CHAPTER FIVE
A Day of Elves and Hot Men
The Wood Elves of the Glorious Musclewood Covert surrounded Em and her companions. They aimed long bows and razory arrows at her, sending a swell of adrenaline pulsating through her head.
The Elves’ perfectly straightened hair, pointy ears, and linen green clothing were almost more cliché than Faylorn and Polo combined. Their belts were weighed with sheathed daggers. They were as cliché as they were sexy and even had glittery circlets as the cherry to top it.
“I’m scared,” Polo whispered to her. “Hold my hand?”
Em shook him off. “We’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so certain, Highness?”
“Because the cliché thing would be that Faylorn knows these Elves and…” She trailed off, not sure why she bothered explaining anything to the imp. After all, Polo was already distracted with a passing butterfly.
The obvious Elf leader, his vest embroidered in gold, approached Faylorn. His golden locks flowed in the breeze about his stern, hazel gaze.
“Faylorn of Rowling, Institute of Magics, who was trained by Frank,” he said. “What brings you into our King’s land, the Glorious Musclewood Covert?”
Faylorn tipped his hat in greeting, confirming Em’s predictions. “Captain Kymil Xyrfaren.”
“I overheard these trespassers talking about stealing our horses,” a red-haired elf snapped in a flowery accent. Her sharp eyes glared in Em’s direction beneath her thin eyebrows. “How do we know they don’t work for Kriqir the Living?”
Oh sure, Em thought. Blame us for helping the bad guy, you typical suspicious kick-ass elf maiden.
“Have peace, Mylaela Sylbalar.” Kymil held up a gloved hand to warn his soldier to remain quiet. “I recognize a friend when I see one.”
“Kriqir’s a wise necromancer, Captain,” Mylaela pushed. “He knows about the prophecy and that the Chosen One is preparing to search for the dragon relic. No doubt he will do all he can to stop it.”
“You’re sooo attentive,” Polo chipped in. “Anyone tell you elves that straightening your hair daily will fry it?”
Em stiffened, anticipating how the egotistical Elves would react to her unfortunate sidekick, but they seemed unbothered by the imp’s irritating existence. She wished she had their level of indifference to help her tolerate Polo’s stupid jokes.
“Roden Trislee foretold us of your coming,” Kymil said to Faylorn. “But he did not reveal your intentions to our king.”
“My companions and I are simply wishing for a place to stay tonight,” Faylorn explained. “We will leave the Glorious Musclewood Covert early in the morning. You will barely notice us passing through.”
“You may come with us to the palace.” Kymil motioned for his Elf soldiers to lower their bows. “But the king has been expecting your return, so don’t assume you can slip away with your secretive motives so easily, Faylorn.”
Em wanted to protest about being dragged into a stereotypical Wood Elf palace, but a spark of hope flickered in her. This was the first time Faylorn mentioned resting all day. Her feet were numb. Cliché setting or not, she needed sleep and a bathroom.
Maybe a snack too.
“I am sure you have much to…” Kymil glanced in Em’s direction—”discuss.”
“Indeed, we do,” Faylorn concluded.
Em blinked, confused about how she got from Point A to Point B. Her head swelled, blood rushing. It was like one moment she stood in the woods surrounded by stiff Elves, and now she was somewhere entirely different. For a place called Glorious Musclewood Covert, it had rather feminine architecture.
The apparent Wood Elf Palace hung high within the trees, made up of silvery, pillared gazebos connected by rope bridges and thick branches for crossing.
Canyons draped with waterfalls surrounded them, echoing in the elves’ drowsy songs. Somewhere in the distance, a harp and flute were playing. Em wondered if the Elves had full-time musicians they paid to play a constant, fluttery soundtrack to enhance the tranquil atmosphere.
Still, none of it explained the sudden shift in location.
She pulled the copy of the Main Character’s Guidebook to Plots and Tropes from her pocket, flipping through the pages for any explanation.
There must be an answer somewhere. Her whole body swayed like she’d become seasick, nausea boiling in her gut.
It’s called a time jump, Em.
A rush blurred around her as she flipped through the manual.
Kymil ordered Mylaela to take Polo Took-Took to a separate guesthouse.
Both Elves agreed that they didn’t want an imp swinging between the ornate towers.
The sidekick didn’t protest, mimicking Mylaela’s sour expressions, then sticking his tongue out at the Elf maiden as she led him away.
Em’s fingers found what she’d been hunting for; in a subtext about long travel sequences, a footnote sat in fine print at the bottom of a page.
“Sometimes, to avoid slow pacing, a story will jump from scene to scene, which can result in passing out (trope) or a time jump (choppier writing, but common),” she read aloud. “This is known as a time jump or scene change.”
Bingo.
Em couldn’t help but huff. She didn’t remember this concept from her class at Sanderson, but maybe she’d never really put much thought into it until it became relevant.
Faylorn tugged too harshly on her wrist.
She let out a gasp, nearly dropping her manual, as he pulled her aside with the Elf Captain, clearing his throat. Faylorn lowered his face, so his wizardly hat cast shadows across the bridge of his nose.
“I’d like to request that Em come with me for an audience with your King,” her mentor said under his breath. As if the cliché Wood Elves all around them couldn’t hear him anyway with their enhanced auditory abilities.
“Um, why?” Em asked. Standing in an Elf King’s throne room to discuss prophecies, old traditions, and whatnot did not sound appealing.
I want a nap.
Me too.
“This is your moment, lass. The beginning of your victorious reign,” Faylorn scowled at her lack of interest. “You must prove to the Wood Elves of Glorious Musclewood Covert that you are the Chosen One: the one to retrieve the relic from the fire-breathing dragon, Brolzross the Nocturnal, and destroy Kriqir the Living.”
Kymil crossed his muscular arms. “Waking an Elf-hungry dragon, who’s out for revenge on this very convert, is foolish, Faylorn. We will not be swayed by your passions.”
“Her eyes are green, Captain Kymil Xyrfaren,” Faylorn retorted. “Em Smith matches the description within the prophecy: a young girl with green eyes from a camel farm. She’s the Chosen One, I’m sure of it.”
“And what of Roden Trislee?” Kymil asked.
“Who?” Em blurted.
Faylorn cracked a smile. “Ah, brave Roden.”
“Another friend of yours?” she asked.
“Of course,” the wizard said. “He helped me locate you.”
Em cringed at the idea of some strange Elf Prince knowing where she lived.
Let alone potentially spying on her to make sure she matched the description for the Chosen One from the lame-ass prophecy.
It all felt a little too like the copy-and-pasted Romantasy books collecting dust on the discount shelves at Adventuras’ local bookstores.
I hope he’s not my age.
“In fact, I believe Roden should be around your age now,” Faylorn mused.
Shit. Em’s stomach twisted. Here comes the love interest.
“As much as we admire Prince Roden Trislee’s bravery, he may have made a mistake when he located this girl,” Kymil said. “She isn’t orphaned. Also, we cannot forget who Roden is to our people.”
“Nothing in the prophecy mentions the Chosen One being orphaned,” Faylorn said.
“In the language of Elves, the prophecy begins with a word that has two meanings: ‘one’ or ‘a girl on the camel farm...’” Kymil explained.
Of course, the grumpy ancient guys knew every detail about the impending fate of the world from the shitty prophecy. Em couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their debate of basic information.
“Well, this was so so fun.” She cut in, stretching out her tight joints. “I’m going to bed.”
“Do you not wish to meet the Elf King?” Faylorn asked.
“Hell, no.” She patted the wizard on the arm. “I feel like you can handle this one without me.”
Kymil and Faylorn glanced at her momentarily before arguing over names and dates again. Apparently, her presence wasn’t necessary.
Thank Novella.
Em slipped away, hurrying down a nearby passageway, not caring where she went. Her heels clomped against the marble floor, echoing in the arched chambers. Bubbling blisters stung along her ankles, a harsh reminder of the long travel day she’d endured.
Moseying about the dreamy atmosphere, she searched for anywhere comfortable enough to doze off. The Wood Elf Palace was too airy and open for her comfort. She didn’t want to sleep anywhere she could be watched by prying eyes.
Around the corner and up a curly staircase, Em discovered an empty gazebo. Silvery branches created canopies over the semi-nude statues and pillars surrounding the mosaic floor.
She paused in the center of the space.
A ballroom.
Em smiled to herself. Hesitating for a moment, she wandered into the center of the ballroom and spun. Her frazzled braid smacked against her shoulders. Surrounded by nothing but waterfalls and waving branches, Em was alone.
Finally.
Even though the romantic atmosphere and glittering location were cliché as the rest of the Glorious Musclewood Covert, she didn’t care at the moment. Em was ready for any ounce of relief she could get from the exhausting and disappointing start of her story.
Kicking off her uncomfortable shoes and untangling her braid until her hair tumbled free, she twirled her tension off.
Em spun into the few ballet dips she knew.
Her mind replayed light, classical tunes from her mom’s cello days as she glided across the floor.
She swayed to the imaginary music with invisible dancers.
Freedom rushed in every spin, and she even forgot about her sore feet.
“Well…” a voice said. “Look what we have here.”
Em yelped, stumbling.