Asterion isn’t prone to doubting, not after years of witnessing magic, and gods, and the wonders and terrors wrought by both. Even so, when the rumor reaches him - fireflies, countless as the stars, that answer to song and cluster so thickly as to form structures of light - he wonders.

But the mood is festive, and the night is young (the moon is only skimming the treetops) and there seems little harm in finding out what truth is behind the singers’ tales. So, caught up in a small crowd, the bay stallion goes.

The sound reaches them first. Not the thundering laughter of the river as it tumbled over rocks but something above it, bigger than it; the sound of many voices raised in song. Regardless of fireflies, Asterion knows the rumors must be true, for he has never heard anything like this, not in half a decade of festivals, or the years before that spent walking with gods. It raises gooseflesh on his skin, it drives his pulse quicker; where he had held himself apart from the crowd now he forgets to, now he longs to join them, to become a part of the dance.

And then they crest a little hill, and the other side flows down to the river, and everywhere there is light. Each way he looks bodies are illuminated as though strung with stars and suns; he finds himself laughing, though the sound is lost even to his own ears, crushed by the myriad of other voices, other instruments.

He tries to lose himself, after that. It’s not the fireflies that interest him so much - they are ticklish, the times they brush against his skin, and it pains him to think of any crushed underfoot - but the surge of life they’re drawn to. Asterion joins in song, joins in movement, though he is not particularly proficient in either; it is enough to simply join in. And he is breathless with both when someone bumps into him, and he turns to find the unicorn, and smiles at the way she sings her words.

“They favor you,” he says back.