For a heartbeat, I held Isolde tight, her body pressed against mine, the crowd's noise falling away until all I could hear was her quickening breath and the staccato drum of my own heart. Her hair smelled like wildflowers and sea air.
The way her fingers clutched my shirt left scorch marks down my spine.
If it were up to me, I might have let the moment last—let her stay there, safe and solid in my arms, a secret shield against the world.
But that wasn't us, was it? We were fire and ice, teeth and claw, forever finding new ways to bite.
So I grinned, leaned in close, and broke the spell.
"Can't even stand on your own, Princess? Should I carry you for the rest of the festival, or just get you a walking stick?"
She shoved me away, indignant and pink-cheeked, her glare almost as deadly as a blade.
"Maybe if the crowd wasn't full of bumbling idiots, I wouldn't need rescuing, Skyblade. Not everyone has the balance of a drunken ox."
I raised an eyebrow, giving her my best wounded look. "You wound me, truly. I think you just wanted an excuse to throw yourself into my arms. You could have just asked."
"Don't flatter yourself," she shot back, straightening her gown with a dignity only a true princess could muster after nearly faceplanting in a public square. "That was the first and last time you'll catch me, I assure you."
I shrugged. "We'll see. Day's still young."
The banter, the quicksilver push and pull—it felt natural. Easy. Like something we'd been doing our whole lives, only sharper now, and softer around the edges.
If she noticed the way my hands lingered at her waist a moment too long, she didn't mention it.
Nearby, a cluster of children were seated at a low table, weaving strands of colored thread into bracelets and necklaces.
Their little hands worked with surprising speed and skill, laughter bubbling up as they argued over colors and traded shiny beads.
One of the braver kids—freckles, gap-toothed, eyes like polished stones—caught my eye and waved. "You two! Want to make friendship bracelets?"
I glanced at Isolde, whose icy composure faltered for a split second as she eyed the rainbow of thread. "We haven't got time for—"
"Oh, come on," I interrupted, nudging her toward the table. "Afraid you'll lose to a bunch of children?"
She sniffed, but curiosity (or boredom) got the better of her. "Fine. If only to prove I'm better than you at even this."
We squeezed onto two stools, surrounded by the gaggle of kids, who immediately began assigning us colors and showing us how to knot the threads.
As I reached for a spool of deep red my trademark, I felt a tug at my sleeve.
The gap-toothed ringleader leaned up and cupped a tiny hand around my ear, voice a conspiratorial whisper: "Your girlfriend's really beautiful. Make her the prettiest bracelet, okay? She'll love it."
I choked on a laugh, glancing sideways at Isolde, who was now engrossed in arranging her beads by size, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.
Girlfriend. I wanted to say it was just a misunderstanding, but some part of me thrilled at the word, at the possibility.
"Don't worry," I whispered back, "I'm on it."
Isolde must have heard something, because she eyed me with suspicion. "What are you plotting?"
"Nothing," I said, adopting my most innocent tone. "Except, of course, making the best bracelet you'll ever see."
She smirked, accepting the challenge. "We'll see about that."
Thus began the most absurd competition of my life. Isolde, who had likely never so much as braided her own hair before, became a whirlwind of precision and focus, knotting her threads with a determination usually reserved for swordplay.
She rejected bead after bead, muttering about symmetry and color theory, glaring at the children who dared suggest anything less than perfection.
Meanwhile, I let instinct lead. I chose bold colors—red, gold, a streak of blue for the southern sky and strung them together with rough, confident knots.
Where Isolde's work was meticulous, mine was wild and vibrant, a clash of flame and sunlight.
The children watched us, giggling, passing judgment with all the gravity of royal advisors.
"Princess, yours is so neat!"
"Lyra's looks cool, though! It's like a fire dragon!"
Isolde lifted her nose, tying off the final knot with a flourish. "Finished. Try to top that, Skyblade."
I held up my own creation, letting the sun catch the fiery beads. "You're on, Your Highness."
We presented our bracelets for inspection. The little judges pored over our handiwork, tugging, twisting, debating which was best.
Finally, the freckled ringleader declared, "It's a tie! Both are amazing! Now you have to give them to each other."
Isolde blinked, then rolled her eyes with a huff, but I saw the flush at her cheeks as she reached for my wrist.
With unsteady fingers, she tied the bracelet around my arm, securing it with an elaborate knot.
I did the same, letting my fingers linger just a little too long on her skin. Her pulse fluttered beneath my touch; she didn't pull away.
The children cheered. "Now you're really girlfriends!" one crowed. Isolde glared, but couldn't quite hide her smile.
We thanked the kids (I gave the ringleader an extra bead, earning a gap-toothed grin) and left the table, bracelets flashing on our wrists.
The mood between us had shifted—lighter, easier, as if the competition had knocked down a few more of the walls we kept building.
"I still say mine is better," I teased as we walked, winding through the throng toward the village's best little restaurant, according to the queens' advice.
"In your dreams, Skyblade," Isolde retorted, but she kept glancing at her wrist, fingers brushing over the beads.
The restaurant was a cozy place, all warm wood and sunlight filtering through painted glass.
The proprietor a stout woman with a voice like thunder seated us at a small table by the window.
The menu was a parade of southern specialties: spiced fish, sweet rolls, roast vegetables, and sticky puddings for dessert.
We ordered more than we could possibly eat, laughing at the absurdity, the way everyone in the place kept sneaking glances at us like we were some royal fairy tale come to life.
As the first course arrived, Isolde reached for her bag, only to frown. "I left my coin purse in the carriage. I'll just use yours—"
Before I could stop her, she pulled open my satchel. Her hand closed on the first small box she found, pulling it free with a puzzled look.
She turned it over, eyebrow arching as she read the gilded lettering. Realization dawned, a flush creeping up her neck as she looked from the box, to me, and back again.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth, blood draining from my face.
The entire restaurant seemed to fall silent. The box of royal-issued condoms gleamed in Isolde's hand like a beacon, undeniable, inescapable, and utterly mortifying.
I braced myself for impact.