Chapter 2 – Celebratory Booze
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(Yvaine's Point of View)
The Isolde crest hadn't even finished drying on the scroll when I was already plotting my next heist: a night out. Not some noble banquet or strategic networking ball. No. I wanted beer. I wanted to clink glasses, breathe the yeasty tavern air, and mourn the fact that the heavens still hadn't brought me Soju.
I'd been good today. I smiled. I didn't stab anyone. I only mildly insulted the rainbow-haired heirs—Skittles Gang, as I so lovingly called them—and I didn't break any chairs. I deserved this.
After the long bath, with my hair towel-dried and draped in my linen sleep gown, I blew out the candle beside my bed, rolled over dramatically, and sighed loud enough to be heard two rooms away.
Seconds later, I heard the quiet click of my assistant's footsteps pausing outside my door.
"All's clear," he said softly. "Good night, milady."
I mumbled something vaguely human and waited.
One minute. Two.
The manor shifted into silence.
Game on.
With the speed of a caffeine-drunk squirrel, I flung off the covers and built my finest decoy yet—pillow torso, cloak cover, spare wig tucked like a head. From afar, I looked peacefully deceased. Lovely.
In my changing room, I slipped into my tavern disguise: fitted tunic, soft-trimmed trousers, my gloves stashed in a pastry tin marked Raisin Biscuits (spoiler: there were no biscuits). I tied my hair beneath a cap, checked the mirror. I looked like a low-ranked but sharply dressed mischief-maker.
Boots… boots…
They were missing.
"Where are my favorite—?!"
A knock.
I dove behind the wardrobe.
The door creaked open.
It was him. Freckles. Bangs. Guilt. Holding my favorite boots by the heels like offerings to the deity of Dramatic Entrances. He stepped in, glanced toward the bed, and squinted at the decoy.
"…She's already asleep?" he murmured.
Then—delicately, reverently—he placed the boots on the rug beside the bed like they were sacred artifacts, bowed to the feathered version of me, and quietly left.
Bless his over-efficient soul.
I slipped them on, returned to the balcony, and judged the jump. Easy. Done it before.
Just as I bent my knees—
"Going somewhere?"
I froze.
There he was again. In the doorway. Arms crossed. One eyebrow twitching like it wanted to file a resignation.
"You said you were sleeping," he said flatly.
"You said you were going to bed."
"You made a pillow clone."
"You stole my boots."
"I cleaned your boots."
We stared. I turned and perched dramatically on the balcony rail.
"I'm going to Beer Time," I declared. "They owe me a celebratory drink. I beat the Skittles Gang. I didn't get engaged. And I haven't had decent booze in years. I miss Soju. I miss 7% regrets and bottlecap tears."
He blinked. "Soju?"
I placed a hand on my heart. "It's an ancient elixir from my past life. Clear. Cold. Tastes like regret and freedom."
He said nothing—just gave me that long-suffering look. The kind that said 'here we go again'.
"You sound like a womb-baby again," he finally muttered. "Mumbling nonsense like you've transcended logic and become a fermented fruit."
I gasped. "That's rude. Fermented fruit is a respected flavor."
He shook his head. "You need supervision."
"I need a drink," I corrected. "And you need to learn how to be a nuisance. Just once. You can't always be bangs and burdens. I'll teach you."
He sighed. And I saw it—that tiny twitch of his lip.
I grinned. Hooked.
Then, just as I thought I'd won—
"Wait for me," he said. "If you jump, I'll write your brother a letter that starts with 'Do you miss war?'"
I sat obediently on the balcony rail, sobered by the PTSD flashbacks alone.
He returned five minutes later, hooded and disguised—dark cloak, slightly messier bangs, freckles still freckling. He looked like an exiled prince in hiding, which was annoying because I wanted to be mad at him.
He held out his hand. "Shall we?"
I scoffed. "I'm jumping."
I did not jump.
He moved before I could even bend. One arm under my knees, one behind my back. Lift. I was sack-of-potato'd before I could protest.
"WHA—LET ME DOWN YOU GILDED SERVANT OF VIOLENCE!"
"You're loud," he said.
"You're deranged!"
"You're wearing my patience."
"And you like it!"
We leapt.
My scream? Silent. My dignity? Absent.
As we landed in the moonlit courtyard, a maid slid the window open and made eye contact with me dangling from his back.
"She's at it again," she muttered, closing the curtain.
"I am art!" I shouted.
He chuckled.
Finally, we arrived behind Beer Time. He set me down like a teacup full of dynamite.
"Ridiculous," I muttered, brushing off my tunic.
"I know," he replied. "But you're safe."
I stared up at the swinging wooden sign. Beer Time. The scent of grilled meat, old ale, and faint bar brawl tension hung in the air. Home.
"I'm going to drink tonight," I whispered. "For all the birthdays I missed. For every skipped Soju night. For that one time I shared a beer with a knight and he tried to duel me mid-toast."
He looked at me like I was halfway to prison.
"Coming?"
He sighed.
Then nodded.
Next Up…
Inside Beer Time, the chairs wobble, the ale froths and one Skittle-haired heir is about to challenge a suspiciously petite "young man" to a drinking contest—unaware he's about to get obliterated by the founder of 'Fermented Fruit Supremacy' and self-proclaimed champion of Soju Nights.
Let the games begin.
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End of Chapter 2...