[Zephyr’s POV]
Silence. After I spoke, a complete and utter silence descended upon the stall and the surrounding crowd, thick enough to swallow the distant festival music. Every face was turned toward , eyes wide, expressions frozen in various stages of shock and recognition. They looked as if they were staring at a ghost who had just strolled out of a storybook and demanded a drink. I couldn’t help it; a soft, slightly unsteady chuckle escaped .
I pushed myself upright from my casual lean, and as I did, the wrought-iron lamppost beside groaned softly. I glanced at it. It was bent at a slight angle, the tal warped where my shoulder had been resting. Ah. Did I do that? Still smiling ruefully, I reached out, placed a hand on the cool tal, and gave it a gentle, corrective push. The tal resisted for a second, then yielded with a soft creak, straightening back to perfectly vertical again. There. Good as new.
I began walking toward the stall counter. The world tilted gently with each step, the cobblestones seeming to roll like the deck of a ship. It’s hard to balance like this, I thought, focusing on putting one foot directly in front of the other.
As I approached, my bleary gaze swept over the group clustered around the stall. My mind, sluggish from drink, began piecing them together.
A man with striking orange and silver hair, his gaze magnified by a single monocle, watched with an easy, knowing smile. He held a large fairy stuffed toy with an air of resigned amusent. Prince Ray Draven. He looked at as if he’d spotted an hour ago and had simply been waiting for to make my entrance.
Beside him, a woman held a vibrant bouquet with the careful grip of a assassin holding a weapon. Her posture was rigid, her black eyes missing nothing. Ann. The forr Crimsonheart assassin.So, she was here too.
Then, the man with silver hair and matching eyes, frad by wire-rimd glasses. He held a large silver wolf stuffed toy with a sort of stern disapproval. Prince Ace Draven.No mistaking that intensity.
And beside him... the woman. Blonde hair like sumr wheat, a shade similar to my own. And those eyes. Red. Not the red of illness or paint, but a deep, living crimson that seed to hold a light of their own. Ovelia Ashford. The peace sacrifice. So Philip’s intelligence report had been accurate. She really was traveling with the Silverhowl princes on their mission.
My gaze flicked to the young man beside her. White hair, gray eyes, a face set in a permanent, impressive scowl. Maybe mid-twenties, like . I’d never seen nor heard of him in any of Philip’s updates. A new companion.
I laughed. The sound was a little too loud in the quiet. A mber of a royal family, a crown prince no less, traveling openly with a peace sacrifice—a walking political crisis—through a crowded, uncontrolled festival in a neutral village. It was insanity. A beautiful, thrilling, potentially catastrophic insanity. Seeing Philip earlier had felt like a dream. This? This was a full-blown fantasy. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe if I played this ridiculous scam of a ga and won, I’d finally wake up at the tavern with the n I had been drinking with.
I reached the stall counter, swaying slightly. The beautiful woman inside the stall had a fixed smile on her face. It was a tight, fearful expression, muscles straining at the corners of her mouth. "How may I help you, Your Highness?" she asked, her voice thin.
"The rules," I said, leaning one elbow on the counter. The wood was smooth and cool. "Sa as last year, right? If I catch... let’s say, only four sticks, I can choose two of the cheaper items?" I gestured vaguely toward the shelf of lesser prizes.
"Y-yes, Your Highness," she stamred, her eyes darting nervously to the owner.
I squinted at the shelves. My vision blurred, then cleared. "Then have that jar of coffee beans ready," I said, pointing to a large ceramic jar with a cork stopper. "And that one, single red rose." The rose was perfect, velvety and dark, standing alone in a slender vase.
She moved imdiately, fetching both items with trembling hands and placing them on the counter as if they were already mine.
I turned my focus to the stall owner, who was sweating profusely. I took a step toward him, but the world decided to lurch again. My balance wavered. Instinctively, I reached out a hand toward the nearest person for support—the grumpy white-haired man with the gray eyes.
To my astonishnt, he didn’t just step back; he fluidly sidestepped my grasping hand with a look of utter disdain, as if I were a drunkard trying to pawn off a rotten fish. My eyebrows shot up. He dodged . He looked at like I was an inconvenient piece of furniture. A genuine, delighted grin spread across my face. I liked him already.
Before I could face-plant onto the cobblestones, a strong hand closed around my forearm, steadying . I looked over. It was Prince Ace. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. "Be careful," he said, his voice low.
"Thanks," I replied, righting myself. He released my arm as soon as I was stable.
"Prince Zephyr, are you alright?" Ovelia asked, her voice laced with real concern.
"I’m just wonderfully, perfectly drunk," I said with a cheerful shrug, and chuckled again. The sound seed to break so of the tension, though the crowd still watched, srized.
I refocused on the stall owner. I fished a twenty-spina coin from my pocket and tossed it to him in a lazy underhand arc. He fumbled but caught it. Then, as if rembering himself, he bent and snatched up the remote he’d dropped earlier, clutching it to his chest like a talisman.
I walked—with only a slight sway—to the gaming machine and planted my boots firmly in the center of the black circular base. I looked up at the five sticks, dangling like tempting fruit.
"Mister," I called, my voice carrying easily. The owner’s head snapped up. "Can you drop all these sticks at the sa ti? Like you did for that lady?" I pointed a thumb over my shoulder at Ann.
"Y-yes, Prince Zephyr," the owner squeaked. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I’ll... I’ll start now." He lifted the remote, closed his eyes, and brought his whole palm down on the buttons.
*CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK!*
All five sticks dropped at once, a simultaneous rain of wood.
My plan had been simple: catch four, leave one, claim my coffee and rose, and maintain the fiction of a fair ga. But plans and reflexes are two different things. The mont the sticks fell, my body moved on its own. Years of training, of honing a strength that was both gift and curse, took over. My hands beca a blur.
*Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.*
Five sharp, clean sounds. I stood still, all five sticks held neatly in my grasp, one in each hand and three tucked between my fingers. I hadn’t even needed to move my feet.
I blinked, looking at the bundle of wood. Oops.
"Mister!" I announced, a laugh bubbling up. "I win!"
The crowd, released from its stunned silence, erupted in cheers. Their prince had done the impossible, just like last year.
Then ca the sound.
*Crack.*
A thin fissure appeared in the first stick I was holding. Then another.
*Crack-crack-crack-SNAP.*
In the span of a heartbeat, all five wooden sticks shattered in my grip, exploding into a shower of splinters and dust that pattered down onto the black base like coarse rain.
The cheers died instantly, replaced by a unified, shocked gasp.
Ah. Damn it.
In my current state, the fine control needed to keep my strength in check was... elusive. I’d squeezed just a fraction too hard.
I opened my hands, letting the last few fragnts fall. I looked at the stall owner, genuine remorse on my face. "Sorry, Mister. I accidentally destroyed your sticks." I patted my pockets, reaching for my coin purse. "I’ll pay for them, of course."
"No! No, Prince Zephyr, please!" the owner yelped, waving his hands frantically. Sweat glead on his forehead. "I have many reserved sticks! Many! No need to pay, no need at all! Just... just claim your prize at the counter!" His voice was a mixture of terror and desperate appeasent.
Did I just scare a scam artist into honesty? The thought was amusing.
"If that’s so... thanks," I said, offering him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. It probably looked as wobbly as I felt.
I walked back to the counter, brushing sawdust and tiny wood fragnts from my hands. The attendant silently pushed the jar of coffee and the single red rose toward . Her hands were no longer trembling; they were perfectly still, frozen in deference.
I popped the cork from the jar, reached in, and grabbed a small handful of the dark, fragrant roasted beans. I tossed them into my mouth and began to chew. The bitter, robust flavor exploded on my tongue, a familiar and welco shock to the system. Almost instantly, the pleasant, fuzzy warmth of the alcohol began to recede, burned away by the caffeine and the sharp taste of reality.
The drunken haze lifted, clearing from my mind like mist under a morning sun.
And with perfect, sober clarity, the realization hit .
The laughter, the bent lamppost, the shattered sticks... the worried look in Ovelia’s ruby eyes, the stern presence of the Draven princes, the icy glare of the white-haired stranger.
This was not a dream.
The cold jar in my hand was real. The scent of the rose was real. The stunned, watching crowd was real. And standing a few paces away, watching this entire undignified spectacle with varying degrees of amusent, concern, and irritation, was the Crown Prince of Silverhowl, the General of the First Division, a forr Crimsonheart assassin, the white-haired stranger, and Ovelia Ashford.
What an embarrassnt, I thought, my cheerful facade faltering for just a second. For them to see like this. Drunk, clumsy, shattering ga pieces at a festival stall. This was all horrifyingly, embarrassingly real.
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