23. Isolde
ISOLDE
The elderly merchant's wife examines my wildflower honey with genuine appreciation, turning the jar to catch the afternoon light. Her husband hovers nearby, already clutching two jars of lavender-infused varieties.
"This one has such a lovely amber color," she murmurs, her weathered fingers tracing the glass. "How do you achieve such clarity?"
"Time and patience." I arrange the remaining jars on my display, grateful for customers who appreciate the craft rather than just the product. "I filter it slowly, never rushing the process. The wildflowers around here produce something special when they're allowed to—"
"Attention! Everyone!"
Draven's voice cuts through the festival chatter like an axe through wood. The unfamiliar volume makes my hands still on the honey jars, my heart lurching with sudden dread.
The merchant's wife looks up with curiosity, following the collective turn of heads toward the center of the square. I force myself to continue arranging my display, but my peripheral vision catches movement as people abandon their conversations and drift toward whatever spectacle is unfolding.
"What's all that about?" the merchant asks, craning his neck to see over the gathering crowd.
I finally look up and my stomach drops straight through the cobblestones.
Draven stands atop a cider barrel near the fountain, his broad frame rigid with discomfort.
His golden-brown eyes sweep across the sea of upturned faces with the expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
The afternoon sun catches the green of his skin, making the scars on his forearms stand out like silver threads.
Hundreds of people stare at him with rapt attention. Festival-goers who moments ago were haggling over produce and admiring crafts now form a loose semicircle around his improvised stage. Mrs. Penwhistle clutches her shawl with visible excitement. Alma abandons her fabric stall entirely.
"It's come to my attention," Draven begins, his voice carrying despite the obvious strain, "that I need to address some rumors and assumptions that have been circulating through Harvest Hollow for the past few weeks."
My hands go numb around the honey jar I'm holding. The merchant's wife continues to examine her purchase, oblivious to the way my world tilts sideways.
This is it. The public declaration I've been dreading. The moment he chooses the path of least resistance, the woman the town expects him to claim.
"Specifically," Draven continues, his gaze finding and lingering on a particular spot in the crowd, "regarding Vaelis Thandor and her assertions about our connection, our friendship, and suggestions that it's blossoming into something more."
The words feel like countless bee stings. Each syllable confirms what I've known but refused to acknowledge—that whatever happened between us was temporary, a distraction before he returned to the life everyone expected him to live.
"Oh, how sweet!" Vaelis's voice carries across the square, light and delighted.
She steps forward through the crowd, her silver-blonde hair catching the light like spun moonbeams. Her structured blue dress moves with practiced grace, and her pale gold skin glows with obvious pleasure.
"Really, Draven, a public speech isn't necessary." She laughs, the sound musical and confident. "Though I do appreciate the gesture."
The crowd murmurs with approval. Several people exchange knowing glances, Mrs. Penwhistle practically vibrating with vindicated satisfaction. I watch Vaelis position herself at the base of the barrel, looking up at him with the expression of someone receiving exactly what she's always expected.
My vision blurs around the edges.
"Are you alright, dear? You've gone quite pale."
I force my lips into what might pass for a smile. "Just the heat."
But it's not the heat. It's the crushing realization that I've been a fool. That I let myself believe his quiet intensity, his careful attention, his hands on my skin meant something beyond physical convenience. That I mistook desire for devotion, passion for permanence.
The crowd presses closer to Draven, eager to witness this long-anticipated moment. I catch glimpses of familiar faces—Thornak scowling from the edge of the gathering, Maddie with her hands clasped at her chest, Granda Oltar nodding with evident approval.
"I know I've kept to myself since becoming the gamekeeper," Draven continues, his voice carrying across the square with uncomfortable honesty. "A guard between the wild world and Harvest Hollow. I thought that was working in my favor."
The crowd shifts restlessly. This isn't the romantic declaration they expected. Mrs. Penwhistle's face scrunches with confusion, her ribbons trembling as she tilts her head.
"But I'm realizing, slowly, that my tendency to avoid what goes on in the village has been more harmful than I thought."
Vaelis's expression falters, the musical confidence draining from her features like water from a cracked vessel. Her pale gold skin takes on an almost sickly pallor.
"Draven." Her voice cuts through his speech, sharp enough to draw blood. "What are you doing?"
He doesn't even glance down at her. His golden-brown eyes sweep across the crowd with the methodical precision of a hunter tracking prey.
"So allow me to clear everything up." His voice rises, ensuring every person in the square can hear him. "There is nothing going on between me and Vaelis, and there never has been."
The collective gasp ripples through the crowd like wind through grain. Someone drops what sounds like a ceramic mug. The merchant's wife beside me clutches her honey jar so tightly I worry the glass might crack.
"But we've known each other for so long!" Vaelis's composure cracks, her carefully modulated tone sharpening to a blade. "We've been friends for—"
"We have never been friends."
The words land with the finality of an axe splitting wood. Vaelis stumbles backward as if physically struck, her perfect posture crumbling.
Draven's expression remains unchanged, carved from stone and shadow. "In fact, I have never been friends with anyone in this town. I've only been a servant to you, doing the dirty tasks of protecting you while you live in sunshine and cinnamon."
The festival atmosphere evaporates. Vendors abandon their negotiations. Even the autumn breeze seems to still, as if the world itself holds its breath.
"Only one person has offered me real friendship." His voice drops, carrying a weight that makes my chest constrict. "And I fear I've broken her heart."
His eyes meet mine over the heads of everyone here to enjoy the festival. My heart flips, flops, and squeezes, and a wave of chills run down my spine.
Vaelis lunges forward with desperate fury, her pale hands clawing at Draven's legs. The structured blue fabric of her dress tears at the seams as she attempts to drag him down from the barrel.
"Get down here!" Her voice cracks, the musical quality shattered into something raw and ugly. "You don't get to humiliate me in front of everyone!"
Draven plants his feet wider, unmovable as a mountain oak. His golden-brown eyes remain fixed on mine across the crowd, even as Vaelis's nails scrape against his leather boots.
"This is ridiculous," she snarls, abandoning her attempt to physically dislodge him. Her silver-blonde hair has escaped its careful styling, wild strands framing her flushed face. "You want to know what he's really done for this village? Nothing but run and hide in the forest like a coward!"
The crowd shifts uneasily. Mrs. Penwhistle's ribbons tremble as she exchanges uncertain glances with Alma, who watches the spectacle with obvious distaste.
"He pretends to be our protector, but where was he when Sarah got hurt last week?" Vaelis's voice rises to a shriek, her composure completely abandoned. "Attacked by a wild animal while he was too busy sniffing after that hussy beekeeper to do his actual job!"
My blood turns to ice. The merchant's wife beside me gasps, her weathered hand moving to her throat. Murmurs ripple through the gathering like poison spreading through water.
"Sarah wouldn't have been injured if he'd been patrolling properly instead of lurking around the apiary!" Vaelis spins toward the crowd, her pale gold skin mottled with rage. "But no, he was too distracted by honey and whatever else that woman was offering!"
The word 'hussy' hits like a physical blow. I watch faces in the crowd shift, doubt creeping into expressions that moments ago held curiosity and surprise. Someone whispers behind their hand. Another nods with grim understanding.
"She's right about Sarah," a voice calls from the back. "Poor thing nearly lost her wing."
"And where was our so-called protector?" another adds.
My hands shake as I set down the honey jar, rage building in my chest like steam in a kettle. The careful control I've maintained for weeks—through the whispers, the exclusions, the constant evaluation—finally snaps.