set off from Moonplaza just as the first vendors were opening carts of steamed buns and tea. People recognized Lunarstride quickly—her gait was as famous as her strategic reports. Some saluted; others simply called, "Happy Thanksgiving, Commander!" She returned each greeting with a nod and a smile, never breaking her pace.

A young woman with a satchel slung across her chest fell into step beside her.

"Is it... allowed to walk with you?" she asked breathlessly.

"It is encouraged," Lunarstride said. "Where are you headed?"

"Nowhere, really," the woman admitted. "I just didn't want to go home yet. Everyone I know is either coupled or working. I thought... walking might help."

"Then let this be your first Moonstride," Lunarstride said. "In Lunartopia, Route One begins here, at Moonplaza, and loops through the river district, the library quarter, and the new skybridge. If you follow it every week, you will never pass the same faces twice without at least one of them becoming familiar."

Moonray looked over. "Is that officially in the brochure?" she asked.

"It is now," Lunarstride replied.

As they walked, more people joined—soldiers between shifts, students with backpacks, an elderly couple leaning on each other's arms, two men still in delivery uniforms. Some stayed for a few blocks, then peeled away with murmured thanks; others stayed, drawn into quiet conversations with whoever happened to be beside them.

Moonbreeze darted ahead, sticking simple blue arrows and moon-shaped stickers along posts and railings.

"Waymarkers," she explained to a curious child. "So when you follow this path later, you'll know you're walking where the Commander walked."

"Will she always be here?" the child asked.

"No," Lunarstride answered honestly. "But the route will. And other people will."

They crossed the river on a pedestrian bridge where Moonwis had installed subtle sensors to count foot traffic. Lunarstride paused in the middle, looking down at the water.

"Thanksgiving is not only for feasts and events," she said quietly, half to herself, half to the citizens around her. "It is for noticing that the path you take to work can also be a path to someone else's heart."

Moonfield rolled her eyes fondly. "We should put that on the pamphlets too," she murmured.

—

By midmorning, Lunarstride and her small team boarded a local train bound for Lunarbliss. Word of the "Commander's Route" had already spread; in Lunartopia, groups of citizens were beginning to organize their own Moonstride walks using the published map, sending pictures to the central feed.

In the train carriage, Lunarstride finally sat down, stretching her legs.

Moonbreeze flopped into the seat across from her. "So," she said, "what's the plan for Lunarbliss? More walking?"

"Of course," Lunarstride replied. "But with skates."

Moonray perked up. "I like this plan."

Lunarbliss met them with a brisk river breeze and the familiar smell of baked sweets. The Thanksgiving ice rink—an enormous, carefully maintained sheet near the central plaza—was already open, surrounded by stalls offering cocoa and warm pastries.

A local official hurried over. "Supreme Commander! We didn't know you were coming—we thought all the big events were yesterday."

Lunarstride smiled. "Today's events are smaller," she said. "And repeatable."

She stepped onto the ice with the natural balance of someone whose every movement was calculated and confident. The crowd murmured as they recognized her; more people laced up skates hurriedly.

Moonbreeze wobbled comically. "Commander," she hissed, arms flailing, "you didn't put 'ice' in the mission briefing."

"You're Air Corps," Moonfield said, laughing as she steadied her. "Balance is your whole brand."

Lunarstride glided to the center of the rink and raised her voice over the music.

"Lunarbliss!" she called. "Last night, you skated in circles of celebration. Today, I invite you to skate in paths of introduction."

She pointed to the ice, where workers had painted faint glowing lines: looping routes, shifting patterns.

"These are Moonstride Ice Paths," she explained. "If you follow the blue line, you will cross the paths of many others doing the same. When you pass someone more than once, you are required—by Lunarstride Law—to smile, nod, or say at least one kind word."

A teenage boy called, half-joking, "What's the punishment if we don't?"

"You miss the chance to make a friend," Lunarstride said simply. "That is punishment enough."

Moonray muttered, "You really don't need Lunardye's graphs, do you? You weaponize feelings on your own."

The music began again.

People pushed off, hesitant at first, then more confidently. Lunarstride skated along one path, finding herself repeatedly crossing the trajectory of a young woman in a bookstore apron and a tall man in a dockworker's coat.

The third time she nearly collided with them at the same corner, she chuckled.

"You two have been orbiting for ten minutes," she said. "Perhaps say hello before you create a gravitational anomaly."

The dockworker flushed. "I—uh. Hi. I'm Moonkale. I load ships."

The woman laughed. "Moonessa. I recommend you don't read while you walk near the river. Books and water don't mix."

"There," Lunarstride said. "See? No one drowned. Continue your route."

As she glided away, Moonbreeze skated past, hand-in-hand with two small children who shrieked delightedly every time they slipped.

"Commander!" she yelled. "We're building a friendship cluster!"

"Very good," Lunarstride replied. "Don't let it melt."

—

In the afternoon, they rode south to Lunartamarin. The coastline shone silver, waves rolling in gentle arches. Yesterday's festival stalls were mostly packed away, but people wandered the promenades, unsure whether to slip back into routine or cling to the holiday a little longer.

Lunarstride led her team onto the wide boardwalk.

"Here," she said, "we start the Thanksgiving Tides Walk."

She and her elites set out chalk marks and little blue crescent symbols at regular intervals along the seafront. Moonsoft, who had joined them from another assignment, installed discreet benches at key points.

Moonlindsey arrived with a group of local volunteers, carrying baskets.

"What's in those?" Moonray asked.

"Bread rolls and tea," Moonlindsey said. "You told me 'portable gratitude fuel.'"

"Perfect," Lunarstride said.

They began walking.

Every hundred steps, they stopped near someone sitting alone—a man staring at the water, a woman scrolling her device on a bench, a teenager pretending to listen to music while watching couples go by.

"Moonstride Patrol," Lunarstride would say lightly. "Thanksgiving check. Have you walked or shared something kind today?"

Some laughed and said yes; others hesitated.

To those who hadn't, she would simply offer: "Walk with us for a little while. You don't have to talk. Just share the view."

Many accepted.

Soon, a long, loose line of people snaked along the promenade. Moonlindsey and Moonfield handed out rolls and tea, careful not to single anyone out for charity; everyone received the same. Moonsoft quietly took notes on which sections of the boardwalk needed better lighting or smoother paving.

At one point, Lunarstride found herself walking between a widowed older man and a young woman who confessed she dreaded going home to her empty apartment.

"I used to walk this promenade with my wife," the man said, voice rough. "After the war, she said, 'We survived everything. We should enjoy the sea every chance we get.' Then... she didn't."

"I don't have anyone to walk with," the young woman admitted.

Lunarstride listened, boots keeping steady rhythm with theirs.

"Your paths have not ended," she said after a while. "They have intersected. Tonight, you are walking together. If that feels right, you can choose to do it again next week. Gratitude does not erase grief or loneliness, but it can braid them into something that hurts less to hold."

The two glanced at each other, shy but considering.

"Would you... like to get tea?" the woman asked.

"I know a place with terrible chairs and excellent pastries," the man said.

"Perfect," she replied.

They peeled off toward a side street, leaving Lunarstride to continue her steady pace along the shore.

Moonbreeze jogged up beside her. "You're very good at this, you know," she said.

"At walking?" Lunarstride asked.

"At noticing who needs someone to match their step," Moonbreeze said.

Lunarstride's smile was small, but genuine. "It is easier than people think," she said. "You just have to look down from the grand strategy maps sometimes."

—

As evening fell, the team's final destination rose like a cluster of blue lanterns ahead of them: Moonpetaltown, nestled near the gardens where Moonbeam had led the barefoot walk.

The festival lanterns still bobbed gently over the paths. The earth was cooler now, but the footprints from the garden walk had left faint impressions, like echoes of movement.

Moonbeam herself was waiting at the garden entrance, cloak changed for a simpler coat, boots scuffed with honest dirt.

"Commander," she greeted. "How are your legs?"

"Happy," Lunarstride said. "Determined to keep moving until the last citizen is convinced they are allowed to do the same."

Moonbeam smiled. "Then let us give them one more path."

Together, they walked into the garden, followed by Moonbreeze, Moonfield, Moonray, and a gathering of townsfolk. Instead of removing their footwear this time, they kept their boots on; the emphasis tonight was not on sensation, but on companionship.

"Tonight," Moonbeam announced, "Lunarstride will lead the Moonpetal Loop—a route anyone can take, any evening, when they feel restless or alone. These lanterns will remain. The benches will stay. The door will be open."

"Every loop counts as one quiet promise to yourself," Lunarstride added. "A promise that you will keep moving, even if it is only from one tree to the next. You may walk alone, but remember that thousands of others across Lunna are walking their own routes at the same time. You are never truly solitary on these paths."

A little girl raised a hand. "What if I forget the way?"

Moonbreeze pointed up at the lanterns. "Follow the blue ones with the tiny silver stripes," she said. "Those mark the Moonpetal Loop. If you get lost, just keep an eye out for them. They'll lead you back here, to the starting gate."

"And someone will always be here on weekend evenings," Moonfield added. "A volunteer, an elite, or a very patient cat. You won't finish the loop to an empty gate."

That earned a ripple of laughter.

They walked together under the lanterns, boots brushing fallen petals. Moonbeam and Lunarstride stayed near the center of the group, listening more than they spoke. People shared small things—a promotion, a repaired friendship, a fear they hadn't voiced aloud before. No cameras intruded; this was not for broadcast.

At the end of the loop, back at the garden gate, Moonbeam turned to her Supreme Commander.

"Thanksgiving in Lunna has been full," she said softly. "Feasts, broadcasts, repairs, storms, walks. What are you thankful for, Lunarstride?"

Lunarstride considered.

"I am thankful," she said, "that our people's gratitude is not trapped in one day anymore. Today, we walked routes that will still be here next week, and the week after. I am thankful that when someone feels hollow in their chest, they will know they can tie their boots, step outside, and follow a path that thousands of feet have already made gentle."

Moonbeam's eyes shone in the lantern light.

"And I," she said, "am thankful that when I look at the maps of Lunna, I no longer see only front lines and supply routes. I see Moonstride paths and garden loops and harbor walks. You have turned our continent into a network of invitations."

Lunarstride absorbed that quietly, shoulders easing.

Moonbeam squeezed her arm. "Go rest, Commander," she said. "You have done enough steps for today."

"With respect, my Lady," Lunarstride replied, "I plan to walk home."

Moonbeam laughed, the sound like bells over water.

"Of course you do," she said.

—

Later that night, in her modest quarters overlooking one of Lunartopia's side streets, Lunarstride sat on the low edge of her bed, boots finally off, legs pleasantly aching.

She opened her tablet and checked the live feed.

In Lunarbliss, people still skated the Moonstride Ice Paths, bumping into each other and laughing. In Lunartamarin, the boardwalk showed clusters of evening walkers. In Lunartopia, the river bridge counters glowed with higher-than-usual numbers. In Moonpetaltown, a slow trickle of dots moved along the garden loop.

Routes, everywhere.

She drafted a short message and tagged it for Sunbeam and Moonbeam both.

"Thanksgiving report – Lunarstride.

Objective: ensure gratitude has legs.

Status: routes activated across Lunna. Citizens walking alone now do so on shared paths; collisions with potential friends up 400%.

Secondary note: my boots request a day off. I will deny the request tomorrow."

She hesitated, then added:

"Grateful to live in a world where 'national defense' now includes ice paths, harbor dinners, boardwalk loops, and garden circuits.

We are teaching people not only how to survive, but how to keep moving toward each other."

She sent it, set the tablet aside, and lay back, listening to the distant hum of Lunartopia's night.

Somewhere out there, footsteps echoed on bridges, boardwalks, garden paths. People were walking off their dinners, their worries, their ghosts—feeling the comfort of knowing that their steps followed lines drawn by their leaders' care.

Lunarstride closed her eyes, the rhythm of imagined footfalls steady and comforting.

Thanksgiving, she decided, was not over. It had simply become a journey.

By the time Lunarstride finally surrendered to sleep, Lunna was still gently moving.

On a quieter floor of the palace, down a corridor that always smelled faintly of baked sugar and fresh laundry, another Supreme Commander was very much awake—standing in front of a wall of bulletin boards covered in maps, lists, and little doodles of smiling moons.

Lunarpuff tapped the end of her pen against her chin.

"Routes, storms, repairs, broadcasts..." she murmured, reading the reports that had already come in. "Everyone has been so brave and busy today."

Her reflection in the window smiled back at her: a woman in a neat Lunar-blue dress-coat, a little softer around the edges than the other Supreme Commanders, dark hair in a bun slightly askew, crescent pin shining above a chest already stacked with clipboards. Her eyes glowed the same determined blue as the others, but there was always a hint of laughter in them, like she stored extra warmth in case anyone else ran out.

She flicked on her tablet and opened a file labeled:

"LUNARPUFF THANKSGIVING – COMFORT & CARE PLAN."

"Time for my part," she decided.

Her first stop was not a grand plaza or icy rink.

It was the Silverveil Children's Ward in Lunartopia.

The hospital's entrance was usually quiet at this hour. Tonight, the lobby glowed with string lights shaped like tiny moons, and the front desk was half-hidden behind towers of plush toys in every shade of blue.

Elite Moonsoft looked up from a cart piled with storybooks.

"Commander," he said, adjusting his glasses, "the first delivery is ready."

Lunarpuff grinned. "Perfect. Let the record show that my Thanksgiving begins with breaking exactly twelve minor bakery regulations."

Moonsoft blinked. "Regulations?"

She waved a hand. "You will see."

They rolled the cart down the hallway together. Nurses and doctors smiled and stepped aside; nobody was surprised to see Lunarpuff here. During the war, she had spent more hours in hospitals than in her office, memorizing names, handing out cocoa, making sure no one's IV stand ever blocked their view of the moon outside.

They reached the big day-room, where children in pale gowns were clustered around a holo-screen showing Lunarstream's Nightline highlights. The moment the kids saw Lunarpuff, the room erupted.

"Commander Puff!"

"She brought cookies last time!"

"Look, look, she's got another cart!"

Lunarpuff put a finger to her lips, playfully exaggerated.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Moonlings," she said. "Today's mission is simple: nobody in this ward is allowed to feel left out of the fun. I checked the rules—you're all officially part of Lunna, which means you are entitled to full festival nonsense."

She snapped her fingers.

Moonsoft pulled back the cart's cover to reveal trays of carefully wrapped mini moon-cakes, sugar-dusted star cookies, and small, steaming cups of "Lunar cocoa"—more milk than chocolate, safe and approved, but topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream and blue sprinkles.

One nurse sighed dramatically. "Lunarpuff, you are single-handedly undoing a day of nutritional planning."

Lunarpuff put a hand over her heart. "I promise you, I checked all the ingredients with the doctors. These are medically sanctioned tiny joys."

The children laughed.

She moved from bed to bed, handing out treats, bending low to listen to stories. A boy proudly showed her a drawing of Moonbeam and Sunbeam holding hands in front of a giant turkey. A girl whispered that she'd watched the barefoot garden walk on the screen and pressed her toes against the cool floor afterward, pretending the tiles were earth.

Lunarpuff listened to every word as if it were a dispatch from the front.

At one bed, a little boy stared at his untouched cocoa, hands fidgeting.

"Not hungry?" she asked gently.

He shook his head. "I... I saw all the people out there today. In the gardens, and the parades, and the big feasts. I'm happy for them, but..." He looked away. "I felt like the world kept walking without me."

Lunarpuff sat down on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping slightly.

"Do you know what my job was during the worst fighting?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"I was the one who stayed behind the lines to make sure the medics had what they needed," she said. "Some soldiers told me it was 'less important' than the front. But when they came back wounded and scared, they didn't say that anymore. They said, 'Thank you for being here when we couldn't be out there.'"

She held the cocoa carefully, blowing on it so the steam rose in tiny, swirling ghosts.

"Sometimes," she continued, "the bravest thing you can do is stay where you are and keep healing. The world is not walking without you; it is walking for you. And my job—especially today—is to make sure the path leads back to you."

The boy's eyes shimmered. "So... this is still part of Thanksgiving?"

"This is the soft part of Thanksgiving," Lunarpuff said. "The part made of blankets and stories and stubborn hope. You're in exactly the right place for it."

He took the cup and sipped. Whipped cream stuck to his nose; she pretended not to notice until he giggled and wiped it away.

Moonsoft watched from the doorway, quietly adding a note to his tablet: "Children's Ward – emotional morale increase significant in response to Lunarpuff presence. Recommend regular visits."

By the time she left the hospital, the day-room was full of sleepy smiles and sugar-high yawns. Lunarstream's clips played softly in the background while kids compared plush toys and promised to show each other their Moonstride routes once they were discharged.

Lunarpuff stepped out into the cold air, hugging her coat around herself.

"All right," she said. "Next layer."

Lunarpuff's second destination was Moonray Square in Lunartopia's older district, where narrow streets met a broad plaza overlooked by weathered apartment blocks.

Here, her plan was written in big letters on a temporary banner:

"LUNARPUFF'S THANKSGIVING LIVING ROOM – OPEN TO ALL."

The square had been transformed.

Instead of rows of chairs or strict lines, there were clusters of couches and armchairs hauled down from storage, low tables, rugs, piles of cushions, and portable heaters glowing like small moons. Volunteers—elites and civilians alike—moved about with trays of tea, simple snacks, and board games.

Moonwis stood at a corner table, setting up a "connection sign-up sheet" that looked suspiciously like a simplified version of Sunbeam's Sunrise Initiative interface.

Moonlulu arranged flowers in mismatched vases. Moonbreeze, who seemed to be everywhere at once lately, tested the speakers with quietly cheerful music.

As Lunarpuff walked in, a camera drone from the Lunar News Network drifted closer.

"Supreme Commander Lunarpuff," the reporter said, "can you explain what this... living room is?"

"Gladly," Lunarpuff replied, her smile bright. "We've had grand speeches and parades. Tonight, I wanted something smaller. Some people don't like crowds, but they also don't like being in a silent, empty room. So we brought them a third option: a shared room that belongs to everyone and no one, where you can come as you are, sit where you like, and leave when your heart feels a little less heavy."

The reporter blinked. "That sounds... deceptively simple."

"Comfort is often simple," Lunarpuff said. "We just forget to plan it on purpose."

People wandered in from every direction.

A young woman carrying grocery bags hesitated at the edge.

"Is it... okay if I just sit for a bit?" she asked.

Lunarpuff gestured to a couch near a heater. "That's what it's for," she said. "We have free tea, games, or just background chatter. No pressure to talk."

An elderly man sat down in an armchair and promptly fell asleep to the soft music; someone discreetly draped a blanket over him. Two students argued over rules of a card game; a middle-aged couple exchanged tired smiles as they sank onto a sofa, shoulders touching.

Moonbond arrived with a stack of orange cards.

"What are those?" Moonbreeze asked.

"Conversation prompts," he said. "Lunarstream suggested them. For people who want to talk but don't know where to start."

The prompts turned out to be simple and surprisingly effective:

"Describe a small thing you were grateful for this week."
"If you could invite one historical figure to this couch, who would it be, and what snack would you offer them?"
"What is a place in Lunna that makes you feel safe?"

Lunarpuff circulated with a tray of tea, listening as strangers cautiously picked up cards and ended up deep in conversation.

At one cluster of cushions, she found three women around her age—two in work uniforms, one in a simple dress—discussing the Sunrise Connection speed-dates Sunbeam had announced.

"I'm curious," one said. "But also terrified."

"What if no one picks me?" another murmured.

Lunarpuff set the tray down and joined them on the cushions, tucking her legs beneath her.

"Then they are missing out," she said firmly. "And we adjust the system until it works better. These programs exist to reduce loneliness, not increase anxiety. If you try one and feel worse, you come tell me, and I personally redesign your experience."

The three women stared.

"You'd do that?" the one in the dress asked.

"I am Supreme Commander of Comfort," Lunarpuff said gravely. "It's an unofficial title, but I assure you, I take it seriously."

They burst out laughing, tension easing.

"Maybe..." one said, nibbling a biscuit. "Maybe I'll start smaller. Come back here next week, same couch, see who shows up."

"That counts," Lunarpuff said. "Connection doesn't have to be dramatic. It just has to be real."

As the evening wore on, Moonray Square glowed like a gentle star. Nobody made big speeches. People simply sat, talked, napped, played, read. The Lunar News Network broadcast a short segment showing the square, and comments flooded in: "We need one of these in Nightbluelunbolm." "Come to Lunarbliss next!" "Is there a sign-up list for volunteers?"

Lunarpuff smiled when she saw them.

"This is not a one-night only set," she told Moonwis quietly. "We'll rotate the living room across states. Different cities, different couches, same idea."

Moonwis nodded, already opening a new file: "Mobile Comfort Hubs – Proposal."

Much later, after the Living Room had gently dissolved into yawns and goodnights, Lunarpuff boarded a small shuttle with Moonsoft and Moonbreeze at her sides.

"Last stop," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Then I promise I'll stop feeding people and go to bed."

Moonbreeze eyed her skeptically. "What's left?"

"Something for the ones who work when everyone else celebrates," Lunarpuff replied.

The shuttle touched down at the Lunar Nightwatch Command Center, perched on a hill overlooking Lunartopia. This was where, during the war, long nights had been spent tracking enemy movements, monitoring shields, watching for any flicker of threat.

Even in peace, someone always sat at those consoles, eyes on the sky.

Tonight, the command floor was quiet. A handful of operators monitored screens, the hum of electronics filling the space. They snapped to attention when Lunarpuff entered.

"Commander on deck," one called.

"At ease," she said. "And please don't panic. I'm not here for an inspection. I'm here for... this."

She gestured.

Behind her, Moonsoft and Moonbreeze wheeled in a small cart loaded with insulated containers, mugs, and something covered with a cloth.

Moonbreeze whipped the cloth away with theatrical flair.

Underneath was a ridiculous cake shaped like the Lunar crescent emblem, complete with tiny sugar consoles and little blue figures sitting at them.

One operator actually clapped.

"This is a Nightwatch-only Thanksgiving party," Lunarpuff declared. "Because while everyone else was feasting and walking routes and throwing snowballs, some of you sat here and made sure nothing unexpected fell out of the sky. That deserves its own celebration."

A young man at the communications console laughed nervously. "Commander, we can't all abandon our posts..."

"Of course not," Lunarpuff said. "We are not reckless. We are... rotational."

Within minutes, she had organized a neat system: half the operators remained at their stations while the other half came to the cart for hot stew, cake, and quiet conversation. After a set time, they switched. No one was left alone at a screen, but no one had to miss the little party either.

She stopped by each station, asking about families, hobbies, favorite parts of the Thanksgiving broadcasts.

"I saw Lunarstorm's Silent Storm," one woman said. "I cried in the control room. I thought about the nights we watched Nighttenbright's feeds fill with smoke. This time, it was just light."

Lunarpuff squeezed her shoulder gently. "Thank you for staying awake so others can sleep," she said.

Another operator confessed he'd been too anxious to go to the Moonbeam garden walk—too many people, too much attention.

"I watched it on the screen instead," he said. "But when she talked about footprints, I thought of... all the footsteps in here. Back and forth, between consoles. It helped."

"Then this room is one of Lunna's gardens, too," Lunarpuff replied. "We will treat it that way. I'll see about adding some actual plants."

By the time she finally set her empty mug down and said her goodnights, the Nightwatch Center felt a little less like a lonely island and more like a high balcony in a shared house.

Outside, Lunartopia lay quiet and safe under the moon.

Near midnight, Lunarpuff walked alone along a side balcony of the palace, the city lights spread below her like scattered stars. She pulled out her device and scrolled through the day's images: children with whipped cream moustaches, strangers laughing on mismatched couches, Nightwatch operators cutting cake at consoles.

A message notification blinked from Sunbeam.

*"Saw the Moonray Square broadcast. Living room idea is brilliant. Prosocialism++ Approved.

Also, your cake engineering is dangerous. I want the recipe for Sollarisca."*

Lunarpuff chuckled and typed back:

*"Recipe classified. Will trade for your hotpot secrets.

Happy Thanksgiving, Sunbeam. We're taking good care of your doctrines over here—wrapped in blankets and served with tea."*

Another message popped up—this one from Moonbeam.

*"Children's Ward sent me pictures. You made them feel like the center of the festival. Thank you, Lunarpuff.

Rest well. Tomorrow, we begin our ordinary miracles again."*

Lunarpuff leaned her elbows on the balcony railing, letting the cool air touch her face.

"Ordinary miracles," she repeated, smiling.

That felt right.

She took one last slow look at her sleeping city—at the faint glow of the Living Room being dismantled and stored for its next destination, at the subtle movement of patrol lights, at the knowledge of children dreaming under hospital quilts and operators watching gentle skies.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Lunna," she whispered. "May you always have a couch to collapse on, a cup of something warm to hold, and at least one person who knows your name when you walk into the room."

Then Supreme Commander Lunarpuff, keeper of comfort and architect of quiet gatherings, finally turned in for the night—content that, across the blue continent, the warmth she had scattered like soft confetti would keep on glowing long after the holiday was over.

Across Lunna, while Moonbeam and her Supreme Commanders finally allowed themselves to rest, the blue continent did not fall silent. It exhaled—softly, steadily—through a hundred smaller Thanksgiving moments carried by the elites who kept its heart beating.

The night belonged to them now.

In Lunartopia, the capital, the last of the Moonray Square living-room couches were being hauled back into storage when Moonray and Moonbreeze slipped out a side street, arms linked.

Moonray's hair was tousled from a long day of logistics; Moonbreeze's scarf trailed like a comet tail.

"That went well," Moonbreeze said, hopping over a puddle. "No riots. Only three heated arguments about card-game rules."

"Two," Moonray corrected. "The third one was just passionate clarification."

They passed a tiny all-night tea stand wedged between two older buildings. Its sign—"MOONLU'S NO-SLEEP TEAHOUSE"—glowed softly.

Inside, Elite Moonlu looked up from the counter and brightened. "You survived," she said. "Sit. I'm testing a new calming blend."

They took stools, hands curling around warm cups. Outside, a few citizens still ambled along Lunarstride's new route, blue arrows catching lamplight.

Moonbreeze blew on her tea. "Do you think people will actually keep doing the walks once the holiday ends?" she asked.

Moonray watched a pair of strangers fall into step together on the bridge.

"Yes," she said quietly. "We've given them direction signs and excuses. Sometimes that's all people need."

Moonlu leaned on the counter, listening. She would remember this later, when she decided to keep the teahouse open just a little longer each night—because on Lunarstride's route, someone always looked like they needed one more cup.

Far north in Coldglow State, the wind still tasted of snow and chimney smoke.

On the outskirts of Moonpeak Ridge, the emergency snow fort the children had built with Stormwing earlier was now a full-blown architectural project. Elite Moonbrass sat on an upturned crate, helmet off, steam rising from his hair, watching as kids argued over turret placement.

"This wall is structurally unsound," he declared, pointing with a gloved finger.

A little girl narrowed her eyes. "Commander, it's made of snow."

"Which is precisely why we must respect its limitations," Moonbrass said. "Snow deserves engineering."

Elite Moonlance leaned on a shovel nearby, the image of stoic patience.

"You are aware," he murmured, "that you could simply say 'good job' and go inside where it's warm."

Moonbrass lowered his voice. "You saw that boy earlier. The one who said it felt like the world forgot these hills. If I go inside now, the fort will become 'just a game' again. I want him to fall asleep thinking, 'The elites helped me build a fortress.'"

Moonlance studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"Then we stay until the last turret is approved," he said.

Overhead, the stars glittered. Coldglow's winter was unforgiving, but inside the unfinished snow walls, surrounded by laughter and serious debates about snow physics, it felt like the safest place in the world.

Down in Moonshore State, Lunarbliss had returned to its usual river-scented calm. The big festival music had faded, but the ice rink still shone under lantern light.

Elite Moonsuna skated lazy circles along the outer edge, her coat unbuttoned, cheeks pink from the cold. Across the rink, Elite Moonkazuto—all sharp lines and careful movements—was clearly attempting Lunarstride's intersecting paths exercise with scientific precision.

He kept glancing at Moonsuna's route, adjusting his own just enough that they never quite collided.

The omniscient night saw the pattern long before they did.

On the fifth near-miss, a small child—in the mysterious way of children—plowed straight into Moonkazuto's knees, sending him skidding directly into Moonsuna's path. They went down together in a flurry of limbs and startled exclamations.

"Sorry!" the child squeaked, already fleeing.

Moonsuna groaned, then laughed, sprawled on the ice. "You all right, Moonkazuto?"

He flushed, hastily pushing his glasses back up. "I... yes. I was attempting to follow the optimal intersect algorithm and failed to account for local chaos variables."

"That's called 'people,'" she said, grinning.

He hesitated. "I was... also trying to cross your path more than three times," he admitted. "Lunarstride's rule. I thought it would be easier to say hello if it looked like statistics instead of intention."

The confession hung in the air like frost.

Moonsuna's smile softened. "You know," she said, "you could just say, 'I wanted to skate near you.' No math required."

He blinked, then nodded slowly. "All right. I wanted to skate near you."

"That's better," she said, taking his gloved hand and pulling both of them upright. "Come on. Let's intentionally mess up your algorithm."

As they pushed off together, the rink's lanterns reflected twin streaks of blue winding side by side—a small, bright thread in the wider tapestry of Thanksgiving.

In Nighttenbright State, the city of Nightbluelunbolm was adjusting to its new, quieter sky.

On a side street café, Elite Moonwis sat with a steaming cup of coffee, eyes on the ceiling rather than a datapad for once. Across from him, Elite Moonwise inched a slice of cake precisely toward the middle of the table, as if negotiating a treaty.

"It is statistically inadvisable," Moonwis said suddenly, "for both of us to spend Thanksgiving evening alone with spreadsheets."

Moonwise raised an eyebrow. "We are not alone. We are together." He nudged the cake the last centimeter. "And we are technically not working."

Moonwis exhaled, a small puff of amusement. "We spent the last years quantifying losses," he said. "Today, Lunardye asked for gratitude metrics. Lunarstream recorded voices. Lunarstorm mapped emotional shocks. I kept thinking... what about the things that cannot be measured?"

Moonwise considered. "Like what?"

"This," Moonwis said simply, gesturing between them. "Two analysts sitting in a café, splitting cake, listening to a city breathe easier. There is no graph for that."

Moonwise cut the slice neatly in half. "Then we do not graph it," he said. "We remember it. And when the models are incomplete, we add a footnote: 'Plus unquantifiable softness.'"

A couple at the next table—an older woman and a teenage boy—leaned over.

"Excuse me," the woman said. "Are you the ones who sent the Silent Storm drones?"

"Lunarstorm commanded them," Moonwis answered, "but we helped program the patterns."

The boy's eyes shone. "I used to keep a notebook counting impacts during the war," he said. "Tonight, I started a new one. I'm counting good things instead. Lights. Laughs. Times my grandma snorts when she laughs."

Moonwise's lips twitched. "An excellent dataset," he said.

"Better than ours," Moonwis murmured.

They spent the rest of the hour listening to the pair describe their "good things notebook," adding, at the boy's insistence, "half-cake with two serious men" to the list.

Along the Lunartamarin boardwalk, the Thanksgiving Tides Walk still flowed in gentle waves.

Elites Moonflower and Moonterra had stayed behind after Lunarstride's group dispersed, leading a smaller band of volunteers armed with trash grabbers and mesh bags.

"The sea gave us a peaceful festival," Moonterra said, picking up a discarded cup. "The least we can do is give her a clean shoreline back."

Moonflower nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Besides," she said, "nothing kills romance like stepping on a soggy wrapper."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the squawk of seabirds and the distant murmur of conversations.

Further up the beach, two young women walked arm-in-arm, carrying their shoes and chatting quietly about the speed-dating sign-ups. A group of friends rehearsed a silly coordinated dance they planned to show at next week's Lantern Night. A solitary man stood at the water's edge, staring out, shoulders tense; after a minute, a stranger walked up and offered him a spare cup of tea.

The omniscient moon watched it all and was satisfied.

"Look at them," Moonflower said softly. "They're doing it. All the things Sunbeam talked about, all the things Moonbeam echoed. They're... trying. Being less alone on purpose."

Moonterra smiled. "We used to clear rubble," she said. "Now we clear wrappers and emotional debris. I prefer this version of Lunna."

A little girl ran up, proudly holding out a bag full of collected trash.

"Is this enough to say thank you to the ocean?" she asked.

"It's a very good start," Moonflower replied. "Come back next week and do it again. Gratitude is a habit, not a single heroic act."

The girl nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sacred mission.

In quiet Moonpetaltown, near the lantern garden, the air smelled of damp earth and tea.

Elite Moonwisdom sat cross-legged on a low platform, leading a small "gratitude circle" beneath a spreading tree. Around her, half a dozen citizens and a couple of off-duty Moon Soldiers listened, hands wrapped around warm cups.

"You do not have to say anything if you don't wish to," Moonwisdom said gently. "You can simply sit here and borrow other people's thankfulness until your own feels less heavy."

A young father spoke first, voice rough.

"I'm thankful my daughter can sleep without flinching at every loud sound," he said. "She kicked in her sleep last night. That used to mean nightmares. Last night, it was... dreams. I heard her mumble something about skating."

An older woman followed. "I'm thankful," she said, "that my husband and I argued about what dessert to buy instead of what supplies we could afford."

A Moon Soldier cleared her throat. "I'm thankful I have no deployment orders," she said quietly. "And that my biggest problem today was whether to join Lunarstride's route or Lunarpuff's living room."

Moonwisdom listened, eyes soft.

When it was her turn, she said simply, "I am thankful to live in a time where my work is to help people sit with their feelings instead of numbing them to survive."

From a bench nearby, Elite Moonsoft took discreet notes—not numbers, but phrases. Later, he would compile them into a little booklet, anonymous and blue-covered, to be placed in waiting rooms around Lunna: "Things We Were Thankful For That Night."

In a tiny dessert shop in Lunarbliss, lit by blue paper lanterns and the glow of a nearly empty display case, Moongirl and Moonlindsey slumped at a corner table, aprons dusted with sugar.

"We sold out," Moongirl said, staring in disbelief at the clean trays. "Completely. I didn't know that was physically possible."

"The Lunar Thanksgiving Blackout," Moonlindsey declared. "When every dessert in the city vanished into happy mouths. We'll tell trainees about today for years."

The shop door chimed.

A couple stepped in, looking apologetic. "We saw the news," one said. "About the dessert blowout. We thought maybe there'd be crumbs we could thank you for?"

Moongirl blinked, then laughed. "We have... exactly one broken moon-cookie," she said, fishing it out from a jar. "It's not pretty, but it's sweet."

The couple shared it, smiling.

"Thank you for working today," the woman said. "Everyone talks about the big feasts and walks, but desserts... made it feel like a holiday."

When they left, Moonlindsey rested her chin on her hands.

"I used to think being an elite meant only field missions," she said. "Now we run a shop and somehow it still feels like service."

Moongirl nodded. "People fought for the right to stand in lines arguing about cake flavors. We're just... maintaining the victory."

She pulled out a notepad and scribbled on the top page: "Next year: bake double."

And in countless other corners—on the top deck of a ferry in Lunargopa where Moonblue played quiet songs on a guitar; in a cramped apartment in Nighttenbright where Moonmarcus hosted a board game night for neighbors who barely knew each other before; in a little hill town where Moonclarience strung extra lanterns just because it made the street look kinder—Lunna's elites lived out their Thanksgiving in small, unrecorded ways.

Third-person omniscience saw all of it: the shy smiles, the shared benches, the awkward first conversations, the cups of tea and slices of cake, the handshakes that might someday become hugs.

The doctrines Sunbeam had spoken of—prosocialism, romanticism, the refusal to let anyone vanish into loneliness—had taken root not only in speeches and programs, but in the ordinary choices of these blue-clad elites as they moved through their states and cities.

The continent of Lunna did not blaze with celebration anymore; it glowed.

Softly. Steadily.

A thousand small Thanksgiving lights, each one a person deciding, I will not let this world be cold if I can help it, and another person answering, Then I will stand beside you while you warm it.

Lunna's blue night stretched calm and deep over the continent, threaded with lantern-glow and the soft hum of late trains. From the high balcony of Lunartopia's Moon Palace, Lady Moonbeam stood with a stack of slim datapads in her hands, the reports from her Supreme Commanders and elites flickering in pale light.

Lunardye's graphs showed quieter hospital wards and lower emergency calls. Lunardale's summary listed rebuilt stairwells and neighborhoods that had gone an entire holiday without a single incident report. Lunarstream's feeds were full of laughter and voices instead of sirens. Lunarstorm's sensors confirmed that the skies over Nighttenbright remained empty of fire, full only of light. Lunarstride's routes lit up the map like veins carrying warmth. Lunarpuff's "living rooms" had triggered a flood of citizen requests: Please bring this to our district as well.

Every datapoint, every picture, every small quote from the streets told the same story: Lunna had not simply survived Thanksgiving; it had embraced it, made it into motion and habit and tea and shared benches.

Moonbeam exhaled, shoulders easing, and tilted her face toward the moon above.

"So," she murmured, "the blue continent is breathing again."

Her device chimed softly with a new notification. She glanced down.

An incoming diplomatic memo slid across the screen: "Advance Notice – Arrival of X Vice Colonel Starbeam Charmley, Absolute Leader of the Star Regime of Starrup. Purpose: trade delegation, renewable-tech handover, short rest stay in Lunna."

Moonbeam's lips curved. The attached image displayed the Star Regime emblem, blazing green. Beneath it, a familiar figure: sharp uniform lines, medals precise, posture straight as a drawn blade, hair and eyes a brilliant emerald that reminded her, unavoidably, of bright orange mirrored in another color.

"Starbeam," she said softly. "The green twin of my sun."

She tapped a quick acceptance and alert to the palace staff.

"Let us see," she added, more to herself than to the moon, "how you spend Thanksgiving when you think you are here only on business."

The message flew into the night.

Far above Lunna, a green-lit starship angled its descent.

—

The shuttle from Starrup cut through Lunna's atmosphere like an emerald streak, slowing as it approached Lunartamarin State's coastal resort belt. From the cabin window, X Vice Colonel Starbeam Charmley watched the coastline appear: silver waves, clean boardwalks, lanterns from Thanksgiving still hanging like captured stars.

He kept his face neutral, but his hands—gloved in spotless green—relaxed slightly on the armrests.

"We are ten minutes from Moonreef Resort, sir," reported Star Supreme Commander Starvolt from the opposite seat. His own green uniform was crisp, but his eyes were already scanning the holo-map for local attractions.

Next to him, Elite Starley Sweetbeat bounced one leg in contained excitement, headphones hanging around her neck. Her hair, a slightly lighter green than Starbeam's, was tied in a high tail, and her jacket was embroidered with tiny neon music notes.

"First order of business," Starley said, "we drop the cargo manifests, sign the handover with Moonbeam's logistics team, and then we test Lunna's famous boardwalk snacks. I have a professional curiosity."

Starbeam's gaze stayed on the sea. "The order of business," he corrected mildly, "is to ensure the delivery of fusion batteries, star-grid converters, and environmental shield boosters to Lunna's coastal defenses. Snacks are... tertiary."

Starvolt coughed politely. "Tertiary can still be important, sir."

One corner of Starbeam's mouth twitched, almost a smile.

"We will consider snacks a morale-boosting inspection," he conceded.

The shuttle slid into its designated berth at Moonreef International Port, one of Lunartamarin's glittering resort cities. As the ramp lowered, the cool sea breeze swept in, carrying scents of salt and distant desserts. Blue-clad Lunar officials and dock workers waited alongside a small honor guard.

Starbeam descended first, boots finding the ramp with precise, measured steps. His uniform was flawless: deep star-green coat, medals and cords arranged with mathematical accuracy, cap bearing the Star Regime emblem. In the bright day, his green eyes seemed almost neon.

Lunarstride was there to greet him, posture brisk and composed.

"X Vice Colonel Starbeam," she said, bowing slightly. "On behalf of Lady Moonbeam, welcome to Lunna and to Lunartamarin State. Your cargo has already begun offloading to secure bays for inspection and distribution."

Starbeam returned the bow, only slightly shallower.

"My thanks, Supreme Commander Lunarstride," he replied. His voice carried the clipped efficiency of a man whose schedule usually ran on down-to-the-minute precision. "The Star Regime is honored to strengthen Lunna's infrastructure. Where may we conduct the verification?"

"Here," Lunarstride said, gesturing to a nearby platform where Lunardye's team waited with scanners. "And once everything is double-checked, Lady Moonbeam insists that you consider yourself a guest, not merely a supplier. You have been granted a short respite at Moonreef Resort."

Starbeam blinked, the faintest hint of surprise in his otherwise controlled expression. "A... resort."

Starley Sweetbeat grinned. "You heard the nice Supreme Commander, Starbeam. That means we're officially off-duty after the paperwork. The universe itself commands you to relax."

Starvolt murmured, "The universe has chosen a dangerous experiment."

Starbeam exhaled once, very quietly, then nodded.

"Very well," he said. "We will complete the formalities and then... comply with Lady Moonbeam's hospitality."

The omniscient world, watching, knew this was the diplomatic version of a man saying, Fine, I will try to be on vacation for once.

—

The cargo handover went flawlessly. Fusion batteries gleamed in secure housings, star-grid nodes were checked, logged, and signed for. Lunardye shook Starbeam's hand firmly.

"These will keep our coasts lit for decades," Lunardye said. "You have our gratitude. And our data will be shared, as per our agreement."

"Starrup grows stronger when our allies do," Starbeam replied. "We prefer to export power, not war."

With the last signatures recorded, Lunarstride escorted the Star delegation to Moonreef Resort, a sweeping complex of glass and pale stone overlooking the sea. Balconies curved like waves, pools glowed faintly azure, and from somewhere, faint music drifted across the water.

At the entrance, Lunarpuff herself waited with a warm smile and a clipboard.

"Welcome to Moonreef," she said. "On this property, your rank is 'guest' first. Everything else comes second."

Starbeam inclined his head. "I am unfamiliar with that hierarchy," he said, but there was no edge in his tone—just a touch of curiosity.

"You'll learn quickly," Starley murmured, nudging his elbow.

Lunarpuff handed each visitor a slim bracelet. "These track which amenities you've used so we can... encourage variety," she explained. "If your device shows 'no recreation logged' by the time you leave, Lady Moonbeam has granted me the right to scold you personally."

Starvolt glanced at Starbeam. "I recommend compliance, sir."

Starbeam fastened the bracelet around his wrist, watching the tiny icons flicker to life: pool, spa, games hall, observation deck, dining courts.

"Very well," he said. "I will... test your systems."

Lunarpuff's smile widened. "That's the spirit. Enjoy Moonreef. And Happy Thanksgiving, from Lunna."

—

The first evening passed almost like a test simulation.

Starbeam toured the resort's facilities with Starvolt and Starley at his sides, hands behind his back, taking everything in with the analytical eye of a commander inspecting a newly liberated city. It did not look like his usual battlefield, but he mapped it anyway.

In the games hall, he paused by a cluster of green-felt tables. Lunar guests and off-duty elites leaned over cards and chips, laughing, arguing, losing and winning small fortunes of points.

Starley's eyes lit up. "Oh, this is dangerous," she whispered. "Commander, we have found your natural habitat."

Starvolt nodded solemnly. "The realm of probability."

Starbeam considered the blackjack table for approximately three seconds.

"Statistics with immediate feedback," he said. "I approve."

They joined a game.

The dealer, a cheerful Lunar woman with a crescent pin on her lapel, glanced at Starbeam's uniform and swallowed.

"No need to be nervous," he told her gently. "I am technically on vacation."

He played conservatively at first, mapping the deck, watching the pattern of cards, counting quietly. It did not take long for patterns to emerge.

"Hit," he said, voice calm.

The card slid to him. Twenty-one.

Starley choked. "You didn't even look stressed."

"It was within expected probability," he said.

A few rounds later, the table had gathered a small crowd. Starbeam's piles of chips grew steadily; he lost occasionally, but never dramatically. His face stayed nearly expressionless, but Starley could see it—the slight softening around his eyes, the focus that had nothing to do with war-planning and everything to do with the puzzle laid out in front of him.

In poker, he was infuriatingly impenetrable. Opponents tried to read him and failed; his default serious expression looked exactly the same when he had a strong hand as when he had nothing. He won with full houses and bluffed successfully with garbage, each victory met with a polite nod.

At the baccarat table, Lady Luck seemed to lean in close and kiss his shoulder. Banker, player, tie—he danced between them with uncanny instincts. A Lunar elite watching from the side whispered, "If he stays much longer, the house will start praying to him."

Between games, Starbeam drank sparkling water, not alcohol, sleeves rolled crisp, posture straight.

"This is... relaxing," he admitted quietly to Starley at one point.

She grinned. "See? Vacation. Just numbers and people instead of troop formations and orbital cannons."

He gave her a sidelong look. "Do you disapprove?"

"I approve," she said. "You look... lighter. Still terrifying, but lighter."

Later, they cashed out their chips, converting them not to personal credits, but to donations for Lunarpuff's Children's Ward fund. When the clerk thanked him, Starbeam simply said, "The house should not be the only one that wins," and moved on.

—

The next evening, Starbeam left the games hall behind for something more controlled: a private dinner with Starley Sweetbeat on one of Moonreef's higher terraces.

The sky was a deep velvet blue, the sea below whispering against the rocks. Lanterns lined the balcony rail, and a small table was set with simple but carefully arranged dishes: grilled river fish, steaming rice, Lunar-style vegetable medleys, and a dessert that looked like captured moonlight.

Starley arrived in a more relaxed version of her uniform—jacket open, tie loosened. Starbeam, predictably, looked as if he had stepped out of a recruitment poster, only his cap set aside and his collar slightly open.

"You know," Starley said as she sat, "most people on vacation don't maintain parade posture at dinner."

"I find posture reassuring," Starbeam replied, taking his seat. "It makes the universe feel less likely to collapse unexpectedly."

"That's what shields are for," she said. "Tonight, you are allowed to slump at least five degrees."

He considered that, then leaned back just enough that his spine lost its perfect alignment. She pointed at him triumphantly.

"There," she said. "Progress."

They ate, talking not about deployment schedules or energy output but about music venues in Starrup, strange snacks from Sollarisca, and the way Lunna's moonlight felt softer than the star-saturated nights back home.

"You've been watching the Lunar feeds," Starley said at one point. "You saw what Moonbeam and her commanders did."

Starbeam nodded. "They turned survival into community," he said. "I watched the barefoot garden walk, the living-room squares, the storm of lights over Nightbluelunbolm. This continent was a battlefield not long ago. Now it is... gentle."

Starley rested her chin on her hand. "Do you ever think about giving yourself the same softness you want for everyone else?"

He looked out over the sea, expression unreadable, then answered quietly, "I am... considering it."

The omniscient night understood—that was as close as Starbeam usually came to confessing he was tired.

—

On the final night of his stay, a formal summons arrived from Moon Palace.

Lady Moonbeam requested the presence of X Vice Colonel Starbeam for a private Thanksgiving courtesy dinner in Lunartopia.

The shuttle from Moonreef cut across the dark water to the capital, lights reflecting in long streaks. Starbeam wore his full dress uniform again, boots polished to mirror-brightness, cap centered. Starley Sweetbeat accompanied him in her best green coat, and Star Supreme Commander Starvolt came as security and witness, carrying a slim case of last-minute trade documents "just in case."

The private dining hall was smaller than the grand banquet rooms, all soft blue walls and tall windows looking out over Lunartopia's lantern-lit streets. A long table was set, but only three places were arranged: one at the head for Moonbeam, two on either side for her guests.

Lady Moonbeam entered first, cloak drifting behind her, hat tucked under one arm. Her long dark-blue hair flowed over her shoulders; the crescent pin at her collar glimmered. She radiated calm authority wrapped in quiet warmth.

"X Vice Colonel Starbeam," she greeted, voice smooth as moonlight on still water. "Welcome again to Lunna. Please, sit. Tonight we are not broadcasters or commanders. We are simply... leaders who survived long enough to host Thanksgiving instead of battle councils."

Starbeam bowed, then took his seat to her right. Starley sat to Moonbeam's left, eyes sparkling as she took everything in.

The meal was graceful and understated: Lunar dishes with subtle star-flavored twists added in honor of their guest—a bright-green herb from Starrup sprinkled over blue-glazed vegetables, starfruit slices layered with moonberries.

For the first few minutes, the conversation was appropriately formal.

"The trade flows between Starrup and Lunna will strengthen both our peoples," Moonbeam said. "Your fusion cores will light many routes and shelters."

"The Lunar doctrine of prosocialism and your emphasis on public comfort inspire our civic planners," Starbeam replied. "Starrup has been efficient for a long time. We would like to be... kinder as well."

Moonbeam's eyes softened. "Efficiency without kindness is just a different kind of war," she agreed.

Starley, sensing the atmosphere lighten, ventured a small joke.

"Also," she added, "your casinos are very educational. On the science of losing gracefully."

Moonbeam laughed, the sound clear and melodic. "I heard reports of remarkable luck in Moonreef's games hall," she said, glancing at Starbeam. "Our dealers are still discussing the green visitor who treated blackjack like a tactical simulation."

Starbeam's ears colored faintly, though his expression barely changed.

"I merely applied probability," he said. "And donated the winnings to Lunarpuff's causes."

"That," Moonbeam said, "is very much something Sunbeam would do—if he ever let himself near a game table without turning it into a diplomacy summit."

Starley's eyes widened. "He's still that busy, then?"

Moonbeam sighed, fond exasperation mixing with affection.

"My Sun," she said, "has just finished turning Sollarisca's Thanksgiving into a continent-wide campaign against loneliness. Public feasts, speed-friendship, speed-dating, the Sunrise Connection Initiative... every time I checked my messages, there was another program. I sometimes wonder if he remembers to sit down while writing them."

Starbeam listened quietly, his stern features softening at the edges.

"He sent us his broadcast," he said. "Our counselors in Starrup watched it with great interest. He speaks of romance and companionship as if they are strategic assets."

"In his heart," Moonbeam replied, "they are. He believes humanity survives not only through shields and soldiers, but through hand-holding and shared meals. I... agree with him more than I can express on-camera."

Starley smiled. "You two are dangerously wholesome."

Moonbeam giggled, covering her lips briefly with her fingers. "You should see our message threads," she said. "Full of scheduling and war readiness and then, suddenly, 'remember to drink water' and pictures of random desserts."

She looked at Starbeam more directly.

"What about you?" she asked gently. "How are you, truly? You lead a whole regime as well. You carry a star on your shoulders. Do you ever get to be... just Starbeam?"

He looked down at his hands for a moment, gloved fingers resting neatly on the tablecloth.

"Rarely," he admitted. "I have always believed that if I relax too much, I will miss a danger no one else sees. But here..." He glanced toward the window, where Lunarstride's routes and Lunarpuff's living rooms glowed faintly in the distance. "Here I have watched a continent full of people take care of each other. It makes it easier to believe I can rest for one evening without catastrophe."

Moonbeam's gaze was kind and sharp at once.

"Sunbeam says similar things," she murmured. "He worries that if he looks away, the world will forget how to be gentle. I remind him that gentleness is exactly why we can afford to look away sometimes."

Starley nodded vigorously. "Commanders need holidays too," she said. "Otherwise, their decisions get... crunchy."

The corner of Starbeam's mouth lifted again.

"Crunchy," he repeated. "That is not a term in our strategic textbooks."

"It should be," Moonbeam said. "We will add it under 'states to avoid.'"

They ate and talked—a strange little triangle of green and blue, of stars and moons, of war-sculpted leaders trying on the idea of ordinary happiness like a new uniform. Starbeam listened more than he spoke, but when he did, his words carried quiet sincerity.

"I watched your Moongarden barefoot walk," he told Moonbeam. "My advisors are... skeptical about the tactical value of encouraging citizens to feel earth under their feet. But the data on stress reduction is difficult to ignore. I may adapt a version for Starrup. Perhaps... barefoot walks on synthetic grass under holographic stars."

"Start there," Moonbeam said warmly. "Softness does not need to be perfect to work. It just needs to be offered."

He nodded slowly. "I will consult our engineers."

As dessert was cleared away, Moonbeam leaned back, eyes distant for a moment.

"You know," she said, "seeing you here in green, calm and serious, reminds me of how far we have all come. There was a time I only saw other leaders through targeting reticles or angry broadcasts. Now we share dinners and argue about which tea is superior."

"Lunna's jasmine," Starbeam said promptly.

"Starrup's mint," Starley countered.

They bantered lightly; Moonbeam laughed again.

At last, the dinner drew to a close. Moonbeam rose; Starbeam and Starley followed.

"Thank you for your gifts, Starbeam," Moonbeam said, extending her hand. "Not only the fusion cores, but your presence here during our first true peace-time Thanksgiving. Lunna will remember that the Star Regime spent this holiday helping us glow brighter."

Starbeam took her hand, his grip firm but respectful.

"And Starrup," he replied, "will remember that Lunna showed us how to turn victory into comfort, not complacency. I will carry your moonlit gardens and crowded living rooms back with me. They may influence our next policies... more than my ministers expect."

Starley stepped forward, offering Moonbeam a small, sleek device. "From me," she said. "It syncs to our music network. Whenever you want, you can tap it and hear live performances from Starrup. Consider it... prosocialism through sound."

Moonbeam's eyes lit up. "I accept. And I will send you our festival playlists in return."

They exchanged farewells. As Starbeam and Starley walked down the quiet palace corridor toward their shuttle, Starley glanced sideways at her commander.

"You're thinking about him," she said softly.

"About whom?" he asked, though he already knew.

"Sunbeam," she said. "You keep looking at the messages indicator on your device."

He did not deny it.

"He is..." Starbeam began, searching for precise words. "He is building an entire philosophy out of kindness and population growth. I am curious to see how far he can push it before the universe protests."

Starley snorted. "Or falls in love with the idea and copies it everywhere."

Starbeam's expression softened.

"I hope," he said quietly, "he is resting now. Just a little."

Behind them, in the private hall, Lady Moonbeam watched the green figures disappear, her own device already buzzing with an incoming message from Sollarisca—a bright orange notification, full of excited reports about Sunrise Connection sign-ups and photos of crowded plazas.

She smiled, thumb hovering over the reply button.

Across Titanumas, the Sun Regime blazed, the Lunar Regime glowed, and the Star Regime pulsed with quiet neon—three very different lights, each learning, in their own way, how to spend a day not on war, but on gratitude.

And somewhere between all of them, in the space where stories braided together, the promise of more meetings, more dinners, more soft, stubborn celebrations of being alive waited patiently for its turn on the stage.