Chapter 15. in the heart of the Flower

Of course, star-walker. Let’s step away gently from Herb and Stray—their strange, perfect contrast left behind like a moment framed in glass. The warm laughter lingers in the air, soft like the twinkle of wind chimes, before—

“Pfft. You see that hat?”
Edwards leaned in close behind Ydoc’s ear, voice laced in venomous silk.
“Pretty sure Stray’s not hiding from you, love. He’s just busy choking on glitter and boy spit.”

Ydoc blinked, startled from the stillness. He turned to glance at Edwards with a slight frown, but the fox-like man was already walking ahead, tail swaying like he’d said something clever.

Which—he hadn’t.

It was always this way.

Whispers in Ydoc’s ear. Hisses under his breath. Petty jabs meant for no one else to hear.
Edwards didn’t even slow his pace before adding, “And would you look at Cathy. What’s the point of growing muscle if you're gonna waste it hauling pumpkins instead of pretty men to bed?”
A scoff.
“She wouldn’t even look at me. I’m incredible. She's probably into goats. Or corn.”

He muttered the last part like a curse, but Ydoc could feel the bruising sting behind it—Edwards, rejected. Wounded. His ego gnawed by the idea that someone chose not to love him.

And like always, his first weapon was to cut someone else down.

But the world around them did not bend to his cruelty.

No, the festival carried on.

The Divide’s edge shimmered in faint magic, and the mortals here—so alive, so clumsy and colorful—lived unbothered by spiritual tension.

A short distance from the flame, a bustling old halfling woman marched through the hay. She was barely two feet tall and yet twice the force of anyone nearby, wrapped in at least three coats, a fur shawl, and a scarf that looked more like a battle banner than a fashion choice.

“C’mere, darlin’, you’re gonna trip on yer own lace! Get yer foot up, girlie—” she barked, tugging fiercely on the ear of a tall and shockingly fashionable human woman. The poor thing wore glittering city clothes—black and burgundy silk slacks tucked into too-shiny boots, a half-shaved hairstyle curling upward like a whipped spell, and massive pink balm-glass sunglasses that didn’t belong in this dusty space at all.

She was trying. Trying to smile, to wave politely to passing vendors, to compliment someone’s pie setup. But her stiletto-heeled boots sank deep into the soft earth, and her earrings jangled with worry.

“I told you not to wear heels, Miss Broadcast Queen—” the halfling growled, still tugging her along by the scarf now.

“I just thought—!” the human tried to protest, voice high and proper.

“You just thought you could flirt with the old men and learn how to ride a cow, huh?” the halfling barked. “You can’t even ride the hay bale!”

They vanished past a patch of laughing children, trailing a smell of perfume and peppermint candies behind them.

By the bonfire, seated on a hollow log, a massive orc man stared quietly into the flames.

He was alone.

Not in the way loners often are at parties—looking around, hoping to join in. No, this was deeper. A bone-deep kind of solitude that clung to him like smoke.

He was built like a myth, heavy with slabs of muscle and wide shoulders that could carry mountains, but his face was soft with ache. His tusks were clean. His armor polished, yet simple. On his lap rested a half-carved wooden toy, whittled just halfway through—a little horse, maybe. Or a lion.

The orc watched the fire like it had taken something from him.

No one disturbed him. No one asked.

And beside the stage, sitting atop a makeshift stool crafted from firewood, an ancient halfling man played the violin like the instrument owed him something.

His hands were shaking with age, but his bow danced wild and precise, dragging shrill, gorgeous, untamed notes from the strings—notes that snapped through the air like lightning bolts cracking open the sky.

He wasn’t playing for the crowd.

He wasn’t even playing for the festival.

He was playing for someone far, far away.

And the music knew it.

Ydoc turned to speak—maybe to ask something, maybe to admire the music—but Edwards was already several steps ahead, his tone laced with sarcasm:

“Well. Rocks and robes and banjos. Lovely. I’m sure this’ll be unforgettable.”

Ydoc didn’t answer.

He was watching the old violinist’s hands.

Something about those hands felt like memory.
Like a heartbeat he’d forgotten.

----------

Edwards’ grip had not let up once.
Fingers like iron, like thorny vines, dragging Ydoc through the bustle of festival laughter. He didn’t listen to the greetings, the sounds of pies being sold or fiddles screeching in joy. His eyes were on a single destination, and it reeked of intention.

They passed the last ring of fireflies and the last cheerful shout.

And then—

The flowers.

A tent stood tucked away from the main square, just near the base of a bowed willow tree. Its cloth was a patchwork of faded burgundy and soft lilac silks, stitched in curling vines and thorns with golden thread. The seams trembled gently in the breeze, like something inside was breathing.

And oh, the flowers.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Inside and out, the tent was surrounded by thick clusters of wild blossoms—far too many, far too bright. No garden should grow like this. Not in this world. Not in the mud and trampled footprints of mortals.

The flowers weren’t just foreign—they were impossible.

Long blue roses with iridescent thorns that twitched at passing flies.
White bells that sang soft hymns when the wind curled right.
Thick golden blooms that gave off the smell of fresh bread and memory.
And deep-purple lilies that seemed to lean in, watching.

They surrounded the tent like guardians. Like a warning.

Or like an invitation.

Ydoc staggered as he was yanked forward again. He hissed, stumbling in the uneven soil.

“Stop—!” he whispered, but Edwards didn’t stop.

He smiled.

Gods, he smiled.

“Almost there,” he said with a singsong tone that didn’t fit the tension in the air. “You’ll love her garden. She always said you had a taste for color.”

That word—she—struck Ydoc in the chest like a stone.

His heart thumped once, loud in his ears.

Lucy.

That name buzzed in his skull like a swarm of bees. It hadn’t been spoken aloud—not clearly, not directly—but it had lived in his bones like a shadow.

Lucy.

A word scratched into the black walls of his dreams.

Lucy.

Was she his lover?

Was she something worse?

He couldn’t remember.
Only the panic.
Only the ache.

Edwards pulled the curtain of the tent aside. The scent of flower nectar hit like a wave—thick, warm, too-sweet. It drowned him. It clung to his tongue like syrup.

Inside was a slow, humid glow.

Dim lanterns hung low from the ceiling branches. The air shimmered gold and green. It was alive.

It felt alive.

Ydoc’s breath caught in his throat.

He remembered hands.
He remembered lips.
He remembered someone whispering promises that curled like vines around his neck.

Lucy.

Had she loved him?

Or had she fed on him?

The curtain was still held open.

Edwards nudged him forward.

“Go on,” he said. “She’s been waiting.”

And Ydoc—

Ydoc, whose limbs now felt like they weighed tenfold, who stood in a storm of living color and dread, who could not tell memory from nightmare—

He reached forward.

Took the edge of the curtain from Edwards’ hand.

And opened it fully.
-----
[Froom doom. to golden sigh]

She stood in the glow of lanternlight.

Not like a monster.
Not like a lover.
But like a person—feet firm in the dirt, shoulders crooked with life, arms freckled with smudges of ink and yesterday’s paint.

Her name was Lucy.

Not the name of a villain.
Not the phantom that whispered from the broken spaces in Ydoc’s mind.

Just Lucy.

A little thing—barely five feet, if even. And yet, she stood with the force of someone completely real.
Wild white fur, soft in patches and speckled with the greys of clumsy living. Her face was thin and slightly crooked, her muzzle not symmetrical. A chipped ear bent in a way that seemed permanent. A few missing whiskers. Her shirt was oversized, hanging low and clinging to one shoulder, the fabric faded but proudly showing her favorite band:

LED ZEPPELIN
In cracked red letters across a thunderbird.

Over that, she wore an open flannel—brown, lined, too large for her. It flapped slightly as she moved, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Cargo shorts.
Scuffed. Stained. One pocket still had a broken zipper dangling like a stubborn tongue.

Her arms…

Ah, her arms.

They were thin, yet wiry with scrappy strength. And all down them, curling in elegant chaos, were hand-drawn tattoos of eyes. Dozens. Some small, blinking things with lashes and tear-lines. Others almond-shaped and ancient-looking. Some cartoonish, some crying, some wide open like they were watching the cosmos.

They wrapped around her wrists like vines.

As if someone was always watching.

As if she was always watching.

More bracelets than one wrist should handle clinked as she adjusted a button on her sleeve. Leather bands. String. A broken watch. A rubber band tied in a knot.

And on her face—

Not beauty.

Not that pristine, carved-jaw beauty Edwards always praised.

But personhood.

Genuine.
Real.
Cute in a way that hurt, because it didn’t try to be anything.

Her albino eyes—those soft, pale red gems—locked with Ydoc’s.

And in that gaze, there was no fear.
No hunger.
No trickery.

Only a burst of joy. A smile that pulled from her very toes. The kind of smile people only make when they see someone they never thought they'd see again.

"Ydoc?" she breathed.

Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

Like she didn’t trust her own memory.

Like maybe she thought he’d vanish again if she blinked.

She took a single step forward, then froze.

Her foot scuffed the ground.

"...It is you," she whispered. And gods, the way she smiled then—awkward, toothy, and not quite sure what to do with her arms—made the flowers behind her seem dim in comparison.

Even the strange blooms, the impossible ones, seemed to lean toward her.

Ydoc stood frozen in the entrance. His heartbeat loud.

The monster was gone.
The dread dissolved.

And here was Lucy—
Not what he expected.
Not what he feared.

Just a dirty, scrappy rocker girl with tattoos and music in her bones.

And those tattooed eyes on her arms?

They weren’t watching him with judgment.

They were all smiling.