Page 10 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

“Interesting.” I take three long gulps of cider and refill my horn, shifting restlessly on the cushions. There must be a reason he’s telling me this. I sense I won’t like it.

“I’m aware this is outside of my usual requests for the great Vir Pikquarrys, but there’s no one on this side of the sun I trust more than you.”

I wince at the honorific. My actions the day a portal collapsed an entire ridge in the Craegnach Mountain range to the east were not honorable. Many fell during the moon cycle of the Battle of the Unseen. But creatures must cling to hope; thus I’m stuck with the title, a reminder of the bloodshed.

Vyrion slips his horn into a stand and leans over the tray to rest his hand on my shoulder. “Therefore, I beg your help, my friend.”

The fresh pour of cider pauses halfway to my lips. At the earnest gleam in his eye, I down this horn as well. “Of course. You know my sword is yours.”

Vyrion sits back with a chuckle. “Fallen Ones be merciful, I will not require your sword.”

“Whatever you need.”

“As the youngest daughter, Loreleivnna will face many desperate nobles, driven by ambition or familial pressure. Usually, the task of Guardian is assigned to the First Knight.” The longer he speaks, the clammier my hands grow. “I beg of you, grow to the occasion and use your sense for enchantments to keep Loreleivnna safe while she finds and accepts suitors.”

It’s a feat of the Fallen that I’m able to maintain my friend’s pleading gaze for as long as I do before breaking away to pour another cider. He glances at the drink in my hand, noting that it’s my third or fourth—fifth?—horn in our short sitting, but says nothing.

The third week of the Lunaplume Harvest Festival is the most popular time for noble families to pursue first mates. The first week is melancholy, full of reflection and rites for the dead. The second week is for harvesting lunaplumes, starseeds, and basic crops. While hands are busy with the harvest, the boons granted by the Nocturn Aevumdivus when they descended from the sky to spread their seed across our land are fresh on everyone’s minds. During the third week, Svitaeryl honors the Wise Ones with celebration and festivities.

Meanwhile, aphrodisiacal pollen permeates the air of the Spiritgrove each night. Lust is in the air. Many seeds are sown in wombs this time of year, and in the spring, fertility rites have living proof.

Enchantments are not technically forbidden when nobles court, but I completely support my friend’s caution. Princess Loreleivnna is a special lass and deserves a worthy first mate, though I struggle to believe there’s such a creature in Svitaeryl.

I look to the princess perched on his armrest and immediately regret it. The bitter cherry ring around her pupils is profound, her glittering peridot irises shining with a heat I can only interpret as anger. Her chest heaves, sending little puffs of breath out of O-shaped lips. The mossy blush on her cheeks and neck has transformed into a tempting amaranth. It resembles the flustered state she’d been in while trapped between my arms and a sequioaoak trunk.

I loosen the leather strap of my pack and slip it all the way off, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

“You have my vow,” I mumble into my horn before downing it.

“Rosy!” King Vyrion claps me on the shoulder. He refills my cider and clinks our horns. “Don’t look so wilted. Are you in such a hurry to return to Ashfall Valley? Give your apprentice a chance to prove your worth as an elder.”

At the word elder, my attention snaps back to Princess Loreleivnna. The little brat glares at me like I’m the one who’s put us in this position.

“Yes,” she spits, all of the good humor sapped from her tone. “I’ll be sure to let our family’s favorite elder see all the fun he’s missing out on during the moonlit frolic.”

“Do not be a brat,” I snap without thinking. “Your father is right there.”

The king lets out a boisterous laugh. “You see, this is why I’ve chosen you. Don’t let her act out. She may be the king’s daughter, but she must be polite. No one wants a thorn-mouthed petal.”

“Father!” Princess Loreleivnna protests.

Vyrion points at me around his horn, oblivious or ignoring the daggers shooting between his daughter and me.

I smooth my features and return his smile, raising my horn. “I’ll ensure she behaves.”

“Sun favor you, Brother,” he says with a smirk. “If she gets out of line, bring her to me, and we’ll see if she’s too old for a spanking.”

Vyrion laughs, but I nearly choke on my cider. The princess lets out a pained groan and leaps from the dais. I dare not look up at her departure, but my mind supplies the memory of her plump rear swaying tauntingly as she runs from me, begging for my hand across it.

“Pluck me,” I mutter.

Vyrion’s laughter grows. He pours water in my empty horn and taps it with his. “So you see my plight. Roots guide your step.”

Chapter Eight

Loreleivnna

Vines strewn with dried corn, amaranth, and gayfeather line the walkway to Svitaeryl’s sliver of the Eternal River. Low-strung acorns, walnuts, and dried cranberries invite critters to partake in the second week of the festival, when the whole community pitches in to help with the harvest.