The Harvest Moon Festival's embers still smoldered in Opeka's square, the scent of roasted Gromble fat and spilled ale lingering as dawn crept over the rooftops. Killyaen, still clad in his tattered linen drawers from his arm-wrestling bet, swaggered through the Black Stone Tavern's back door, his gold-tipped braid catching the morning light. His split-leaf amulet pulsed faintly, its runic hum a quiet reminder of Solspire's whispered relics, but his mind was fixed on mischief and a certain fire-hipped barmaid.
Inside the tavern's kitchen, Bera stood at a wooden counter, kneading dough with a vigor that could crack stone. Her auburn hair, tied loosely, framed her flushed cheeks, and her Beginner Novice Fire spark danced in her hazel eyes as she muttered about "glowing idiots." Her apron, dusted with flour, hung over a simple linen dress, clinging to her curves, and Killyaen's gold-flecked eyes sparkled with opportunity.
He slipped behind her, silent as a shadow, and plucked a length of twine from a nearby shelf. "Morning, fire-hips," he purred, leaning close enough for his breath to graze her ear. "Miss me?"Bera spun, flour puffing around her. "You're still in your drawers?" she snapped, brandishing a wooden spoon.
"Get out before I set your braid on fire!" Killyaen dodged, grinning, and with a deft flick of his wrist, looped the twine around her dress hem, knotting it to the handle of a heavy iron pot on the stove.
"Oh, Bera, you're too tense," he teased, voice dripping with mock concern.
"Let the Supreme Elf loosen you up." Before she could swing the spoon, he darted forward, pinched her backside with a playful smirk, and leaped back as her face turned crimson.
"You demon elf!" Bera roared, her spark flaring small flames that singed the twine.
In her fury, she didn't notice the knot binding her dress. She lunged after Killyaen, ready to thrash him, her steps fueled by rage. The twine snapped taut, and with a sharp rip, her dress tore away, caught on the pot's handle. Bera, oblivious in her wrath, stormed through the kitchen door into the crowded tavern, wearing only her flour-dusted apron, which barely covered her front. She never wore undergarments—a quirk known to none but herself until now—and her sculpted body, toned from years of hauling ale barrels, was exposed from the sides and back. Her ample chest strained against the apron's thin fabric, threatening to spill free.The tavern fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into chaos. Villagers whistled, stomped, and banged mugs on tables.
"Bera's blazing brighter than Aurelion!" one shouted.
"Forget the Supreme Elf, she's the real fire!" another roared, ale sloshing. Her curves, illuminated by the morning light streaming through the windows, drew every eye, and the crowd's cheers grew rowdier.
Bera's face flushed deeper than her spark, her eyes glistening with humiliated tears as she realized her state. She spun on her heel, clutching the apron to her chest, and fled back to the kitchen, her bare feet slapping the wooden floor. Killyaen, his grin fading as guilt twisted his gut, chased after her.
The crowd's jeers faded as he slipped through the kitchen door, finding Bera leaning against the counter, her shoulders shaking, hands covering her face.
"Bera, I—" Killyaen started, his usual swagger faltering. He stepped closer, scratching his neck, the amulet's hum unnoticed as his heart thudded.
"I didn't mean for—well, the pinch was me, but not this. You know I'm just—" His words cut off as Bera whirled, her fist raised, eyes blazing with hurt and fury. Killyaen braced, squeezing his eyes shut, expecting a well-deserved punch.Instead, soft lips crashed against his, fierce and searing. Bera's hands gripped his shoulders, her kiss a storm of passion and defiance, her spark's warmth tingling against his skin. Killyaen's eyes flew open, then fluttered closed, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling on her waist.
The kiss deepened, a chaotic blend of her anger and something unspoken, electric as Moonflower sap.The kitchen door, left ajar, framed the scene for the tavern's nosiest patrons, who'd crowded the bar to gawk. Whistles pierced the air, followed by raucous shouts. "Elf babies incoming!" one bellowed. "Bera's taming the Supreme Idiot!" another cackled.
"Fire babies, glowing and cursed!" The crowd roared, mugs clinking in a mock toast to "elf babies."
Bera pulled back, breathless, her cheeks flaming as she shoved Killyaen away. "Get out," she hissed, voice trembling, but her eyes lingered on his, conflicted. Killyaen, dazed, stumbled back into the tavern, the crowd's jeers washing over him. He sank onto a stool, ale mug in hand, staring into the amber liquid. That kiss—wild, unexpected—burned in his mind. Was it just her anger boiling over? Or something more? His amulet pulsed, but for once, his thoughts weren't on relics or ruins. Bera's lips, her fire, her hurt—they tangled in his chest, heavier than N'Nazmuz's curse.
In the kitchen, Bera slumped against the counter, flour smudging her flushed cheeks. "Stupid, stupid," she muttered, clutching her apron tighter. Why had she kissed him? That infuriating, glowing, prank-pulling elf—she wanted to throttle him, not kiss him. Yet her heart raced, replaying the warmth of his lips, the surprise in his gold-flecked eyes. She'd seen his guilt, fleeting but real, and it stirred something she didn't want to name. Attraction? No, impossible. He was a walking disaster. But her spark flickered, betraying her, and she cursed herself for letting Killyaen unravel her so easily.
Outside, the festival's cleanup began, villagers sweeping away wilted Moonflower petals. Killyaen, still in his drawers, wandered to the square, the crowd's teasing fading into background noise. His belt pouch, heavy with prank vials, felt trivial now. Vuk's words from the night before echoed—Solspire, the glowing blue relic, the Zenoite minefield. His amulet hummed, stronger now, tugging his gaze toward the horizon where Solspire's jagged peaks loomed. Bera's kiss lingered, a complication he hadn't planned for, but the ruins called louder. He smirked, masking his turmoil. "Supreme Elf doesn't chase feelings," he muttered, tossing a Flaevyn feather into the air. "He chases legends."
Yet as he sauntered toward Goran's training grounds, wooden sword slung over his shoulder, Killyaen couldn't shake the memory of Bera's lips or the sting of her tears. The path to Solspire might hold ancient secrets, but the fire in that kitchen had sparked something just as dangerous.