Day 4 before the Harvest Festival
“What should I wear to the harvest party… something casual or more formal? Damn it… even this is hard to think about…”
Tila paced back and forth inside the cabin, arms crossed, tail swishing restlessly behind her without her even noticing. Her forehead was furrowed as if she were planning a war strategy.
But no.
It was worse.
It was clothing.
And somehow, that felt a lot more dangerous.
She opened the small wooden chest in the corner of the room.
Inside, the options were… limited.
No real dresses, no expensive silk.
Just simple village clothes.
Even so, to her, it felt like an emotional minefield.
She pulled out the first piece.
“This one is… too normal…”
A plain brown dress. Literally work-in-the-garden clothes.
“If I go like this they’ll think I came straight from planting…”
Tossed back inside.
She pulled out the second one.
“Too cute…”
Too bright. Too light. Looked like a romantic date outfit.
Her heart beat faster just imagining it.
“No, no, no, that’s way too suspicious… they’ll notice…”
Tossed back as well.
Third one.
Leather vest, white shirt, sturdy pants.
“…this is patrol gear.”
She stared at herself in the mirror.
“Looks like I’m going goblin hunting, not dancing…”
She huffed.
Then she noticed the flower crown tossed at the bottom of the chest.
She froze.
Silence.
Picked it up slowly.
Her large, strong fingers holding something so delicate almost didn’t match.
“…this is too silly…”
She placed it on her head.
Looked in the mirror.
Blushed.
Very blushed.
“…damn it.”
Because it looked good.
Natural.
Still Tila.
Just… softer.
More feminine.
More… like someone who could dance.
She looked away from the mirror.
“It’s not like I’m getting ready for someone specific…”
A lie so obvious even she rolled her eyes at it.
Her tail swished faster.
“It’s just a party… that’s all…”
Pause.
“…but they say the first dance is with your soulmate…”
Her brain immediately conjured:
Bruno, standing still, serious, arm extended.
“Want to dance?”
She buried her face in her hands.
“AAAAAH I HATE FESTIVALS.”
But… she didn’t take the crown off.
Until—
Her steps stopped in the middle of the room.
Her eyes locked on the corner of the wardrobe.
And then…
they sparkled.
“…oh.”
Right at the back, folded with far too much care to be “ordinary clothes”… was that dress.
Not one she bought.
Not one the village sewed.
But one he made.
With his own hands.
Slowly, almost reverently, Tila pulled the fabric out.
The dress was too bright.
Yellow leaning toward orange, like sunset.
Warm.
Alive.
Simple fabric… but absurdly well made.
Perfect stitches.
No mistakes.
No loose threads.
And on the back…
the small knitted flower.
Handmade.
Each slightly uneven stitch enough to reveal:
this wasn’t made by a professional tailor.
It was made by someone learning.
Trying.
Making mistakes.
Redoing it.
For her.
“…is this too much… or not enough…”
Her voice came out small.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Almost afraid of the answer.
Her fingers pressed the fabric against her chest.
And her heart?
Traitor.
Beating like a war drum.
Because it wasn’t just pretty.
It was dangerous.
Wearing it was practically screaming:
“I like you.”
And she didn’t have the courage for that.
Not yet.
Maybe.
Or maybe she did…?
Before her brain could decide—
The door creaked.
“Tila?”
Minerva appeared leaning against the frame, arms crossed.
She looked.
Then looked again.
Then smiled.
That motherly smile that had already understood everything centuries ago.
“My daughter…”
Tila froze.
“…you’re finally turning into a young lady.”
Soft laughter.
Damn motherly giggles.
“MOM!!”
Tila almost hurled the dress at the ceiling.
Her face instantly became a tomato.
“It’s not like that! It’s just clothes! Normal clothes! Ordinary! Completely strategic!”
“Mhm.”
“I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO DANCE WITH ANYONE!”
“Of course.”
“I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS COMFORTABLE!”
Minerva was already laughing too hard to reply.
“Tila…”
She stepped closer, adjusting the collar of the dress in her daughter’s hands.
Softer now.
“When a man makes clothes for a woman with his own hands…”
Pause.
“…he chose her a long time ago.”
Silence.
Tila’s brain simply:
Crashed.
“…”
“…”
“…mom shut up.”
But the voice came out weak.
Small.
Almost trembling.
She looked at the dress again.
Ran her thumb over the embroidered flower.
Imagined Bruno sewing seriously, focused, tongue slightly caught in the corner of his mouth like he always did when concentrating too hard.
Imagined him measuring.
Trying to get the size right.
Getting it wrong.
Redoing it.
Alone.
Without anyone asking.
Just because he wanted to.
Her chest tightened.
Warm.
Achy.
Happy.
All at once.
“…I’m going to wear it.”
Minerva smiled.
“I know you will.”
“But it’s not because of him.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s just because it suits me.”
“Mhm.”
“Stop agreeing with me!”
Her mother left laughing.
Tila was left alone.
Holding the dress.
She took a deep breath.
Day 3 before the Harvest Festival
Light sliced through the crooked window like a hot blade.
Midday already.
Sun high.
Lazy heat.
And still—
Seralyn remained sprawled on the bed, half tangled in the blanket, half hanging off, hair spread like a bird’s nest after a storm.
Eyes closed.
Trying to pretend.
Trying to negotiate with the universe:
“If I don’t wake up… the day doesn’t start.”
Unfortunately…
—it started.
The dragon tattoo on her back stretched first. Scales moving beneath her skin as if they were actually breathing.
“Another day… another time waking up early like an orc…”
Her voice came out hoarse, full of disgust.
Seralyn didn’t even open her eyes.
“Orc?”
She grumbled into the pillow.
“You’re underestimating me… I’m worse.”
One of the snakes on her arm slid its tail.
“yesss… you’re already late waking up…”
The second one finished, venomous:
“isss it because you’re still thinking about how to ask him to dance…?”
Silence.
The pillow received a punch.
“You two. Quiet.”
She rolled over.
“Can’t I even suffer alone in peace in this damn bed?”
The snake laughed softly.
“alone…?”
The crow marked near her collarbone finally spread its black wings.
Its voice was calm.
Almost gentle.
“But do you want to be alone, Selyn?”
She froze.
“…”
“If you don’t finish that thought… you might really suffer alone.”
That hurt more than teasing.
Because it wasn’t mockery.
It was truth.
The room fell silent.
Only the distant sounds of the village starting the day.
Children running.
Someone hammering wood.
The smell of bread.
Life happening.
And her there.
Trapped.
Thinking.
Thinking too much.
“My own tattoos giving me advice…”
She snorted.
“What a low point.”
The dragon laughed.
“You’ve been through massacres, war, mental torture… but asking a man to dance is the real final boss, huh?”
“SHUT UP.”
The snakes hissed together:
“fear… fear… fear…”
“I’m not afraid!”
“denial…”
She sat up in bed all at once.
Hair a mess.
Eyes red from sleep.
And a faint blush that had nothing to do with heat.
“…I just…”
The sentence died.
Damn it.
She hated this.
Fighting armies? Easy.
Stabbing assassins? No problem.
Touching Bruno and saying “dance with me”?
Absolute paralysis.
Because in battle you can lose.
But rejection?
That stays.
Embedded.
Forever.
The crow spoke softly:
“He already stayed by your side when you broke.”
“…”
“He carried you in his arms.”
“…shut up…”
“He cooks for you.”
“Stop.”
“He looks at you like you’re fragile.”
“…”
“…and you hate it because you like it.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“I’m going to rip you off my skin. I swear.”
The dragon cackled.
“Good luck.”
Silence again.
Then…
She took a deep breath.
Stood up.
Her feet touched the cold floor.
“…tch.”
She grabbed her shirt.
Started dressing.
Movements too rough for someone “calm”.
“I’m not going to ask him to dance.”
The snakes:
“yes you are…”
“I’m not.”
“yesss…”
“I’m not.”
The crow, gently:
“You already decided.”
She stopped.
Stared at nothing.
Damn it.
She really had.
“…if I don’t ask…”
Pause.
“…that cow Tila will.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Murderous determination activated.
“No way in hell.”
The tattoos laughed together.
And for the first time that morning—
Seralyn smiled too.
Small.
Dangerous.
“Fine… stupid hero…”
She tied her hair.
Grabbed her boots.
“You’re dancing with me.”
Even if I have to drag you by the collar.
Day 2 before the Harvest Festival
The house adapted into a forge…
was too quiet.
Wrong silence.
Suspicious silence.
The kind of silence any normal person would find comfortable.
But for a dwarf?
That was practically a crime.
No:
CLANG! CLANG!
metal striking
sparks flying
random curses at the iron
Nothing.
Just the wind slipping through the cracks.
And the faint smell of cold charcoal.
Anaalyn sat on a low stool, elbows on knees, chin in hands.
Face closed.
Sulky.
A huge anvil right in front of her.
The hammer… still.
Untouched.
Clean.
She stared at it like the hammer had betrayed her.
“…tch.”
She grabbed the hammer.
Lifted it.
Stopped mid-air.
Lowered it.
Sighed.
“Damn it…”
Normally, when her head got too full?
She hammered.
Iron.
Sword.
Horseshoe.
Anything.
The noise organized her thoughts.
But today…
Every time she tried to swing—
CLANG
The sound reminded her of something else.
Festival.
Music.
Dancing.
Couples.
Hands held.
And a certain idiot who was too tall.
She gritted her teeth.
“What the hell.”
Sat back down.
Ran a hand over her face.
“I’m too old for this festival crap…”
Lie.
She wasn’t.
And she knew it.
She huffed.
Her gaze fell to the side of the table.
There.
Almost hidden.
A small piece of polished metal.
Shape… too round.
Too delicate.
Nothing to do with axes.
Nothing to do with armor.
She pulled it closer.
A pendant.
Simple.
But well made.
A wolf engraved.
Discreet.
Strong.
The way she liked it.
The way that—
“…damn it…”
She had made it for him.
Without realizing.
Or rather.
Realizing yes.
Just pretending she didn’t.
“What kind of dwarf makes jewelry, huh?”
She grumbled.
“Pathetic.”
She spun the pendant between her fingers.
Imagining.
Him wearing it.
Or worse.
Him smiling in that calm way.
That small smile that destroyed any defense.
“…idiot…”
Her chest tightened.
She hated this.
Hated not being able to punch feelings into shape.
Hated that it made no logical sense.
Because fighting was simple.
Liking someone?
Complicated as hell.
She banged her forehead on the table.
thud
“If that cow Tila asks him first…”
She imagined the two dancing.
Laughing.
Too close.
Her stomach twisted.
“No.”
She imagined Seralyn.
All dramatic.
All beautiful.
All annoying elf.
“No fucking way.”
She jumped to her feet.
Hammer clattered to the floor.
“ENOUGH.”
Grabbed the pendant.
Shoved it in her pocket.
“Walking in circles like a stupid human… how embarrassing.”
She took a deep breath.
Trying to look rational.
“I’m not going to ask him to dance.”
Pause.
“…I’m just going to give him this.”
Simple.
That’s all.
“If he wants to dance after… that’s his problem.”
Perfect.
Flawless plan.
Zero feelings involved.
Zero jealousy.
Zero neediness.
Completely professional.
Her cheeks were already red.
“…damn it…”
She kicked the door.
The door flew open with a bang.
“If anyone laughs at me today I’ll break their teeth.”
And she marched out through the village.
Short.
Furious.
And clearly way too nervous for someone who was definitely not in love.
Day 1 before the Harvest Festival
The room was cold.
Not uncomfortable cold.
Elegant cold.
White stone, ice-blue curtains, crystals in the windows reflecting light like eternal snow.
Too silent.
Only the soft sound of paper being folded.
Elaris sat on the bed.
Several letters scattered around her.
Some crumpled.
Others folded with care.
None sent.
She held one close to her chest.
Reread it.
For the tenth time.
A small smile escaped.
“If you disappear again I swear I’ll freeze your legs just so you stop wandering around…”
She covered her mouth.
Laughing alone.
“Pathetic…”
She turned the letter over.
Simple signature.
— E.
So many words she would never say looking at him.
But on paper?
They came too easily.
“What would your reaction be…”
She imagined.
Bruno reading.
That neutral face.
Then that crooked smile.
Maybe a:
“Got it.”
Just that.
And even so…
Her chest tightened.
Warm.
Ridiculously warm.
For someone who wielded ice magic.
The door opened without haste.
The air grew even colder.
Elegant.
Controlled.
“Has my darling daughter chosen her dress yet?”
Isolde entered as though winter itself followed her.
Perfect posture.
Silver hair.
Eyes like frozen storms.
A queen even when breathing.
Elaris dropped the letters too quickly.
“AH— I mean… not yet, mother.”
Failed disguise.
Isolde clearly saw everything.
But pretended not to.
Because mothers do that.
“Would you like my help?”
Elaris was already at the wardrobe.
Expensive fabrics.
Whites.
Blues.
Silvers.
Dresses worthy of a coronation.
“I was thinking something simpler… that doesn’t draw too much attention.”
Isolde raised an eyebrow.
“You? Not drawing attention?”
She let out a light laugh.
“This so-called harvest festival has a rumor… your first dance is with your soulmate. How silly.”
She picked up a long dress covered in crystals.
“This screams ‘princess’.”
Dropped it.
Picked up another with layers and gold.
“This screams ‘political marriage’.”
Dropped that too.
She approached her daughter.
Touched her face.
Rare tenderness.
Gentle.
“You don’t need that dance to know who your soulmate is.”
Silence.
Elaris looked away.
Fingers gripping the wardrobe fabric.
“No… I don’t need it.”
Her voice came out lower than she intended.
Because she already knew.
From the moment she saw a certain idiot, wounded, still trying to protect the others.
From the moment he knelt and said:
“Yes, my queen.”
Teasing.
But far too serious.
From that tired smile.
From that stubborn way.
From the very beginning.
She pulled out a simple dress.
White.
Light.
No jewels.
No crown.
Almost ordinary.
yet still carrying the aura of a queen
“This one.”
Isolde observed.
Understood.
Smiled from the corner of her mouth.
“Aaah… so it’s that level of war, hm?”
“It’s not war at all, mother.”
“Of course not.”
Pause.
“You’re just going dressed like an ordinary girl… to a party where your chosen one will be… without guards… without protocol… without titles…”
Silence.
Elaris was already red.
“mother.”
“Yes, darling?”
“…please stop.”
Isolde laughed.
Kissed her forehead.
“Go claim your warrior, then.”
