Chapter 178: Chapter 178: Flavors of Trust
[Ovelia’s POV]
I wiped the last traces of tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, the salt mixing with the lingering sweetness of cotton candy on my lips. The cool night air felt refreshing against my damp skin.
"That grumpy fairy certainly got you there," Lady Firera’s voice chimed in my mind, carrying a note of dry amusement.
"Yes..." I replied silently, a small smile touching my lips despite the lingering rawness in my chest.
I looked up at Gale. He was staring ahead, his gray eyes fixed on the crowd, that perpetually furrowed brow giving nothing away. But I could feel him—a faint warmth through our bond, a flicker of something that might have been satisfaction beneath his prickly exterior.
"Gale," I said softly.
He glanced down at me, wary.
"Thank you." The words felt small, inadequate, but they came from somewhere deep. "And... I want you to express your feelings more to us, too. You don’t always have to be so... grumpy."
He flicked my forehead—harder than usual, a sharp thwack that made me blink. "Idiot!" he snapped, but there was no real heat in it. He tucked the fallen wolf stuffed toy back under his arm with exaggerated care. "You’re my master. I’m your familiar. Learn that lesson properly before you start ordering me around." He paused, his gray eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "And for the record, I’m already expressing my feelings more than you realize. You’re just not paying attention."
A small laugh bubbled up from my chest—genuine, surprised, warm. "Then I’ll learn by watching you."
He reached out and pinched my cheek, the grip firm but not painful. "You don’t need to. Just be yourself." He released my cheek, turned, and began walking, taking another bite of his cotton candy as he moved.
I hurried to catch up, my fingers finding the familiar fabric of his tunic and holding tight. The contact was grounding, a tether in the shifting crowd.
I need to express my feelings more, I thought. Show my feelings more. No more holding back.
"By the way," I said, glancing up at his profile, "what did Ray whisper to you earlier? When you got angry at the stall owner while I was playing the stick game?"
He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh, that." He took another bite of his cotton candy. "He just said I should keep quiet if I wanted you to win."
Then, without warning, he held his cotton candy close to my mouth. "Take a bite." The words were gruff, but his gray eyes watched me with something almost like anticipation.
I hesitated. Am I really allowed to taste his? Will he flick my forehead again if I do? Pinch my cheek?
"You don’t want it?" he asked, a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossing his features.
I shook my head quickly and leaned forward, taking a small bite. The blueberry cotton candy dissolved on my tongue in an instant—a burst of pure, melted sugar infused with the bright, slightly tart essence of summer fruit. "It’s sweet first," I said, surprised, "then a tiny tang of blueberry, and then it’s just... gone."
I held up my own pink cloud toward him. Without a word, without hesitation, he leaned down and took a bite.
"Not bad," he admitted. "Want to swap?"
I suddenly remembered that Ace’s favorite was strawberry, too.
I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. "No, I’m good."
I caught a glimpse of Gale’s face then—a fleeting expression, there and gone in an instant. The corner of his mouth had curved upward. A hint of a smile. Genuine. Unguarded.
My heart squeezed with a strange, grateful affection for this impossible, prickly, wonderful fairy.
A new scent drifted toward us from a nearby stall—savory, rich, mouthwatering. I turned to see a female merchant skillfully flipping small, round balls of batter on a hot griddle. They sizzled and browned, coated in a thick, dark brown sauce that glistened under the lantern light.
"Gale." I pointed, my voice bright with sudden determination. "I want that. Let’s buy some for everyone."
He followed my gaze. "Ah. Takoyaki." He glanced down at me, and then—just like Ace always did—he patted my head. "Got it."
The warmth of the gesture spread through me, comforting and familiar. But beneath it, a small worry tugged at my heart.
Ace... I hope you’ve already gotten your ring back. I hope you’re safe.
[Ace’s POV]
I ran. The festival crowd parted before me like water around a stone, people instinctively stepping aside without needing to see my face. The scent of the child thief grew stronger with every stride—young, scared, laced with the unmistakable tang of werewolf.
Then I saw it—a narrow gap between two stalls, a dark alley barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side. The smell led straight into its depths.
I plunged into the darkness.
The change was immediate. The warm lantern light of the festival vanished, replaced by deep shadows and the faint, sour stench of spilled ale and rotting wood. My eyes adjusted instantly, my wolf’s vision painting the alley in shades of gray and silver.
Two men blocked my path.
Werewolves. Both of them. The one on the left had a crude, sprawling tattoo of a wolf’s head covering his entire shoulder, the ink dark against his skin. The one on the right wore a faded red bandana tied tight around his forehead, his arms thick with muscle. They stood between me and a large wooden barrel at the far end of the alley.
Behind that barrel, I could smell him. The child. Hiding. Trembling.
I stopped, my boots scraping against the grimy cobblestones. "I don’t want to fight," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, controlled. The wolf inside me, Fenrir, was already straining, his hackles raised at the challenge. "I just want my purse back. Give it to me, and I leave."
The tattooed man cracked his knuckles with a series of sharp, deliberate pops, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Not gonna happen, pretty boy. You better turn around and head back to your festival. Before you get hurt."
The man in the bandana chuckled, a low, ugly sound. "Yeah. Wouldn’t want to mess up that handsome face."
My hand moved to my side, fingers wrapping around the leather of my scabbard. The familiar weight was an anchor, a promise.
"So you want it the hard way," I said quietly. "The painful way."
Their grins vanished. Something flickered in their eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or the first stirring of fear.
Then they attacked.
The tattooed man came first, his fist swinging in a wide, brutal arc aimed at my head. I ducked under it easily, my body moving on instinct honed by years of combat. As he stumbled past, off-balance from the missed strike, I drove my elbow into his kidney. He grunted, a wet, pained sound, and crumpled to his knees.
The bandana man was faster. He’d circled behind me while I dealt with his companion, and now a blade flashed in his hand—a short, wicked knife aimed at my back.
I spun, my sword still sheathed, and caught his wrist with both hands. The knife hovered an inch from my ribs, its tip gleaming dully in the shadows. He strained against my grip, his face twisting with effort, but I held him fast.
"You made a mistake," I said, my voice calm, almost conversational. "You should have just given me back my purse."
I twisted his wrist. Hard.
The knife clattered to the ground. He screamed.
Fenrir howled in my mind, hungry for the fight. I held him back. Not yet. Not all the way.
