Page 92 of Kissing Potions and Elves
My pulse thunders wildly as she ushers me toward the stage. I glance at Brakkus and Cyran one last time, and they each offer a reassuring thumbs-up.
With a deep breath, I step in front of the curtain, the wood platform creaking beneath my feet as I take my place beneath the lantern lights.
The village square stretches before me, filled with people gathered for the Celestial Festival. The air is cool, scented with the sweet fragrance of baked goods and cider. My heart leaps nervously as the murmurs quiet, every eye turning expectantly toward me.
My voice shakes as I speak my first line. But as the words spill forth, my nervousness gradually shifts into something else. The Huntress’s tale resonates deeply, tugging at wounds still fresh in my heart.
Every line of this part of the Huntress’s story seems to echo my own sadness. She thought the Warrior did not return her feelings. I understand the despair of her loneliness and longing… of loving someone who was never truly mine.
CHAPTER 47
LYRION
The cool night wind claws at my form, the trees blurring past us as Nyxus races swiftly through the forest.
Rhystan rides closely at my side upon Asher. “We’re nearly there,” he calls out.
My heart hammers as the village lights come into view, like a beacon guiding me home, calling me to Isobel.
Memories surface of her gentle laughter, the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers, the feel of her in my arms. I grit my fangs as I recall the hurt and devastation in her eyes when Elyssia arrived.
I will beg Isobel for forgiveness on my hands and knees if I must. And if she grants this, I will spend the rest of my life making sure she never regrets it.
Now that my betrothal to Elyssia is dissolved, the magic preventing me from recognizing my fated mate is gone as well. I’ll have to find another Elven potions master to redo theHeartshadespell, because I don’t want to risk hurting Isobel if I ever were to come across my fated one.
My thoughts churn with anxiety and hope as we emerge from the woods. Oakvale spreads out before us, the golden lanterns shimmering in the darkness.
We dismount from the Wolves, and they swiftly return to the forest.
It’s the weekend of the Celestial Festival. I had planned to bring Isobel to this. I thought it would be special after our time in the garden, under the stars.
The soft murmurs of villagers and gentle music drift through the air, along with the scent of cider, cooked meats, freshly baked bread, and sweet pastries.
When we reach the town square, I see Isobel up on a stage. Moonlight casts her in an ethereal glow, her long hair spilling down her back in golden waves. Her voice is raw and full of emotion as she speaks of lost love, heartache, and longing.
My heart clenches as I realize she is acting out the part of the Huntress in a play. She’s stunningly beautiful. Regret fills me as every line she delivers seems to be a reflection of the terrible pain I’ve caused her.
I make my way through the crowd to the back of the stage. Cyran is standing next to the curtain, dressed as the Warrior, waiting for his cue.
As soon as he sees me, he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he says in a low voice so as not to interrupt the play. “Come back to break her heart even more than you already have?”
Isobel is his friend. I deserve his anger. “It was never my intent to hurt her,” I whisper. “My betrothal was arranged. As soon as I realized how I felt about Isobel, I sent word that I wanted to break it.”
“Why did you leave with your fiancée then?” He crosses his arms, not convinced.
“To officially break our betrothal before both our families and the royal court.”
“And now you’ve returned to do what, exactly?” He arches a condescending brow. “Because if you hurt her, I won’t be the only one you have to deal with. You’re also going to have a rather large and intimidating problem on your hands.” He gestures grandly to Brakkus.
The Orc glares at me and then makes a motion of mock-pounding his left fist into his right hand, and I understand exactly what he is trying to convey.
“I love her,” I hiss to Cyran, and Brakkus’s eyes widen in response. “I’m here to beg her forgiveness.”
Cyran gives me a pointed look. “Love is a rare gift. Some chase it their entire lives. And some of us wonder if we’ll ever find it at all.” Something akin to pain flashes briefly behind his eyes and I wonder how close this is to his own truth. “Don’t mess this up, Lyrion.”
“You have my word,” I vow. A sudden thought occurs to me. “I need your costume.”
He gives me a skeptical look.
