Page 9 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

The memories warm my chest. Svitaeyl elves live three times longer than centaurs, so while I’ve surpassed mid-life at 197, King Vyrion is in his prime at 274. All of these are good reasons to forget any fantasies I’ve allowed a supposed stranger in the tavern to craft in my mind. Unfortunately, I’m well aware of the claiming ritual that allows a svitayl elf to lengthen the life of their mate, so the numbers hardly deter my imagination.

Vyrion caresses a tall sequoiaoak trunk that serves as a pillar to the palace, and they bless our entry with a shower of wine-red leaves. As far as palaces go, the home of the Spiritvine Throne is on the smaller side, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in beauty. I follow Vyrion through the short hallway of latticed vines to the grand throne room at the heart of the palace, my heart clinging to every beat as my anxiety grows. I toss glances every which way, hoping to see her, and hoping she is nowhere to be seen.

The throne room is a beautiful illusion that takes my breath away to this day. Sequoiaoak trees form a wide circle around the room, their towering cinnamon trunks climbing toward the sky. Way above our heads, their foliage knits a ceiling of vibrant reds, haunting mulberry, and scarlet maple. The canopy of color blots out the sky and reflects off of floors made from the purest skyrite crystal.

The resulting globe-like effect makes one feel like a fyrefly fossilized in a warm amber orb. While criminals brought before the King claim it feels like a bloody trap this time of year, my body instantly recalls all the fond times spent goofing off during preparations for the lunaplume harvest, and a flood of happy memories helps ease my troubled mind.

“Sit with me.” Vyrion motions toward the raised ground dais.

The infamous Spiritvine Throne sprouts from the ground, formed by vines in intricate twirling designs. To the right is a similar throne for Queen Soreivsanna. To the left, a plush cushion lay at the foot of a hoofrest lounge board, reclined to my preferred seventy-eight-degree angle.

During his predecessor’s time, no one was allowed on the platform other than family. Vyrion claims this is still the case, although he frequently makes room for me.

Tucking my legs, I relax against the padded frame, scowling at the instant relief felt in my stifle. The Fallen Ones, in their infinite wisdom, are having a good laugh at my expense today.

A crimson leaf drifts from the ceiling, landing on my flank. I pick it up and snort, twisting it between my fingers. “Remember the time we got caught trying to turn the fountain water into wine?”

“All we had were the leaves swept from the throne room floor,” Vyrion laughs. “The staff was so charmed by our helpfulness that day.”

A servant appears, placing a tray of honey-roasted nuts, candied apple slices, lunar cider, brandy, and water on the pedestal between us, smiling at me warmly before bowing away.

I chuckle and serve myself a horn of brandy, pouring a lunar cider for Vyrion. “Chef Starcrag was plucked about all the missing sugar.”

“Not as plucked as my father.” His chuckle dwindles away, and he swirls the horn of cider a few times before setting it in a stand on the tray.

In Svitaeryl, rulers are ostensibly chosen by the people; however, those nurtured by the Wise Ones with spiritvine speech are always elected. The Slaytir family has been royalty for four kings–nearly three thousand years. Vyrion’s father was a just and fair ruler, one his subjects could rely on. But fairness does not equal kindness, and imparting justice weighs down one’s soul. A withered soul is heaviest for those meant to support it. Vyrion has spent a full century carving a name for himself outside of his inherited legacy, including placing his family nearest to his heart.

Another pang of shame courses through my veins. I drain my brandy and pour a horn of lunar cider to chase it down.

Soft footprints approach from the servant’s entrance, and the smell of wood hyacinth and moondrop honeycomb reaches my nostrils before the vines close behind her. My attention wrenches in her direction, a good amount of cider pouring straight down my chest.

Chapter Seven

Pikquarrys

“Ah, there you are, my littlest bloom.” Vyrion reaches for Princess Loreleivnna, who has yet to spare a glance my way. She takes his hand and circles the dais to sit on the arm of his throne.

Vyrion lifts his horn, tilting it in my direction. “Ignore the clod. He’s only been released from the stables recently and isn’t accustomed to civility.”

I force a soft nicker at his jab and divert my gaze from my best friend’s daughter, taking a sip of cider to ease my nerves.

“Yes, Father,” she says, sweet as morning dew. “I’m aware of your spellcarver and all the ways he’s the dullest flower in the field.”

Vyrion laughs heartily. I force another fake laugh. My gaze drifts back to the princess, and I’m surprised to find more gentle compassion there than the hurt and anger I’d expected. She offers a small smile and raises her shoulder just enough for me to know her tease is an olive branch I do not deserve.

All of the fuzzy nostalgic feelings flee, chased away by a thousand things I shouldn’t feel. Princess Loreleivnna is a slice of sunshine incarnate, her timid smile one of many distracting qualities that trap my words in my chest. She wears a long, flowing day gown comprised of layers upon layers of sheer moonsilk strips in shades of yellow, purple, and green. The luxurious fabric is spun from lunaberry silkworms, which only live on Aeveumoon Irises. It’s notoriously soft, and I picture my hands sifting through the ribbons of her skirt, my knuckles brushing the skin underneath.

My undercarriage grows hot. I loosen the strap of my pack. Seeing her casual beauty this way, it’s even more alluring than in the stiff servant’s dress. A sliver of frosted sage skin peeks from between her skirts as she crosses her legs at the ankles. Her bare feet dangle off the throne’s armrest. Wine-red paint the color of sequoiaoak leaves decorates her toenails, extra bright next to the fresh layer of dirt. My eyes sweep back up to her face, then to the autumnal flower crown resting on her windswept burgundy hair. Judging by the fresh smell of the amaranth of the crown, the dirt on her soles, and the thorn marks on her fingers, she ran here from the garden.

When my gaze lands back on hers, the smile has faded from her features, replaced with something more vulnerable. I want to reassure her, to tell her everything is the same as it was, there’s no harm done, no reason to feel unrest in my presence.

Yet like a coward, I look away. My next sip of cider tastes like the dust of the leaves on the skryite floor.

“Loreleivnna turns 132 this year,” Vyrion says casually, as though the air isn’t crackling with embers of my shame. “She’s well past the age a noble petal should’ve bloomed.”

“Father!” Princess Loreleivnna covers her face with one hand. She peeks at me over her fingers, then squeezes her eyes shut, her neck and chest flushing lily pad green. “Snip the unnecessary details, please? And stop saying the word bloom in that context!”

He chuckles dismissively and continues. “I wish to see her accept suitors this festival.”