08: Reconciliation

The morning sun cast a weak glow over Opeka's dusty square, where the Harvest Moon Festival's remnants—wilted Moonflower petals and shattered ale barrels—littered the cobblestones. Inside the Black Stone Tavern, Killyaen leaned against a wall, his tattered linen drawers sagging, gold-tipped braid catching stray light. His split-leaf amulet pulsed faintly, hinting at some High Elven mystery, but his mind was tangled in last night's kiss with Bera—hot, wild, her lips searing his. Was it love? Just lust for her curves? He didn't know, and the confusion dulled his usual smirk. The Supreme Elf, for once, wasn't sure how to prank his way out.

Bera stood at the bar, scrubbing mugs with a fury, her auburn hair loose, flour-dusted apron clinging to her ample chest. Her Beginner Novice Fire spark flickered in her hazel eyes, her gaze dodging Killyaen's. The tavern was still, save for the clink of mugs, the air heavy with yesterday's chaos—her torn dress, the crowd's jeers, that kiss. Killyaen, never one to let a woman's silence fester, sidled up, belt pouch jingling with Moonflower sap vials and Flaevyn feathers.

"Fire-hips," he said, voice softer than usual, his leer muted,

"that kiss last night… what was that? Love, lust, or just me being too damn charming?"Bera paused, mug in hand, her cheeks flushing.

She set it down, arms crossed, her apron straining, drawing Killyaen's eyes despite his effort to focus.

"Don't get cocky, Supreme Idiot," she muttered, looking away.

"I don't know what it was. Felt like… something. Maybe just your stupid face and my bad judgment. Love? Lust? Beats me." Killyaen nodded, scratching his neck, his gold-flecked eyes searching hers.

"Same here. Felt good—too good—but I'm not sure what's in here," he tapped his chest, "except wanting to stare at you all day. This… weirdness ain't us." Bera's lips twitched, a spark of her usual fire returning.

"Yeah, I'd rather throw rolls at you than figure out feelings. Let's go back—pranks, insults, no mushy stuff. But you're buying me a new dress, elf. That one's scraps because of your stunt." Killyaen grinned, bowing theatrically. "Deal, fire-hips. I'll get you a dress so tight, I'll be kissing you again." She lobbed a rag at his head, smirking.

"In your dreams, pervert."

The knot in Killyaen's gut loosened, but his gaze lingered on Bera's curves as she turned back to the mugs, his adolescent heart pounding with lust, not clarity. He lived for this—provoking her, soaking up her fire, commanding the tavern's attention.

Outside, villagers swept festival debris, and his amulet's pulse stirred a fleeting thought of Solspire's "glowing blue relic" from Vuk's tales—some destiny he wasn't chasing, not yet. He shrugged it off, his grin widening. The Supreme Elf thrived on chaos and a woman's glare, not dusty ruins.

By mid-morning, Bera scrubbed tables with her usual vigor, and Killyaen couldn't resist prodding her again.

"Fire-hips, you scrubbing my charm away or picturing that dress?" he teased, leaning close, eyes tracing her apron's outline with blatant desire. Bera's spoon sailed past his ear.

"Keep your filthy hands off me, you glowing menace," she snapped, but her smirk betrayed amusement.

"That dress better be worth it, or I'll torch your drawers." Killyaen dodged, grinning, and she lunged, tackling him to the floor in a playful wrestle. Patrons hooted, banging mugs.

"Pin the elf, Bera!" one roared. Killyaen, pinned briefly, tickled her side with a feather from his pouch, earning a squeal and a shove. "Truce, fire-hips," he laughed, pulling her up, their banter locking their old dynamic—chaotic, flirtatious, no strings.

At a corner table, Janko sulked over a sour ale, his face faintly glowing from festival pranks, the "Cursed Cat" nickname stinging worse than ever. Killyaen, craving the crowd's cheers, tossed a moozze tail that snagged in Janko's hair.

"Look, the Plumed Cat's back for more!" he called, sparking chants of "Cursed Cat!" Janko swatted the tail, muttering about "demonic elves," his grudge from the festival's ballad festering. Bera, wiping her hands, flung another rag at Killyaen.

"Quit torturing the poor cat, you pervert," she teased, her curves drawing his gaze again. He winked, unashamed, his obsession with her body fueling his grin.

The tavern buzzed with tales of Killyaen's latest masterpiece—the "Demonic Rhino." He'd slathered a merchant's Ironhide Rhino with Moonflower sap and tied a Crystal Wyrm horn to its head, sending it glowing and stomping through the square.

"Like a beast from Azurion's court!" a farmer bellowed, ale sloshing.

"Supreme Elf's gonna charm a Lava Dragon next!" another cackled. Killyaen soaked up the cheers, flexing in his drawers for the giggling crowd.

"Just wait, you dusty lot—Janko's cottage is next for a glowing shrine!" Janko's mug slammed down, his glare promising vengeance, but Killyaen's laughter drowned him out, his fame as Opeka's prankster king secure.

By midday, Killyaen strutted to Goran's training grounds, where Marko, the burly blacksmith, waited with two Zenoite swords, their earthy sheen glinting.

"Goran's orders," Marko rumbled, tossing them over.

"That curse slows your reactions. Dual-wielding'll sharpen you." Killyaen caught the swords, their weight grounding him against N'Nazmuz's 30-kilogram pressure. Goran, Peak Element Lord Fire, nodded.

"Blend Wind's Rebuke with Thunder's Edge. Move like a storm." Killyaen spun the swords, air whistling as he chained the non-Qi techniques, the curse's stamina fueling his flow. His first Thunder's Edge slash—a sharp, downward arc—splintered a training post, earning Goran's gruff nod.

"Not bad for a qi-blind fool."

Sweat beaded on his olive skin, the curse's rapid healing easing a bruised forearm, but his mind wandered to Bera's apron, her curves swaying in his memory. A fleeting amulet pulse stirred a thought of Solspire's "ruins of old gods" from Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods—destiny nudging, unasked—but he grinned, refocusing on the swords. Pranks and women trumped dusty relics any day.

That evening, the tavern thrummed with "Demonic Rhino" stories and Mima's wild rants about Spirit Stones as "cures for cursed elves." Killyaen, leaning on the bar, tossed suggestive winks at Bera, his eyes tracing her apron's outline.

"Got that dress picked out yet, fire-hips?" he teased, dodging her bread roll.

"Keep your eyes up, pervert," she shot back, smirking, her spark dancing. Janko, still sulking, muttered about "glowing revenge," but Killyaen barely noticed. His belt pouch, stuffed with prank fodder, felt like his true treasure, not some mythical altar. Yet as he sipped ale, a book passage from last night's attic reading flashed: "ruins of old gods" near Solspire, syncing with his amulet's hum. He shrugged it off, grinning at a passing barmaid's sway. Destiny could wait; the Supreme Elf lived for the now—pranks, cheers, and the thrill of a woman's curves.