Chapter 3 – Oppa Skittle Style
(Yvaine's Point of View)
It started—unsurprisingly—with a Skittle.
Red-haired, loud-lunged, fashion-blind heir of House Flamire. I didn't even have to see him to know he was there. I heard him from outside.
"I said whoever walks through that door next will challenge me to a drinking duel!" he bellowed. "No heirs, no noble brats—none of them wanted to face me!"
Tonight's drinking crew? Not the usual crop of noble brats. These were his Academy friends—probably just here for a quiet pint. Their mistake was showing up with him.
"I'll destroy anyone who dares to drink against me!" he thundered. "I am the Flame! The tankard slayer! The last liver standing!"
The tavern door creaked.
Enter: Me.
Cloaked, hooded, freshly bathed. Boots clean. Assistant trailing two steps behind, keeping just enough distance to avoid suspicion—but still close enough to catch me if I did something stupid.
Red Skittle rose, finger pointing like I'd just kicked down his ancestral home.
"You!" he roared. "Drinking duel. Now!"
I tilted my head. "…Me?"
"You walked through the door! I declared it!"
From the bar, the bartender raised an eyebrow. He knew. He knew exactly how this would end.
"Alright," I said, strolling over. "A few questions first."
Red Skittle leaned back like he was posing for a tavern mural. "Shoot."
"Did you eat before coming here?"
He scoffed. "Food? I'm too handsome for that. I once made a man fall in love with me using just my cheekbones."
"Not an answer," I muttered.
I turned to the bartender. "Bring juice. And plum water. Something sweet to follow the burn—unless we want to carry another noble heir out the door like last time."
"Juice?" he scoffed. "I'm not a blushing kitchen maid!"
"That explains the state of your liver," I said, accepting a small goblet for myself.
Now, most people here didn't know what made Beer Time special. On the outside, it was just a rustic tavern with mismatched chairs and a surprisingly clean floor. But inside?
Inside was science.
You see, my old world had tequila. Crafted, smooth, deliciously dangerous. No agave in this world? No problem. I found something better.
We brewed it with wild grove fruit—spiny, sharp, and honey-sweet after roasting. Fermented in smoked oak barrels. Distilled thrice with copper. Then, the final twist?
Each batch had its own companion water or juice steeped with flavor-trigger herbs that enhanced the tequila's bite. Like unlocking someone's emotional flavor profile. Sweet? Sour? A floral tinge of wistful memories?
Your tongue remembered.
You didn't know why, but the drink felt… familiar.
We called it Skittle Slayer. It was beautiful.
Back to Red Skittle. He was already on his second shot.
His eye twitched.
He hiccupped.
Then he turned to me and whispered, "Your… cloak is shiny. I like your cloak."
"I'm not wearing a cloak," I replied.
He blinked. Once. Then collapsed.
Face-first. Like a dropped sack of decorative flour.
"Tell my Academy professors… I was magnificent," he mumbled into the floorboards.
I turned to the stunned room and raised my cup. "He was slain honorably. By fruit science."
The bartender clinked his mug against mine. "That's a new record."
"No one ever listens," I sighed.
Cheers erupted. Tankards raised. Someone shouted, "Do the thing again!"
And just like that—I was on the table.
"Hit the beat!"
A bard scrambled to slap rhythm onto a wooden mug.
And there I went—Gangnam Style. Galloping. Clapping. Screaming "Oppa!" while half the bar tried to copy me and the other half begged their knees not to collapse.
They didn't know the words.
Didn't matter.
The tavern roared.
Then I changed rhythm and yelled, "NAEGA JEIL JAL NAGA!"
No idea what it meant anymore. Just vibes.
My assistant sat in the corner, hands folded, head down. But I caught the grin. Just a flicker. Barely there. But it was there.
"You like this," I told him mid-spin.
"You're embarrassing," he said.
"You're still watching."
"Because if you fall off that barrel, I'm not explaining to your brother why your knees are broken."
I winked.
As the night slowed and the music faded, I felt the warmth in my cheeks bloom into something heavier. My head lolled.
Too much flavor-mapping.
Too much fruit.
Too much Skittle Slayer.
I stood, stretched my arms wide—and nearly tipped over.
"Whoa—"
An arm caught me. Firm, familiar.
He was beside me, his hand gently around my back, supporting my weight.
"Let's go home," he said softly, voice low beside my ear.
My arm slung across the back of his neck. He guided me out, shielding my wobbling steps from curious stares.
But halfway through the alley, I tripped.
In my panic, I grabbed the nearest thing.
My hand clenched around the chain of his necklace.
The clasp snapped.
And under the tavern light, in the briefest flash, I saw it:
His hair—lighter than sunlight. Like a newborn chick.
His face—fully visible. No bangs. No freckles.
My heart pounded.
I blinked hard.
When I opened my eyes again—he was already panicking. Pulling the hood back over his hair, hands trembling slightly as he held me at the waist to steady me.
"What…?" I mumbled.
"You nearly fell," he said. "Hold on to me."
I didn't question it.
Didn't say a word.
But I saw it.
And I won't forget.
I stumbled.
Not from the drink, not fully—but from something else.
A shift. A blur. My boot slipped on a stone, and I reached out, fingers curling around the nearest thing—his necklace.
It snapped.
In that dazed moment, eyes half-lidded, I saw it—just for a second.
His hair. Lighter than gold. Freckles gone. Bangs pushed back by the fall of the hood.
Not the assistant I teased daily.
Someone else.
Then, I blinked. Once. Twice.
He was already moving, catching me by the waist. Holding me up, breath shallow, voice steady but tight.
"You alright?"
"…Yeah," I muttered. But my grip didn't loosen.
We walked.
The streets were quiet. My arm lazily slung around his shoulders as he supported my uneven steps. He didn't speak. Just held me like I'd float away otherwise.
I looked up at him—well, at his profile, slightly hidden beneath the hood again.
"Hey," I whispered. "Remember when I said I've never been in love before?"
He hummed in acknowledgment.
"Well," I sighed, "I think I wanna try it in this lifetime."
He glanced at me briefly.
"I mean," I shrugged, "I can't just pull someone random from the outskirts and say 'you'll do.' That's tragic. I have taste."
A pause.
"So," I added with a grin, "what about you? You're decent. You don't spill my tea. You iron my skorts. Will you marry me?"
He didn't answer.
Just kept walking.
But his silence wasn't heavy—it was warm. Carried by soft laughter in his throat, like something he'd been holding back for lifetimes.
I rested my head against his shoulder again.
Yeah.
That was enough for tonight.
End of Chapter 3...