Page 71 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Rhystan chuckles behind his brother. “Careful, Lyrion, your jaw is practically on the floor.”
Lyrion turns to his brother, and I bite back a laugh. If looks could kill I’m fairly certain Rhystan would be in serious trouble right now.
While he’s distracted glaring at his brother, I take a moment to study the brooding Elf lord. He looks so handsome in his elegant dark blue tunic and fitted pants, understated yet perfectly tailored, highlighting his quiet strength and reserved nature.
Beside him, Rhystan wears a vibrant green tunic, with matching pants, embroidered with intricate silver and gold patterns, a clear reflection of his outgoing personality.
I know they’re identical twins, but they couldn’t possibly be more different in my eyes. My gaze keeps returning to Lyrion, drawn to him as if by an invisible thread.
Lyrion offers me his arm and we make our way to the ballroom. Worry twists inside me as we walk downstairs, but I take a deep breath and lift my chin.
I’ve faced worse than haughty nobles. I survived losing everything. Surely, I can survive a few scathing glances.
As soon as we enter, my breath catches. It’s like stepping into a dream. Glittering chandeliers cast golden light upon dancing couples dressed in elegant, flowing gowns, and finely tailored tunics, moving gracefully over polished marble floors. Soft music fills the air, mingling with the low hum of chatter and the clink of delicate glasses.
Rhystan leans in close and whispers conspiratorially in my ear. “That’s Lord Fenrin.” He subtly points to a tall Elf man in the center of the room with long, brown hair and piercing grayeyes. “He’s rather full of himself, but harmless enough. And that is his betrothed.” He gestures to a striking Elf woman with blue eyes, and flowing golden hair, her red gown trailing elegantly behind her. “Lady Tayra, the star of the evening.”
She’s so beautiful. She looks like a princess.
Rhystan smirks, eyes glinting with humor. “She once tried serenading Lyrion. It ended spectacularly badly. Poor thing sounded like a warbling bird.”
Despite his comments on her singing, insecurity tightens my chest as I watch Tayra glide gracefully across the room. Next to her, I feel rather clumsy and plain.
Rhystan continues. “Her voice was so terrible, Lyrion thought she was ill and when he commented on her health, she became offended and stormed off.”
“I wasn’t trying to offend her,” Lyrion says pointedly. “I was merely concerned.”
“And obviously clueless.” Rhystan smirks.
I bite my lower lip to hold back a laugh as they bicker back and forth.
But as we stand there, I feel the curious weight of countless gazes drifting toward me, some openly curious, and others tinged with subtle judgment.
When Lyrion returns to my side, several of them look away.
Rhystan gazes out at the crowd and sighs. “I suppose I’ll go do what I do best.”
“What’s that?” I ask, curious.
“Mingle.” He winks at us. “Do try not to get into any trouble, you two,” he teases before he leaves to go speak with a group of rather snobby looking High Elves.
After he walks off, Lyrion gets pulled into a conversation with two other Elves and I take a moment to duck behind a cluster of flowering urns, pretending to adjust the buckle of my shoe as the swirl of gowns and gilded conversation sweeps past. The ballis dizzying, like stepping into a fairytale that wasn’t written for someone like me.
I just need a moment to breathe—to gather myself before facing further judgment. I already feel like a bug under a glass. But then I hear voices around the corner, low and cutting.
“Honestly, Lyrion, you brought ahuman?” The speaker doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Is this some sort of statement? A joke?”
My stomach twists.
Another voice joins in, amused. “She looked positively lost. I nearly mistook her for a servant.”
“She’s my guest,” Lyrion says, voice calm yet cold as ice. “And I’ll not have you insulting her.”
“Come now,” the first voice sneers. “Humans don’tbelongin our circles. You think dressing one in silk makes her your equal?”
“Sheismy equal,” Lyrion states firmly. “And far more than that, she’s a better person than most of the scheming sycophants I see parading through these halls.”
