CHAPTER 157: FESTIVAL OF FLAMES

[Lavinia’s POV – Festival of Flames]

Gods above, someone please tell Osric to relax before he glares a hole through the next fruit seller.

Seriously.

He didn’t look like a protector right now.

He looked like a demon—an overgrown, brooding, six-foot menace dressed in a plain robe—staring daggers at every single soul who so much as breathed near me.

You’d think I was made of stardust and national secrets the way he hovered.

And I do mean hovered.

He was so close to me that we could probably be mistaken for lovers strolling through the city on a forbidden date. Not that kind of tender, poetry-reading lover either—no, the jealous boyfriend who once stabbed a guy for looking too long kind.

And to make things worse? Solena, glowing on his shoulder like a literal divine feathered beast, made us about as subtle as a comet crashing through a dinner party.

"Stay close, Lavi," Osric muttered suddenly, one hand moving to the small of my back as if I were about to be launched into space. "Someone might try to kidnap you."

I blinked.

Excuse me?

I turned to him with my most unimpressed royal eyebrow. "Did you just imply I’m a kid?"

He shrugged, dead serious. "You’re fun-sized. Thieves love portable short people."

. . .

. . .

. . .

I feel very...very offended.

Oh, we’re doing that today.

"Right," I said sweetly. "Sure thing, uncle."

He stopped walking. Like, mid-step. Boot frozen midair. Face blank.

"... What did you just call me?"

I kept strolling, head held high like I hadn’t just committed conversational war. "Un-cle," I repeated, over-enunciated like I was teaching a toddler phonics. "You know. Grumpy older man who thinks he knows best but still gets grey hairs from dealing with his adorable niece."

He jogged to catch up, scandalized. "Lavinia. Did you just—you did not—did you seriously just—UNCLE?!"

"Should I have gone with Grandpa?" I mused aloud.

He actually made a wounded noise. "I am twenty-one!"

"And acting sixty."

"I train with swords for six hours a day—"

"Which is exactly what my grandpa does before he baths in eucalyptus oil and yells at clouds."

Osric groaned like someone whose entire bloodline had just been dishonored.

Hehe...he’s so fun to tease.

"Lavi... you cannot—"

"OH! Something’s happening over there!" I squealed, completely ignoring his royal meltdown as I darted to the opposite side of the street.

"Lavinia—no, Lavi—LAVI, don’t you—"

Too late.

I was already peeking through a noisy crowd that had gathered near a makeshift table where a man with the energy of a caffeinated raccoon was shouting to the skies.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMENNNNN!" he bellowed, arms flailing as though casting a spell of pure nonsense. "Step right up and test your fate! Win more than you spend! Triple your coins or triple your tears!"

On the table, three shiny steel cups glinted in the light, dancing around a single hidden marble.

Oh. This game.

So apparently, even in this empire of warbirds, velvet secret lairs, and magical assassins... we still have scam artists with cup games.

The man waggled his eyebrows at the growing crowd. "In honor of our lovely princess’s First Crawl Day, I’m offering FOUR tries instead of three! That’s right—four shiny chances to win the jackpot and take home glory, gold, and the admiration of strangers!"

Hmm. Should I try?

I mean, statistically, I’ll lose... but it is my day. And maybe—

Oh.

Wait.

I handed all my coin pouches to that silk-sucking, charm-hoarding information goblin Rye Morven.

Great.

Maybe Osric still has—?

I turned, about to ask, when suddenly—strong arms looped around my waist. My back hit a chest. A very firm chest.

And then—

"WHA—WHAT?!" I gasped, utterly scandalized.

He had pulled me close. So close I could feel the stupidly calm rhythm of his stupidly solid heartbeat. His hands were warm. His grip was gentle but confident. Dangerous. Illegal. Borderline marriage proposal levels of intimacy.

I tilted my head up to yell at him and instead—Forgot how to breathe. Because Osric was staring down at me with an expression that should be banned in royal festivals.

And then he whispered. Low. Rough. Too close to my ear.

"...Now look closely, Lavi," he murmured, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. "Do I... look like an uncle to you?"

Oh no.

OH NO.

There was a shimmer.

Just a flicker—magic warping ever so slightly—and suddenly, behind the commoner glamor, I saw it.

The real Osric.

And Saints save me.

He looked like a curse designed by a drunk god with no moral compass and unlimited access to jawlines.

Golden skin kissed by sunlight and swordplay. Eyes the color of iced coffee—dangerous, rare, expensive. A face carved from trouble and royalty, framed by tousled hair that belonged in romance novels banned from schools.

I. Was. Doomed.

"Tell me, Lavi," he said, leaning in, his nose nearly brushing mine, "do I... still look like an uncle?"

My heart detonated in my chest.

It was a crime.

An absolute crime how attractive this man was.

I pushed myself out of his arms like I’d touched a furnace and staggered backward, pointing a trembling finger at him like a righteous cleric calling out a demon.

"You—you—are you trying to seduce me?!"

He tilted his head. Smirk deepening. "Did I?"

My jaw dropped.

I clutched my chest dramatically. "That’s treason, Osric. Treason against the royal bloodline."

"You look like you’re enjoying the treason."

"DAMN IT—I feel so hot right now," I gasped, fanning myself with both hands.

From my satchel, Marshi peeked up with a face that screamed, I did not sign up for this romantic fever dream.

Solena let out a long-suffering warbird sigh from Osric’s shoulder, as if to say, My master is an idiot and a menace. But he’s a handsome menace, so I can’t even argue.

Meanwhile, Osric—the cause of 98% of my current cardiac instability—walked up beside me like he hadn’t just dismantled my entire emotional equilibrium in twelve seconds flat.

"Where to now, Your Fiery Hotness?" he asked cheerfully. "Shall I buy you something? Sweets? Perfume? A dagger with heart-shaped jewels?"

I snapped my fan closed and glared at him. "Stop acting like this is a date."

He blinked. "It’s not?"

I opened my mouth to protest—again—and promptly forgot all words as he smiled.

That soft, crooked, dangerous smile.

Gods, help me.

I was in trouble.

And before I could recover from the attractive war crime that was Osric’s face, I spotted a crowd forming around a familiar voice yelling about riches and regret.

The Scam Table.

I took three dramatic steps forward, chin high, cloak swishing like a woman with purpose and zero common sense.

"Alright, scam man," I said, pointing at the table like I was about to declare war. "Let’s play."

The crowd gasped.

Osric choked.

"Lavi," he hissed, grabbing my arm like I’d just offered to duel a dragon. "Absolutely not. This is a rigged game run by a con artist in a vest. You’re a princess."

"Exactly!" I beamed. "A princess of the people. And the people are playing the shiny cup scam, so I will also play the shiny cup scam."

He pinched the bridge of his nose like it was personally betraying him. "That’s not how nobility works—"

"It is today."

The scam artist grinned, his gold tooth winking like a villain in a bedtime story. "Ahhh! Brave soul! Pretty girl! Smart eyes! Good instincts, I see it already!"

"That’s three lies in one sentence," Osric muttered behind me.

I leaned forward, hands on the table. "Alright. Four chances, right? If I win, I triple it?"

"If you win, my lady," he sang like a bard on caffeine, "you walk away richer than you ever imagined! Just place your coin!"

I turned, gave Osric the most innocent, doe-eyed look I could summon.

"...Coin, please?"

His soul visibly left his body.

"You’re unbelievable," he grumbled, pulling a silver coin from his coat. He slammed it onto the table with a sigh that could haunt ancestors.

The man began to shuffle the cups—fast, flashy, and unnecessarily flamboyant.

I squinted. Watched. Focused.

Middle one. It was the middle.

I slapped the table. "That one!"

He lifted the cup.

Empty.

The crowd groaned.

I blinked. "What?! But I—I saw it—"

"Three more tries!" he chirped. "Don’t give up hope, pretty lady!"

"I’m not a—ugh, fine."

And just like that, I lost.

Every. Single. Time. Like a dignified warrior princess getting repeatedly smacked with a baguette.

I turned to Osric, lips wobbling, eyes teary. Pointed at the man like a betrayed child.

"He’s cheating."

"Obviously."

"So help me win."

"...You want me to cheat the cheater?"

"Yes."

He sighed like he was about to betray a thousand years of honor codes.

"Fine."

He stepped forward, rolled his shoulders like a knight about to slay a beast, and dropped a coin onto the table with the kind of silent menace that made the scammer blink twice.

Solena fluffed her wings, narrowed her golden eyes at the man like she was about to roast him alive.

"Go on," Osric said, his voice low and smooth. "Try me."

The man hesitated. Then began to shuffle.

Fast.

Too fast.

But Osric didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And then—without hesitation—he tapped the leftmost cup.

The man lifted it.

Marble.

The crowd erupted.

I gasped. "HA! That’s right! Did you see that? You scammer! That’s my man!"

Osric whipped his head toward me, eyes wide, ears pink. "Wh—what?!"

I blinked. "What? C’mon." I patted his shoulder, grinning. "Let’s get rich."

"But aren’t we already rich?"

"Yes, but my dignity is not, and you, brave sir, must reclaim it."

He stared at me for a beat. Then nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sacred quest. And just like that—Osric won.

Every. Single. Round.

Coins clinked into our little pouch. The crowd started cheering for us. I may or may not have curtsied dramatically. Osric may or may not have looked like he wanted the cobblestone to eat him.

But after that?

We ran.

We ate ridiculous festival food.

We laughed until our stomachs hurt.

He bought me candied fruit on a stick the size of my face, and I made him try a dance with a passing troupe of masked performers. He was stiff and awkward and painfully tall, but he did it—just to make me smile.

We chased fireflies down alleyways glowing with fairy lights. We stole hours from the night like children who didn’t know tomorrow could hurt.

It was—

Gods.

It was the greatest day of my life.

And maybe that should’ve warned me.

Because happiness?

Real, unfiltered, heart-skipping happiness?

It never stays for long. Not for people like me.

Not in stories like mine.