21. Isolde
ISOLDE
The morning air carries the aroma of fresh bread and woodsmoke as I adjust the angle of my honey display for what must be the tenth time.
Each jar catches the early sunlight differently, the amber liquid glowing like captured fragments of summer.
The hand-lettered labels need to face forward just so—Lavender Dreams, Autumn Spice, Apple Orchard—each one representing weeks of careful cultivation and patience.
My fingers hover over the sample sticks, realigning them into perfect rows.
The wooden paddles gleam with thin layers of honey, each variety distinct in color and clarity.
The traditional wildflower honey appears almost transparent, while the spiced blend carries flecks of cinnamon that swirl like autumn leaves suspended in time.
"You know those jars aren't going anywhere, right?"
Garron's voice carries the easy warmth of someone who's watched too many vendors fuss over their displays.
He leans against his own stall, sawdust still clinging to his work shirt despite the early hour.
Behind him, his handcrafted cutting boards and kitchen implements create neat, practical rows—no fuss, no unnecessary decoration.
"Just making sure everything's perfect." I straighten a label that was already straight. "First impressions matter."
"Everything's been perfect for the past hour." His laugh rumbles like distant thunder. "Trust me, folks around here care more about whether it tastes good than whether the jars are lined up like soldiers."
To my left, Farrin's hammer rings against metal in steady, rhythmic strikes.
The sound carries over the growing bustle of the festival grounds, mixing with the calls of merchants and the excited chatter of early arrivals.
His forge sends waves of heat that make the air shimmer, the scent of iron and coal adding an earthy counterpoint to my honey's sweetness.
"The lass is nervous," Farrin calls out between hammer blows, not looking up from the horseshoe he's shaping. "Let her fidget. Better than standing around with nothing to do."
Children's laughter echoes across the square as families begin arriving from outlying settlements.
Their voices carry the musical cadence of different dialects—some from the mountain communities, others from the river valleys.
The festival draws people from across Harvest Valley, turning our usually quiet town into a bustling crossroads of commerce and celebration.
A woman approaches my stall, her travel-stained cloak suggesting she's journeyed from one of the distant farming communities. Her eyes widen as she surveys the variety of jars, the careful arrangement of samples, the small wooden signs explaining each blend's unique properties.
"Is this all local honey?" She picks up one of the sample sticks, examining the golden liquid that coats the wood.
"Every drop." The words come easier than I expected, my nervousness transforming into the familiar rhythm of explaining my craft.
"The traditional wildflower comes from meadows just on the edge of Harvest Hollow.
The lavender is cultivated in my own garden—I dry the flowers myself before infusing them. "
She tastes the sample, her expression shifting from polite interest to genuine surprise. "That's incredible. It tastes like... like breathing in a summer evening."
The rush of satisfaction hits me like warm sunlight breaking through clouds. This moment—watching someone discover the layers of flavor I've carefully coaxed from my bees and blossoms—makes every hour of tending hives and perfecting recipes worthwhile.
"The spiced variety uses cinnamon bark and whole cloves," I continue, offering her another sample stick. "I let them steep for weeks until the honey takes on just a hint of warmth without overpowering the floral notes."
She closes her eyes as she tastes, savoring the complexity. "My grandmother would have loved this. She always said honey was nature's way of preserving sunshine."
Nature's way of preserving sunshine. The phrase echoes with cruel precision, dragging me back to whispered words in the darkness, to Draven's rough voice calling me his sunshine, his queen. The memory burns through my chest, sharp and immediate.
I force my hands steady as I reach for one of the spiced honey jars—the ones with the self-sealing enchantment Draven had quietly gifted me weeks ago.
His golden-brown eyes had been so focused as he'd explained how the magic would keep the honey fresh during long travels, how it would make my business more successful.
"This one's perfect for traveling," I manage, my voice only slightly strained. "The seal keeps it fresh for months."
The woman examines the jar, running her fingers over the smooth glass surface. "Remarkable craftsmanship. Where did you find a someone willing to work on something so practical?"
"A... friend helped me with those." The word tastes bitter. Friend. What a laughably inadequate term for whatever Draven and I had been.
"You're lucky to have such thoughtful friends." She sets the jar carefully in her basket alongside two others. "I'll take this one as well. My husband runs a tavern—he'll want to experiment with these flavors."
"The honeycomb works beautifully in ales," I hear myself saying, falling back into the familiar rhythm of business. "The natural enzymes create a smoother fermentation, and the wax can be used for waterproofing leather goods."
Each word reminds me of him. Of his hands helping me extract the perfect combs, of the way he'd listened with genuine interest as I explained the properties of different waxes. Of how he'd suggested the tavern partnerships in the first place, his strategic mind always thinking three steps ahead.
"—absolutely perfect for someone of Draven's stature, don't you think?"
Vaelis's voice cuts through my conversation.
The elf's perfectly modulated tones carry just far enough to draw attention without seeming deliberate.
A small crowd has gathered around her near the fountain, their faces turned toward her with the rapt attention of people witnessing important social theater.
My customer follows my gaze, curiosity evident in her expression. "Who's Draven?"
"The town's gamekeeper," I answer automatically, my eyes searching the crowd until I spot him. He strides from the direction of the forest path, his dark hair still damp from an early patrol, shoulders set in that familiar line of controlled tension.
"I told him he simply had to attend today," Vaelis continues, her voice pitched to carry. "After all, festivals are about celebrating community bonds, aren't they? And some bonds are more... significant than others."
Draven's brow lifts slightly as he catches his name, his golden-brown gaze sweeping the gathered crowd.
For a moment, his eyes find mine across the square, and something flickers in his expression—recognition, perhaps even longing.
But then Vaelis steps closer to him, her pale hand settling on his arm with practiced ease.
"We've been discussing plans for after the harvest season," she says, her words deliberate and clear. "It's time to think about the future, about permanence. About what really matters in a community like this."
The crowd murmurs approval, heads nodding as they absorb the implication. Mrs. Penwhistle beams like she's witnessing a long-awaited proposal, while Garron shifts his weight with the satisfied air of someone seeing natural order restored.
I watch Draven's face, waiting for him to step back, to correct the assumption, to do anything that might indicate he hasn't agreed to whatever future Vaelis is painting for their audience.
Instead, he grunts—that low, noncommittal sound that could mean anything but sounds like agreement to ears that want to hear it. The crowd takes it as confirmation, their smiles widening, their congratulations beginning to bubble up.
The jar slips in my suddenly nerveless fingers, and I catch it just before it hits the table. The customer reaches out to steady it, concern creasing her features.
"Are you alright, dear?"
"Fine." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Just... festival excitement."
But inside, I feel like something vital has been carved out of me with a dull blade. Used. Discarded. A temporary distraction while he sorted out what really mattered—what the town expected, what made sense, what fit into the neat little boxes everyone had constructed around his life.
I focus on the transaction, counting out change with mechanical precision while Vaelis's voice continues to weave her web of implication and assumption. Each coin feels cold against my palm, each smile I force onto my face a small act of defiance against the hollow ache spreading through my chest.