I awoke peacefully, free of nightmares, to the intoxicating aroma of breakfast drifting through the gentle morning air. Alexander was already busy at a makeshift table he'd skillfully crafted himself, whisking eggs vigorously for what he proudly named a Dragon's Breath Omelet—an enticing dish featuring spicy fire-roasted peppers and pungent, aged Dragon's Breath cheese melting invitingly within. Nearby, bowls overflowing with vibrant, fresh fruits waited to be folded into rich, creamy yogurt. A pot of smooth, herbed grits simmered lazily over the campfire, butter slowly mingling with fragrant spices. Beside the flames, coffee bubbled softly on a flat stone, filling the air with comforting warmth.

  Sometime during my restful sleep, Alexander had even managed to assemble a second table, already set with preparations clearly meant for this evening's celebration. And gods above... he had thoughtfully created a menu card, promising delights yet to come.

  As the moon rises and the fireflies begin their nightly dance, gather fellow revelers for a dining experience that promises to delight the senses and transport you to another realm.

  Begin your culinary adventure with our Meat Pies, featuring savory minced meat and root vegetables enveloped in a flaky, golden crust, seasoned with a special blend of herbs that whisper tales of far-off lands.

  Explore the Enchanted Cheese Board, a magical selection of mystical cheeses including the creamy Moonshadow Blue, the rich Griffin’s Gouda, and the sharp Elfstone Cheddar. Accompanied by artisanal bread and wild fruit preserves, each bite combines the traditions of the old world with the flavors of the fantastical.

  Savor the vibrant and colorful Forest Sprite Skewers, where fire-roasted fairybell peppers, tender eggplant, and moon mushrooms are lovingly drizzled with a thyme-infused glaze, offering a taste of the forest’s hidden delights.

  Feast upon Alexander’s Golden Platter, an extravagant display of grilled exotic meats such as wyvern wings, wild boar flank, and the rare wolpertinger chops. Each piece is seasoned with rare spices that add a burst of flavor as legendary as the creatures themselves.

  Quench your thirst with Dragon’s Tail Ale, a robust and smoky brew that combines the depth of toasted malts with the subtle sweetness of dragon fruit, served in handcrafted wooden mugs that echo the timbers of the ancient forest.

  Conclude your feast with the Elixir of Eternal Night, a mysterious and sparkling black cocktail that blends blackberry brandy, spiced rum, and a hint of Moonlit Rhubarb liqueur. Garnished with a twist of orange peel and a sprig of mint, it’s a drink that captures the essence of a night shrouded in stars and secrets.

  This menu is more than a meal; it’s an invitation to a night filled with wonder, laughter, and the magic of a time when the world was still shrouded in the mystery of myths and legends. Enjoy your enchanted evening under the canopy of an ancient woodland, where every dish tells a story, and every sip is a spell.

  ~Alexander~

  I couldn't help but roll my eyes—leave it to Alexander, the master of dramatic flair, to transform a simple dinner menu into an epic saga. Rhys emerged from her tent with a groggy yawn, drawn irresistibly by the tantalizing scents wafting from Alexander’s bustling set-up. Without hesitation, she piled her plate with three generous helpings of Dragon's Breath Omelet.

  Surveying our quiet campsite, she asked through a mouthful of food, “Hey, where’d everybody vanish to?”

  Alexander barely glanced up from his whisking. “Lyra was up at dawn. She rallied the others and headed back to the Grove of Eternal Bloom—something about inviting the druids to tonight’s celebration and fetching additional supplies.”

  “And you just conveniently volunteered yourself to stay back and play master chef, hmm?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

  Alexander paused mid-whisk, fixing me with mock indignation. “Actually, Kieran, I'll have you know I was awake before even Lyra. Already made a trip to the Grove and back. After all I had to discuss menu plans with Tasselia, their head chef, and pick up some special ingredients.”

  “Oh, my mistake,” I replied with exaggerated reverence. “I forgot culinary genius never sleeps.”

  “As much as I adore your insightful commentary,” Alexander countered dryly, “shouldn’t you be off handling your own, clearly important tasks?”

  Grinning, I stepped back toward my tent. “As a matter of fact, yes—I’ve got terribly pressing matters awaiting me.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he muttered, shaking his head with an amused smirk as I retreated, victorious, to my tent.

  I collected a spare bedroll, it was still warm from the morning sun, soft at the seams. The canvas curled like old parchment as I rolled it tight. It gave a faint crackle as I fastened the ties, then wedged it deep into my pack beside the oilskin and the pouch of flint. I ducked out of the tent, the flap brushing against my shoulders with a soft hiss.

  The camp was even more alive with smells—spiced meat, seared onions, something sweet and savory mingling in the smoke. Alexander stood over the fire, sleeves rolled, the morning light catching in his hair as he stirred something rich and bubbling in the pan. A line of cut vegetables gleamed beside him like soldiers waiting their turn, and a half-carved wild boar roast rested on the board, its juices running into the grooves.

  Rhys was perched on a stump, a half-demolished omelet in one hand, the other shoveling in another bite. Egg clung to the corner of her mouth, but she looked too blissfully focused to notice—or care. She spotted me and grinned wide, lifting her fork like a victory banner. A few crumbs of egg went flying.

  I smirked and veered toward the firewood stack. The logs looked like they’d been thrown together in a rush, some crooked, some still clinging to bark and clumps of pine needles. Rhys’s handiwork, no question. I dug out a few decent pieces, dusted off the debris, and tucked them under my arm.

  I let a grin spread across my face as I went over the plan in my mind. Just beyond the river bend, tucked behind a veil of ivy and stone, the cave waited—quiet, out of sight, and full of possibility. It wasn’t far from where Lyra and I had shared our first meal, her laughter catching in the breeze like it belonged there. Tonight, though… I had something a little more private in mind. Fewer distractions. Just the flicker of firelight, the sound of her voice, and time enough to see what else might unfold.

  I turned toward the trees, and the forest swallowed me in cool shadows. The scent of soft damp earth and blooming flowers enveloped me, a fragrant mixture of life and renewal. My boots pressed deep into the soft earth, each step marked with the sound of crushed leaves and shifting soil. The path narrowed the deeper I went, sunlight dappled through the thick canopy, casting shifting patches of gold onto the winding path beneath me. The river murmured softly beside me, its clear waters gliding over smooth stones, the occasional ripple betraying the darting movements of unseen fish.

  Wildlife had begun to wake up with the hum of insects and the distant trill of birds, nature’s orchestra playing around me in perfect harmony. Pink blossoms, heavy with fragrance, bent gracefully under the weight of the morning dew, their petals drifting lazily onto the path with each passing breeze. My fingers brushed against the rough bark of an ancient tree as I moved forward, its roots coiling into the ground like the gnarled fingers of some slumbering giant.

  The path curled upward, hugging the hillside as I followed it toward the waterfall. The sound of rushing water grew louder with each step, a deep, rhythmic thunder that vibrated in my chest. Mist clung to the air, cool and refreshing against my skin, tiny droplets catching the sunlight in a prism of color.

  Ahead, the waterfall cascaded down a moss-covered cliff, its silken veil parting just enough to reveal the shadowy maw of a cave hidden behind the gentle torrent. The entrance loomed like the mouth of some forgotten god, dark and waiting, its threshold slick with the eternal kiss of the waterfall’s spray.

  I paused at the edge of the path, feeling the rush of cool mist against my face. For a moment, I simply listened—to the crash of water against rock, to the whisper of wind through the leaves, to the steady, unyielding pulse of the forest itself. I took a steady breath and stepped forward, vanishing into the cavern’s depths.

  Inside the cave, the entrance framed a breathtaking panorama—an artist’s masterpiece of nature. The waterfall tumbled from the cliff above in a shimmering silver veil, its mist catching the golden hues of the afternoon sun. Beyond it, the vast forest stretched endlessly, a sea of emerald treetops swaying gently in the breeze. The river wound through the valley like a glistening ribbon, reflecting the sky in rippling shades of blue and gold. From this vantage point, the world seemed distant, muffled by the rhythmic roar of the falls and the hushed whispers of the wind threading through the trees.

  The cave itself was a sanctuary, carved by time and water into a secluded retreat. Stalactites, wrapped in delicate ivy, hung like nature’s chandeliers from the ceiling, their tips glistening with moisture. Smooth, cool stone stretched beneath my fingertips as I traced the natural curves of the cavern walls. A shallow alcove in the rock provided the perfect space for a makeshift hearth—tonight, it would hold a fire that would cast warm flickering light across the chamber, turning the damp gray stone into something almost inviting.

  This place was perfect. Private. Quiet. A hidden refuge from the chaos of camp and the watchful eyes of others.

  And it was exactly what I needed.

  Lyra and I had hardly had a moment alone since our arrival, and after the turmoil of the past days, I wanted—no, needed—to steal her away for an evening of uninterrupted indulgence. I had, after all, promised her a demonstration of my many talents, and to my delight, she had seemed genuinely intrigued. Of course, there was always the chance she’d decline my invitation, choosing caution over spontaneity. But I had no intention of letting that happen.

  If I was to ensure her acceptance, I needed to be at my most persuasive during the celebration. That wouldn't be a problem. Years under Killian’s thumb had honed my ability to captivate, to make my words a lure and my presence a prize. He had been relentless in his lessons, if there was something to be won, it had to be delivered to him, no exceptions.

  I forced the memories aside. Killian had no place in this moment.

  Tonight wasn’t about his manipulations. It was about pleasure, about stealing a fleeting moment of happiness in a world that rarely allowed it. With that in mind, I set to work finishing my impromptu camp, ensuring everything was in place.

  For one night, we would have no responsibilities, no burdens, just stolen laughter, warmth, and the rare luxury of forgetting everything else. Satisfied with my plan, I headed back to camp, a grin on my face and a bounce in my step. The forest stretched around me, bathed in the soft glow of the early afternoon sunlight, the leaves whispering overhead as a cool breeze rustled through the branches. My boots pressed into the damp earth, the rhythmic crunch of twigs and fallen leaves beneath me echoing in the quiet. Shadows danced between the trees, but for once, they felt like companions rather than lurking threats.

  Each step carried me closer to camp, but my mind never left Lyra. The forest blurred around me, my focus lost to the memory of her sharp wit, the way her eyes flickered with mischief. The crisp afternoon air barely registered, nor did the familiar path beneath my boots—I moved on instinct, drawn forward by habit while my thoughts lingered elsewhere. Tonight, for just a little while, we would be free.

  My thoughts of Lyra were interrupted as I stepped back into camp, the transformation was striking. What had been a quiet settlement that morning was now a vibrant flurry of movement and preparation. The scent of roasting meats and spiced cider mingled with the crisp air, carrying the promise of indulgence. Lanterns were being strung between trees, their golden glow flickering to life. Druids bustled about, their flowing robes catching the breeze as they arranged tables, set out garlands of woven flowers, and tended to simmering cauldrons brimming with rich, fragrant stews.

  At the heart of it all stood a newly erected wooden stage, its craftsmanship impressive even in its unfinished state. The platform, slightly elevated, had been designed with intention—a gathering place where music and revelry would soon take center stage. Instruments lay scattered about in preparation: lutes leaned against sturdy stools, flutes gleamed under the lazy light of midday, and drums, taut and waiting, would soon carry the pulse of the night.

  The stage itself was a work of art. Vibrant banners in deep reds, greens, and golds fluttered in the soft afternoon breeze, their edges embroidered with intricate symbols of nature and harmony. Delicate strings of fairy lights were being wound around its beams, their glow hinting at the magic soon to unfold. Above, a freshly painted sign read Plucking Amazing, a playful promise of the entertainment to come.

  The hum of excitement was infectious. Already, voices rose in laughter, the clinking of tankards and the tuning of instruments weaving together in a prelude to the night’s festivities. The camp was no longer just a resting place, it had transformed into a stage of its own, set for an evening of stories, song, and wild, uninhibited joy.

  As I ventured deeper into camp, the air became a tapestry of aromas, each scent more tantalizing than the last. Tasselia and her team moved with practiced precision, orchestrating a grand feast over a massive fire pit at the camp’s center. Spits turned slowly, bearing the weight of whole boars and plump chickens, their skins crisping to a golden perfection. Fat dripped onto the open flames below, sending up bursts of sizzling embers and rich, smoky fragrance that curled through the late afternoon air.

  Nearby, smaller grills hosted an array of skewered delicacies—mossback rabbit, its tender flesh kissed by flame, and marbled cuts of starhorn beef, their edges darkening under a careful blend of exotic spices. The scent of charred rosemary, smoked paprika, and crushed wild pepper mingled with the natural woodsmoke, creating an intoxicating perfume that set my stomach growling.

  Just beyond the fire pits, an open-air stall had been dedicated entirely to the art of breadmaking. Dough, dusted lightly with flour, was kneaded and stretched before being slid into makeshift stone ovens, emerging minutes later as golden, crusty loaves. Some were stuffed with sharp cheeses and fragrant herbs, their melted centers oozing slightly as they were sliced, while others had been brushed with honey and lavender, their sweet scent curling invitingly into the air.

  To the side, a selection of pastries and confections gleamed under the warm lantern light. Delicate fruit tarts, their crusts flaky and filled with thick, jewel-toned jams, sat beside spiced nut clusters and soft, sugar-dusted rolls that promised warmth and indulgence. Tasselia’s culinary mastery was on full display, and with Alexander’s extravagant menu to compliment hers, the feast promised to be an experience not just of taste, but of tradition, craftsmanship, and celebration.

  As I continued to wander, I found myself drawn—inevitably—to what was undoubtedly my favorite part of the festivities: the spirits. A sprawling section of the camp had been transformed into a breathtaking beer garden aptly named The Tipsy Treant by the druid tending to the set up. Rows of imposing oak casks stood proudly beneath a canopy of twinkling lights. Vines and ivy wove through the wooden beams of a rustic pergola, their leaves kissed by the warm glow of lanterns hanging at varying heights. Delicate drapery billowed gently in the night breeze, framing the space in delicate elegance, as if inviting guests into a world untouched by time.

  Beneath the golden shimmer of string lights, sturdy wooden tables had been arranged with an inviting charm, each adorned with soft ivory linens that pooled gracefully at the edges. At the center of each, elaborate floral arrangements overflowed with lush blooms—roses and peonies in soft pastels, their petals unfurling in the flickering candlelight. Crystal glassware, polished to a gleam, reflected the warm radiance of nearby lanterns, while small, silver-trimmed goblets—moon goblets, as they were called—waited to be filled with the finest spirits.

  The air carried the rich, heady aroma of ale and wine, blending with the faint sweetness of scattered rose petals that lay strewn across the ground. Robust, earthy ales exuded deep, malty aromas, hinting at roasted nuts, dark honey, and the rich musk of damp forest loam. Their darker counterparts—thick, near-black stouts—promised notes of smoked cocoa and bitter coffee, heavy on the tongue and warming to the core. Beside them, lighter lagers shimmered like liquid sunlight in their barrels, carrying the crisp scent of fresh grain and citrus, their effervescence a refreshing contrast to the heartier brews.

  Beyond the beer, a display of wine barrels perched on elegant wooden stands, their contents sloshing gently with each careful pour. Ruby-hued reds, full-bodied and rich with the essence of sun-warmed berries and aged spice, sat alongside golden ambers, their smooth texture hinting at oak and caramel. Effervescent sparkling whites and pale rosés, cool and crisp, waited in crystal decanters, their surfaces already beading with condensation in the warm early evening air.

  Scattered lanterns, placed strategically along the edges of the gathering, cast a soft, flickering light upon the pathways, perfect for guiding revelers deeper into the heart of the celebration. The entire space felt suspended between the wild and the refined, where nature’s untamed beauty wove seamlessly with the elegance of candlelit indulgence. Here, beneath the cascading glow of fairy lights and surrounded by the intoxicating scent of good drink and fresh blooms, the night would surely stretch long, filled with laughter, stories, and the rare magic of fleeting moments worth savoring.

  The camp had transformed into a sprawling festival ground, alive with anticipation as final preparations were underway. Jesters, clad in a riot of colors, busied themselves with last-minute rehearsals, their movements accompanied by the cheerful jangle of tiny bells sewn into their costumes. They practiced dazzling juggling routines, tossing flaming torches and gleaming knives in synchronized arcs, while others tested their acrobatic prowess, flipping and tumbling effortlessly across the clearing. Once the festivities began, they would weave through the crowd, delivering impromptu performances meant to dazzle, delight, and, occasionally, scandalize.

  Nearby, an open glade had been transformed into a dance floor, where ribbons and garlands of wildflowers draped from poles and tree branches, fluttering in the warm evening breeze. The soft golden light of the setting sun filtered through the canopy, casting a dreamlike glow over the space. Soon, the musicians would take to the stage, filling the night with lively melodies meant to lure even the most reluctant dancers onto the floor.

  To the side of the beer garden, a section of the camp was dedicated to a series of competitive games, promising both displays of skill and lighthearted fun. The archery range was nearly complete, colorful targets positioned at varying distances, each one designed to test the precision of both novice and seasoned archers. Bows and quivers of arrows stood ready, their polished surfaces gleaming in the fading daylight.

  For those who preferred contests of brute strength, a sturdy wooden table had been set up for arm wrestling—a simple but beloved staple among warriors. Already, a few eager competitors hovered nearby, rolling their shoulders and flexing their fingers in anticipation of the inevitable boasts, wagers, and crushing defeats.

  Further still, a more whimsical challenge awaited. A cordoned-off clearing had been prepared for Sprite Catch, a game of agility and magic. A wizard stood at its center, murmuring incantations as orbs of enchanted light began to flicker to life, darting unpredictably through the air like mischievous fireflies. Participants would be handed nets woven from spun moonlight, the only material light and enchanted enough to capture the elusive sprite’s. The game would be a test of quick reflexes, each successful catch rewarded with laughter and small enchanted trinkets.

  Encircling the tournament grounds, the Druids had erected a sprawling marketplace, a collection of stalls brimming with handcrafted marvels. Jewelry gleamed under the soft lantern light, silver and semi-precious stones worked into intricate, nature-inspired designs. Fine leather goods, adorned with elegant embossments of vines and celestial patterns, lay in careful display beside delicate bottles of rare elixirs. Some stalls offered whimsical trinkets—charms infused with minor enchantments, pocket-sized star maps, and miniature orbs that swirled with captured light, each one a tiny piece of magic waiting to be discovered.

  As the final touches were made, the energy in the air grew palpable—a promise of an unforgettable night filled with laughter, challenge, and revelry. The festival was nearly upon us, and soon, the camp would erupt into a celebration that would stretch long into the night.   "Cinnamis really meant it," Lyra said, catching me off guard.

  "Darling, I'm going to have to get you a bell," I joked, glancing around at the vibrant festivities getting ready to unfold around us. "It seems the druids indeed know how to host a magnificent celebration."

  "Cinnamis went all out; she raided the druid's stores to ensure we had an abundance of food and wine," Lyra observed, her eyes twinkling as she took in the scene.

  "And where might our nature-loving friends be now?" I inquired, scanning the crowd of druids feverously preparing the celebration grounds.

  "They will be here tonight. Cinnamis made it very clear however, no business—tonight is strictly for pleasure," Lyra replied with a sly grin.

  "Ah, my beauty, pleasure is indeed my favorite kind of business," I responded with a playful wink. Lyra's laughter filled the air, her cheeks tinting with a rosy flush.

  “I promised Alexander I would taste his food; I’ll see you later tonight?” She smiled still flushed

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Mmm, well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from fulfilling such an important promise darling… however… I do hope you save room for a little indulgence later” I looked at her coyly.

  With that Lyra turned on her heels happily sauntering towards Alexander ready to assist with his food preparations. I watched her for a moment more, thoughts lingering on what magic the night would hold. When Lyra glanced back at me, I smiled allowing myself to be caught in her gaze, before turning and heading to my tent to prepare for the evening ahead.

  As dusk draped the camp in twilight hues, the festivities roared to life. Melodies wove through the night air, mingling with the rich aroma of fire-roasted meats, spiced stews, and honeyed bread. Robust ales sloshed in tankards, fine wines gleamed like liquid jewels in their goblets, and laughter rang out with the unburdened joy of warriors celebrating victory. The druids stood united in revelry, their voices rising in song, their carnival coming to life in the glow of firelight and shared triumph.

  Even my companions surrendered, if only for the night, to the intoxicating pull of celebration. The looming shadow of the Serpenthir and their venom-laced plots could wait until morning.

  Emre, true to form, treated the festivities as any warrior would, a test of endurance, strength, and sheer will. She made a hasty stop at The Tipsy Treant, securing several tankards of ale before striding toward the tournament grounds, where contests of skill and might were already underway. Her presence alone drew challengers, from adventurers to druids, eager to test themselves against a Nocthyris Elf.

  One by one, they fell beneath the unyielding press of her arm, their wrists slammed to the table as she claimed victory after victory in the arm-wrestling ring. The cheers grew louder, the line of hopefuls longer, but amidst the thrill of combat, I caught something rare, a smile. A flicker of satisfaction that softened her usually frigid countenance, the glow of challenge alight in her silver eyes. This was her kind of celebration.

  Meanwhile, there was never any question as to where Rhys would be found. The dwarf had stationed herself at the heart of the barbecue pits, where Tasselia’s masterful cooking filled the air with mouthwatering scents. In her hands, she carried an impressive feat of engineering—plates piled high with every cut of meat, grilled vegetables glistening with butter, skewers stacked so precariously they seemed to defy gravity. Her molten-colored skin all but glowed in the firelight, her eyes bright with gluttonous glee as she dropped into the grass, strategically positioning herself near the food tents for quick refills.

  She took a generous bite, groaning in satisfaction before flashing a grin at Alexander. “Your spread’s next, mate, don’t you worry,” she assured him between mouthfuls.

  As if summoned by the promise of good drink, Mylena approached, her normally reserved demeanor softened in the firelight. She balanced several glasses of deep red wine in one hand, a plate of Alexander’s finest enchanted cheeses and spiced bread in the other. There was no hint of her usual solemnity, just a quiet ease, a rare smile tugging at her lips as she set her bounty down beside Rhys.

  For one night, there were no enemies, no looming dangers, just the thrill of victory, the delight of luxury, and the rare treat of forgetting everything else.

  Alexander, utterly engrossed in his culinary craft, took every opportunity to ensnare an audience—whether they intended to listen or not. Between stirring simmering sauces and flipping cuts of expertly seasoned meat, he launched into grand, theatrical monologues about his menu. He spoke with the passion of a bard and the precision of a scholar, detailing the art of slow roasting a boar to perfection or the delicate balance of herbs that elevated his enchanted cheeses.

  Every ingredient had a history, every dish a tale, and no passerby was safe from his eager explanations. It was easy to forget he was a wizard—tonight, he was a chef first, and a relentless one at that. Anyone too polite to escape quickly found themselves nodding along as he spun yet another lengthy anecdote about the origins of a rare Everdare spice or the correct way to knead enchanted dough.

  A short distance from Alexander, laughter rippled through the night like wind through leaves. A loose ring of children sat cross-legged on the mossy ground, eyes wide and mouths agape, caught in the invisible pull of Corran’s voice. Deep and rich, it rolled through the glade like distant thunder, every word conjuring beasts and heroes from thin air.

  Beside him, Cinnamis darted back and forth, her arms sweeping dramatically as she transformed into snarling beasts, bumbling fools, and cackling villains with each flick of her leafy hair. She gasped so loudly at her own twists, the children clutched each other and squealed. When she mimed a troll’s blundering chase, tripping over her own feet and landing in a triumphant spin, the children collapsed into giggles.

  A hush fell as Corran’s tale wound toward its peak. Little hands clutched knees; a few leaned forward, noses nearly touching the earth, unable to blink. Then—boom! —his final word cracked like a storm breaking, and the spell shattered into joyful chaos.

  Cheers erupted. Hands clapped. A small voice shouted, “Another one!”

  Cinnamis struck a pose mid-bow, her eyes sparkling. Corran chuckled, a low rumble of amusement. “Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the eager faces, “if you insist...”

  Without missing a beat, Cinnamis launched into the next tale with a leap and a shriek, and the children, already breathless with excitement, fell headlong into another enchanted world.

  I watched them for a moment, their infectious energy weaving into the night’s revelry, and with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, I rolled my eyes. It was too much joy, too much laughter—but also, I supposed, precisely what tonight was meant for. With that thought, I turned on my heel and made my way toward the wine, ready to indulge in a more refined pleasure.

  The Tipsy Treant welcomed me with a hush of lavender-scented air and the soft creak of wooden beams overhead. I found an empty table nestled beside a trio of squat oak casks, their bark still mottled with moss. Etched into their flanks in curling script: Eldritch Berry Sangiovese. The very name made my mouth water.

  I drew a glass from the tap, and the wine streamed out in a silken ribbon, catching the lamplight in shades of blood and garnet. Swirling it gently, I held it to my nose. A bloom of blackberry rose to meet me, chased by cherry, the perfume of ripe fruit tangled with a suggestion of cracked white pepper. I took a sip. Velvet. Bold. The berries unfurled first—sun-warmed and syrup-sweet—then came the spice, dancing lightly at the edges, before everything settled into a grounded, earthen hush. It lingered, firm and elegant, like the final note of a well-tuned harp.

  I leaned back, cradling the glass between my fingers. From this little perch, tucked into a curve of ivy-covered trellis, the view stretched past the beer garden’s edge to where lanterns floated like fireflies above the grass. Beyond them, Lyra moved.

  The soft glow caught the shimmer in her eyes, reflecting the light as she turned. The sway of her form—half shadow, half flame—drew the eye like a magnet. My chair, as though by fate, gave me a perfect line of sight. Close enough to catch the subtle expressions that flitted across her face, far enough to admire the grace in every step.

  I took another sip, slower this time. The wine, the view, the hush between laughter and lute strings, it all melted together. And for once, I asked nothing more of the evening.

  Lanterns bobbed overhead, their golden glow swaying gently like fireflies caught mid-dream. Beneath them, Lyra moved—not so much dancing as drifting, her steps painting strokes of silver across the green. Her gown, the color of shadowed emerald and candlelit gold, whispered against the grass with every turn. The fabric caught the air like spun mist, and delicate vines embroidered along the bodice climbed and curled as if still growing, tracing her form with nature’s reverence.

  Her hair, long as a story untold, flowed behind her in silken waves, threaded with tiny blossoms and looping ivy. The breeze teased it skyward, lifting loose strands in slow, ethereal spirals—each one catching the lanternlight and turning it to moonbeam. Tiny stones stitched into the hem of her gown glinted with every step, like stars trailing her wake.

  In her hand, a flute of Feywild Prosecco shimmered, filled with bubbles that rose like silver moths toward the rim. Between twirls, she sipped, the drink glowing faintly, casting flickers of light across her cheekbones. Her eyes danced brighter than any lantern, lit from within by laughter and something wilder still.

  The bards played on, eight pirate songsters who looked like they'd sailed straight from a storm and into a spotlight. They didn’t just take the stage, they claimed it, kicking into their set like a cannonball to the hull. Coats of leather and weathered silk billowed with every turn, adorned with charms stolen from a dozen realms, bone whistles, glass eyes, and locket-sized mirrors that flashed in the lanternlight.

  And their hair. Each bard wore his wild mane like a personal flag of defiance. Blue spikes stood tall like reef-stone; tangled magenta locks whipped like sails in a gale; one’s silver fringe shimmered like moonlight on water. Lime, plum, fire-orange—their heads clashed in color like a drunken painter’s fever dream, and somehow, it worked. They were peacocks with cutlasses, jesters with rhythm, every strand a story.

  Instruments hung from them like extra limbs, lutes with salt-stained bodies, tambourines charred at the rim, flutes carved from driftwood and bone. They danced and played with ridiculous precision, leaping onto barrels, spinning in unison, swapping verses mid-tumble.

  The crowd—druids, dryads, and more than a few tipsy forest spirits—howled in delight. Lanterns swayed. Roots pulsed. Fireflies froze mid-air to listen.

  Above the crowds noise rang the chorus, the bards shouted in perfect, joyful anarchy:

  “Spin it now, keep it twirlin’, don’t ask how—just fly!

  Got that goblet full of wonder, stars are spillin’ from the sky!”

  —one bard vaulted clean over a bench, landing with a flourish just in time to belt the next line.

  “If you wanna feel bold, chase the tale that’s being told

  We’re pluckin’ amazing—every bar worth more than gold!”

  The crowd roared. Another tossed his purple-streaked hair, clutched his chest, and staggered like a heartsick prince, only to be mock-slapped by a lime-haired bandmate mid-harmony. The rhythm never faltered. Even their antics moved in time with the music, kicks, pirouettes, and perfectly timed pratfalls woven into the melody like part of the score. It was performance, farce, and magic all at once, plucking amazing, indeed.

  Lyra let their music flow through her, each beat absorbed into the sway of her hips and the curl of her fingers. She danced not to the music but with it, a partner to its rhythm, a muse set loose. As the last chords faded into the velvet night, she tipped back her glass and drank the final sparkle of her prosecco.

  As if sensing my eyes on her, she turned.

  Her eyes finding mine, steady as a spell. A slow, deliberate smile curved across her lips. It wasn’t just joy. It was challenge. Invitation. A secret she knew I wanted. And though the world around her buzzed with song and celebration, for that breathless moment, there was only her gaze and me, utterly unwilling to look away.

  With effortless grace, she glided toward The Tipsy Treant, the soft sway of her gown mirroring the fluidity of her movements. But it wasn’t the dress that held my attention, it was the way she held my gaze, unbroken and intent, each step deliberate, a silent conversation weaving between us. The lantern light flickered against her eyes, glinting with something unmistakable, something just for me.

  Entering the beer garden, she paused only to refill her glass, her fingers tracing the rim as she let the sparkling wine settle. Then, without hesitation, she sauntered toward me, her movements slow, unrushed, full of intent. The air between us tightened, charged with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises.

  Stopping just within reach, she lifted her glass in a silent toast, amusement dancing on her lips. The look she gave me then—bold, teasing, full of wicked invitation—made it abundantly clear: she had come for more than just the wine.

  "Do you always prefer your own company, or might you share some of that wine with me, Kieran?" Lyra teased, swirling the Feywild Prosecco in her glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else in her gaze—something teasing, daring, inviting me to play along.

  "Actually, I was hoping to save the best part of the evening for when you'd join me for a moonlit stroll," I replied, leaning back with a roguish grin, letting the words hang between us like an unspoken challenge.

  "A stroll?" she mused, arching a delicate brow. "And miss out on this lively gathering?" She gestured toward the revelers, the laughter and music swirling around us like an intoxicating spell.

  "But consider the appeal of a quiet spot by the river," I countered smoothly, tilting my glass in her direction. "I seem to recall a certain promise of… fun."

  "Ah, yes," she murmured, a sultry lilt in her voice as she traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. "That promise was made." Then, with a single graceful tilt of her wrist, she downed the rest of her wine in one fluid motion, licking the last taste from her lips in a way that was entirely too distracting. "But if you desire my company beyond the crowd, I might require a little charm. Perhaps a please?"

  I let the silence stretch, feigning contemplation, before meeting her gaze with a smirk. "Please, join me," I said, my voice dipping just enough to make the word feel like something far more tempting.

  Her laughter was soft, almost purring with approval. "Good boy," she said, eyes gleaming as she set her empty glass aside. "Let’s see if you’re as good at keeping promises as you are at making them.”

  "Darling, I don’t just keep promises, I exceed expectations," I teased, standing and extending a hand, my grin matching the mischief in her tone. "Shall we?"

  She slid her fingers into mine, her touch warm despite the evening chill. "Lead the way," she murmured, her voice a promise of its own.

  We left the revelry behind, the night stretching before us, charged with possibilities neither of us had any intention of resisting.

  Guiding Lyra along the riverbank, we retraced the path to a place where we had shared our first… meal. But the air between us now buzzed with a different kind of hunger, one neither of us dared name just yet. Each step along the winding stone path was charged, the brush of her arm against mine sending ripples of awareness through my skin. The night wrapped around us, thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, the distant symphony of rushing water calling us forward.

  At last, we reached the hidden bend in the river, where a delicate bridge arched over the shimmering surface, the moonlight dancing across the ripples. Crossing it, I led her uphill, the narrow trail winding toward the secluded gem I had discovered earlier. And there it was—our destination—a cave framed by a silver cascade of water, the falls catching the night’s glow and breaking it into glimmering prisms of color. The mist curled in the air, cool and inviting, and for a moment, we both stood still, lost in the simple magic of it.

  Reality intruded. "Shit," I muttered, noticing the waterfall had grown heavier since my last visit, now crashing over the cave’s entrance in an unrelenting veil. There was no way in except through.

  Lyra turned to me, mischief dancing in her eyes, her lips curling into something that was equal parts challenge and delight. "Oh, how tragic," she mocked with feigned sympathy—before darting forward without hesitation.

  She dashed straight through the waterfall. A surprised laugh bubbled from my throat as I watched her disappear, swallowed by the rushing veil of water. My hesitation lasted only a second before I chased after her, my heart hammering with exhilaration.

  The impact was a shock—cold and relentless, the water drumming against my skin as I plunged through. On the other side, I emerged to the sound of Lyra’s laughter, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the cavern. She stood there, completely drenched, her gown clinging to her form, her hair dripping down her shoulders like dark ribbons of ink. She looked wild. Free. And in that moment, so utterly alive.

  I couldn’t stop myself—I laughed too, shaking the water from my hair, feeling lighter than I had in days. The weight of the world had slipped away, washed clean by the waterfall’s embrace.

  "I suppose the drenching wasn't part of your plan?" Lyra teased, her grin wide as she eyed the bedroll and firewood I had arranged inside earlier.

  Joining in the laughter, I began to prepare the fire, adding warmth and a cozy glow to the cave. Despite the waterfall now veiling the entrance, the water was crystal clear, casting a shimmering view of the forest outside and filling the cave with a soothing sound reminiscent of gentle rain.

  When I turned, she was already close—closer than I expected. Her steps were slow, deliberate, the soft pat of her bare feet against the cave floor almost lost beneath the quiet crackle of the fire. Water clung to her like dew, her drenched robe clinging in all the right places. She lifted a hand and slipped her fingers through my soaked hair, combing it back with a touch that lingered. I didn’t move. My breath stalled somewhere in my chest as I met her eyes.

  There was mischief in them, gleaming silver and green like moonlight through leaves. Her lips curled into a smile that knew exactly what it was doing.

  “Kieran,” she purred, voice soft but wicked, “do you know what my favorite part of this dress is?”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing useful came out. She leaned in before I could find a clever reply, her breath warm as it brushed my ear.

  “The way it looks on the floor,” she whispered, slow and honey sweet.

  Then she was gone, just a step, but it left the space between us charged and wanting. Her fingers skimmed my cheek on the way, a fleeting touch that burned hotter than the fire. Without breaking eye contact, she let her robe slip from her shoulders. It slid down like a sigh, pooling at her feet with a sound softer than silk.

  I blinked. She stood there in little more than moonlight and boldness, all curves and confidence, unbothered and entirely in control.

  A breath escaped me—half laugh, half disbelief. I dragged a hand through my hair, already longing once more for her touch, and tilted my head just enough to smirk.

  “You’re right, darling,” I said, voice low and amused. “It suits you on the floor… dangerously well.” Drawn by her daring, I peeled off my soaked clothes, the fabric clinging stubbornly before slipping free and hitting the cave floor with a wet thud. The cool air kissed my skin, but it was the heat in her gaze that made my pulse skip. I paused—caught mid-motion—eyes tracing the way moonlight spilled across her shoulders while the firelight danced along the curve of her waist. Shadows and flame fought over her like jealous lovers, each trying to claim the shimmer of her skin. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Not with her standing there like that—wild, luminous, and utterly spellbinding. Lyra held my gaze before speaking.

  “What do you want from me, Kieran?” she whispered, stepping closer and gently placing her hand on my chest. I let the question linger between us, tasting the weight of it in the charged air. My fingers traced the delicate curve of her jaw, my thumb skimming the softness of her skin as I lifted her chin, ensuring she met my gaze—ensuring she saw the truth in it.

  "What do I want?" I echoed, my voice low, laced with something deeper than mere desire. "I want the fire in your eyes when you challenge me. The laughter on your lips when you tease me. I want the way your presence lingers in my thoughts long after you’ve gone, like a song that refuses to be forgotten."

  My fingers slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I leaned in, close enough to feel the whisper of her breath against mine.

  "I want the silence between words, the space between heartbeats, the moment before a kiss—when everything else fades, and all that remains is you."

  Lyra reached for me, fingers curling into my hair as she drew me in—finally, our lips met. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was fierce, unspoken things crashing all at once. Stifled longing, sleepless nights, glances held too long, and words never said. She kissed me like someone who had waited far too long, like every breath she hadn’t taken was now spilling into mine.

  My hand slid from her chin, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against me. She melted into the space between us without hesitation, her arms looping around my neck, holding fast—as if the moment might vanish if she let go. As if I was something she’d found in the dark and had no intention of losing.

  Our kiss broke, just for a breath, but in that heartbeat, I bent and swept her into my arms. Lyra moved with me as if she'd always known the rhythm, her legs curling around my waist with practiced grace. Her skin ignited against mine, like the quiet burn of embers buried deep in ash, a heat that didn’t fade but smoldered steady, sending sparks trailing wherever we touched.

  I found her lips again, this time slower, teasing—my teeth catching her lower lip as if coaxing the fire to rise. It answered, fierce and alive, flaring between us like a blaze stirred back to life.

  Still tangled together, I carried her across the cave with careful steps, sinking to my knees at the edge of the bedroll. I lowered her gently, unwilling to break the spell, letting her settle into the soft tangle of blankets and shadow.

  For a moment, I hovered above her, drinking in the sight—how the firelight licked across her skin in flickers of gold and copper, catching in her hair, like threads of flame. She smiled up at me, slow and knowing, tugging at her lower lip with her teeth in a silent dare. Then, with a tilt of her head, she turned—bare throat exposed in the glow, the line of it graceful and deliberate.

  An offering of trust and an invitation to come closer.

  I leaned in with a slow smile, the space between us shrinking like a held breath. My lips found her chin first—just a whisper of contact—then wandered, brushing along the curve of her jaw, each kiss a quiet confession etched into her skin. I followed the line of her cheek, trailing warmth and want in my wake, until I reached the hollow where her pulse danced beneath soft skin.

  There, I lingered.

  With a low exhale, I grazed her with my teeth, a gentle bite that sent a ripple through both of us. She pressed closer, drawn in like a moth to flame deepening the moment. Desire kindling in the spaces where words had no place.

  Lyra’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp that caught in her throat—before it spilled into a low, satisfied moan that wrapped around us like silk. Her hands roamed my back with slow, searching strokes, fingers tracing the contours of muscle as if memorizing a map drawn in heat and shadows.

  My own hands moved in kind, gliding over the curves of her body with the gentleness of butterfly wings, each touch stirring the air between us, delicate but electric. Beneath the flickering firelight, our connection deepened—quiet, unspoken, and as inevitable as gravity.   I lingered at her neck, savoring the tremble beneath my lips, the way her breath caught in the quiet. The bite softened, melting into a kiss—slow, reverent, as if sealing a promise into her skin.

  Her hands slipped up my back, fingers grazing like wind over tall grass, then curved around my face with a tenderness that held weight. She pulled me upward, guiding me back to her lips—open, waiting, blooming like something sacred under moonlight.

  I fell into her kiss—deep, unguarded—like diving headfirst into a storm. It surged between us, building with every breath, every press of lips and breathless sound, until it thundered through me, wild and unstoppable, like the night sky rumbling just before the downpour.

  Lyra’s fingers slipped from my face with lingering grace, trailing back down to my spine, each touch a spark that lit trails of molten gold beneath my skin. I shivered—not from cold, but from the unbearable contrast between her fire and the wet fabric clinging to us like a veil of mist, unwelcome and chilling.

  She must have felt it too, the need, the friction, the heat pressing against something that refused to burn. Her hands stilled for a heartbeat, then shifted with purpose. No words passed between us, only the shared urgency crackling in the space we barely occupied. With a sudden, breathless hunger, she clawed at her soaked undergarments, tearing them away like a storm ripping through leaves. Mine followed, her fingers fumbling, frantic, determined to strip us of anything that dared to muffle the wildfire raging through us.

  With the burden of clothes gone, I slipped inside her like a gentle whisper into silence. Lyra gasped, the sound catching like wind in a sail, her body arching into mine with a sudden, desperate grace—as if pulled by some magnetic tide she could no longer resist. Her skin met mine in a rush of heat, every inch of her a flame seeking oxygen.

  I exhaled, sharp and shallow, like a bellows catching fire. My fingers slid from her back, capturing her wrists with a slow, deliberate reverence, and guided them above her head—pressing them gently into the bedroll like setting down a blade with care, not to restrain, but to revel in the power humming between us.

  Together we let the world fall away until nothing existed but the warmth of our shared breath and the gentle beat of our hearts in unison. Simultaneously, we moved in harmony, our shadows blending on the walls, casting a ballet of light and darkness that reflected the depth of our connection. In that moment, we were nothing less than fire itself—wild, untamable, and exciting in its purest form.

  We drifted through the fading twilight, caught in a current neither of us wanted to escape. Like twin rivers converging, we moved as one—no beginning, no end, only the steady, pulsing flow of something inevitable. Lyra moved with a grace that left me breathless, each shift of her hips like water gliding over polished stone, smooth and hypnotic, drawing me deeper into her rhythm.

  She answered every touch with a response that stoked the fire between us, fluid and fierce, a dance of flame and tide. I followed her, guided her, lost myself in the ebb and swell of her body until she trembled beneath me—spent and glowing. When the last waves stilled, she lay wrapped in the warmth we’d created, a fire dimmed to embers, soft and smoldering in the hush that followed.

  As I lay beside her, the rhythm of her breath slow and steady, I stared into the dark, searching for the edges of myself. The fire had dimmed, but its warmth lingered—on my skin, in my chest, where it had no business being. For someone like Killian, seduction was a weapon honed to a razor’s edge, and I had learned to wield it without letting it cut too deep. Desire had always been a mask, and I wore it well smiling with lips that felt nothing, touching with hands that left no imprint on my soul.

  But now… now something slipped.

  A tightness pulled between my brows, panic rising like a splinter under the skin. Where there should have been numbness, a void I could fall back into like an old habit, there was only Lyra—her form curled against mine, peaceful, the firelight soft against her cheek. And I was still here. Still in my body. Still tethered. Her touch hadn’t driven me away from myself, it had rooted me, held me fast, and that realization struck like ice down my spine.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I turned my face from her, closing my eyes like it might shut out the truth. It’s the pressure, I told myself. The stress. The plan. The storm that’s coming. That had to be it. I needed her, her trust, her strength, if I was going to bring Killian down. This… this was just leverage. A necessary entanglement.

  And yet, beneath the layers of justification and strategy, something quieter stirred—something fragile and persistent. A whisper I refused to let take shape. I buried it deep, where feelings went to die, and told myself it meant nothing. She was just an ally.

  Nothing more.

  A breath of relief had slipped from me then, soft, unguarded, but it hadn’t lasted.

  In the heat of our passion, her fingers had wandered, exploring with the same gentle hunger that had lit every touch between us. But when her hands reached my back, I felt the shift. Her caress slowed, fingertips trailing the raised map of scars etched into my skin. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t spoken—but I’d felt it. That quiet moment of recognition, when tenderness collided with something far more painful.

  Even now, the memory of it made my throat tighten.

  Those scars weren’t stories I liked to tell, they were warnings, reminders. Killian had left them with purpose, each mark of his oath a lesson in fear and control. I’d have to let my guard fall just long enough for truth to slip through the cracks. If she was to stand with me in this—if we were to bring him down, she needed to know. She needed to see the monster as I did. To feel it in her bones. To hate him as much as I did.