▪︎Firera’s Dinsion▪︎
[Firera’s POV]
Sylvana and I sat within an illusory picnic she’d conjured—a checkered cloth on endless green grass, with plates of food that held the faint, ghostly echo of taste. It was a pale imitation of the mortal world, a cruel tease. Before us hung a scrying window I had created, showing the bustling festival from Ovelia’s perspective.
"Lady Firera," Sylvana said, taking a deliberate bite from an illusory apple. The crunch was a soft, hollow sound. "Let’s make a bet."
"Not interested," I stated, my gaze fixed on the window. Ovelia was walking toward a ga stall, her posture a mix of determination and nervous energy.
"Let’s at least enjoy this peaceful ti with a little wager," Sylvana continued, her voice light, almost teasing.
"If I win, you will leave my dinsion," I said, my red eyes cutting to hers.
"Not going to happen," she replied, popping the last of the apple into her mouth. The core vanished before it could touch the cloth.
This elf was an eternal burr in the fabric of my solitude.
"Other than your departure, what could you possibly offer as a wager?" I asked, my voice flat. "You are essentially a ghost residing in my prison. And I am a sealed goddess. What could I offer you? I cannot restore your life. I cannot grant you freedom. We have nothing to trade but irritation."
She looked down at her empty hand where the apple had been, her expression unreadable for a mont. "You’re right," she conceded, her tone losing its playful edge. "Forget about the bet."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
•Fall & Catch Frenzy Stall•
[Ovelia’s POV]
I walked to the center of the wide, black circular base, the painted wood solid under my boots. My heart beat a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs.
For years in Timberline Village, my so-called mother, Natasha, had a cruel thod of handing chores. She wouldn’t call out. She’d simply throw things—a damp wad of laundry, an empty water bucket, a wooden spoon, a tin plate. Her aim was never to hand it to , but to test if I was paying attention. If I failed to catch it, the item would hit the floor, and her disapproval would follow, cold and sharp. It had reached a point where I could catch a rolling pin thrown at the back of my head while I was facing the hearth, my hands moving on instinct before my mind even registered the danger. Those years of constant, low-grade alertness had honed my reflexes into a fine, desperate edge.
I stopped in the exact center and looked at the stall owner. He held the small, boxy remote casually, a smug tilt to his mouth. He didn’t speak. He just smiled, his thumb twitching.
*Click.*
A stick dropped directly in front of my face.
My hand shot out, fingers closing around the smooth wood with a soft smack before it had fallen a foot.
"HEY! YOU DIDN’T SAY IT WAS STARTING!" Gale’s roar of genuine, hot anger cut through the ambient noise. I could feel the spike of his outrage through our bond, a sharp, protective flare.
"Why are you so angry?" the stall owner taunted, laughing. "She caught it, didn’t she? Seems like she was ready."
In my peripheral vision, I saw Ray’s hand clamp over Gale’s mouth. Ray leaned in, whispering sothing urgently into Gale’s ear. I saw Gale’s shoulders, which had been tensed for a fight, slowly lower. His glare remained, but the violent energy around him cooled. I wondered what Ray had said.
The owner’s thumb twitched again.
*Click.*
A stick dropped to my left. I pivoted, my arm extending, and caught it cleanly, adding it to the first.
*Click.*
Another to my right. A shift of weight, a lunge, and my other hand snatched it from the air, adding it to the growing bundle.
The crowd around us had fallen into a hushed, intense silence. No one coughed, no one shuffled their feet. It was as if they were collectively holding their breath, not wanting to be the one who broke my concentration. The only sounds were the festival music and the soft thump of my own heartbeat.
Two sticks remained, dangling from the highest claws.
The stall owner’s smile tightened. His eyes flicked from to the two remaining sticks, then back to his remote. He was calculating.
"He’s going to drop both remaining sticks at the sa ti," Lady Firera’s voice was a clear, urgent spike in my mind.
But they’re too far apart, I thought, panic lancing through . I couldn’t be in two places at once.
Before I could reposition myself, the owner’s thumb jabbed the remote decisively.
*Click. Click*
Two distinct, almost simultaneous sounds. The last two sticks plumted, one to my far left, the other to my far right.
"I will beat you black and blue if you can’t catch what I throw, you useless girl."
The mory of Natasha’s voice, cold and venomous, sliced through my focus. The fear acted like a spark. My body moved on the old, ingrained programming of survival.
My left hand shot up, snatching the higher stick from the air. Even as my fingers closed around it, I was already dropping, my knees bending, my body coiling like a spring. I lunged to the right, my free arm stretching down. My fingertips brushed the smooth wood of the final stick just before it would have hit the ground. I clamped my hand around it, my knuckles scraping against the rough wood of the platform.
I stayed there for a second, kneeling, clutching all five sticks to my chest. My hands were trembling. Not from the effort, but from the echo of that cruel voice and the relief of having defied it, here and now.
Then the crowd erupted. The silence shattered into a wave of cheers, whistles, and applause. The sound washed over , warm and real, scouring away the cold mory.
"I don’t know how you knew he would drop them together, but thank you, Lady Firera," I thought, slowly rising to my feet.
"It was in the stall owner’s expression. The shift in his eyes, the slight tightening of his grip on the remote just before he acted. Learn to read those tells. You can use that in future fights, when words are not spoken," she replied, her ntal voice carrying a rare note of practical instruction.
I rembered my fight with the massive werewolf in Thunoa Village. Even with Lady Firera’s borrowed strength surging through , I had been overwheld, outmatched. I was still weak. I nodded to myself, the lesson settling in my bones.
I looked at the stall owner. His smug grin was gone. His face was a mask of shock, quickly lting into raw, frustrated irritation. He hadn’t just lost a round; his trick had been seen through and beaten.
I lifted my head, looking up at the curved bar with its chanical claws. The sticks needed to be returned, but the bar was far above my reach.
"Give those." Ace’s voice was suddenly beside . He had moved so quietly.
I handed him the five sticks. Without a word, his tall fra reached up effortlessly. With precise movents, he slid each stick back into the waiting grip of its respective claw.
"Thanks," I whispered.
Ace looked down at , his stormy silver eyes holding mine for a mont. Then, his hand ca up and settled on my head. It wasn’t a rough pat, but a firm, warm pressure, his fingers gently ruffling my hair. "You did a good job," he said, his voice dropping to a near-rumble. The faintest hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
A warm, pleased flush spread through my chest. I nodded, unable to stop my own smile from blooming in answer.
"Stall owner," Ann’s voice cut through the celebratory noise, crisp and commanding. "The cookbook. My—Lia won." She had almost slipped, but caught herself.
I had almost forgotten the reason I was standing here. The limited edition cookbook.
The owner’s expression shifted back to that calculating, greedy mask. He pointed a finger at a small, weathered bulletin board nailed to the side of his stall. "As you can clearly see here," he announced, raising his voice to address the crowd as much as us, "the rules state you must win three consecutive rounds to claim the limited edition grand prize!" He spread his hands, his smile returning, full of malicious confidence. "You, young woman, and the grumpy one," he said, pointing at Ann and then Gale. "Why don’t you play the final two rounds?" His tone implied he was offering them a chance, but his eyes glinted with the certainty that they would fail.
"Okay," Ann said. The single word was calm, but the air around her changed. The cheerful attendant vanished. Her posture straightened into sothing lethally efficient, her gaze locking onto the sticks above with the focus of a predator sighting prey.
"Alright," Gale snarled. He shoved the fairy plush into Ray’s chest and stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "I’ll play this shitty ga of yours."
The stall owner took an involuntary step back, the color draining from his face. He’d seen the shift in Ann. He felt the palpable nace rolling off Gale. He realized, too late, that he had made a severe miscalculation.
A sure smile spread across my face. We are definitely getting that cookbook.
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