𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐒

35: RIPE FOR TAKING

"In moon's shy glow,
whispers ripe for taking,
Heart's silent plea,
fate's hand is shaking."

...

Do not get him wrong; Lemon didn't want to witness this. No. He had woken up to find himself alone on Arric's bed and merely stepped out to see where his best friend had gone. But he didn't want to see that, ever.

The way Arric's lips brushed against Cien's; soft and tentative. It was a kiss that tasted of moonlight and longing, and Cien looked like he soared.

Why? The question echoed in Lemon's mind as he stood there, fists clenched. Why did it bother him so much? He and Arric were friends, nothing more. No. And Cien was a stranger who had appeared out of thin air, claiming to be from another world.

Right there, amidst the sizzling pots and the clanging of wooden spoons. Their lips had touched, and the world had shifted on its axis. Or perhaps Lemon's reality had transformed, leaving him agitated and angry.

He had rushed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. They may have called for him, or maybe not. It didn't matter.

The night air was chilly, but his blood boiled hotter than a furnace. Why was that bothering him so much? He couldn't specify the specific cause. Was it jealousy? Betrayal? Perhaps it was the weirdest of it all—Arric, his best friend, suddenly entangled with a stranger from another world. That too, another man!

He wasn't prone to jealousy; he was the guy who laughed off spilled ale and shrugged at missed opportunities. But this? This was a different monster altogether. It gnawed at his belly, chewed on his logic, and spit bitterness.

He climbed the bent slope, his feet crunching on the gravel. The peak beckoned him, like an altar to shattered hearts and wounded pride. He stopped somewhere midway, chest heaving, staring out at the kingdom below. The wind tugged at his cloak, urging him to scream into the night.

The climb was gentle at first—a promise of ease and companionship. Lemon's breath misted in the cool air as he climbed, the soil yielding beneath his weight. The stubborn, resilient grass clung to the hillside. The more he ascended, the trees thickened, their branches interlocking like gnarled fingers. Their leaves rustled, conspiring in a language he couldn't decipher.

Were they warning him or urging him forward?

His mind was a mess for itself. Arric. The name now tasted like betrayal. The man who'd shared secrets, laughter, and late-night gossips. And now, Arric was tangled in Cien's arms, oblivious to the storm brewing in Lemon's chest.

He reached the summit breathless and seething and collapsed onto a moss-covered rock. The night was thick, the darkness punctuated only by the distant glow of the castle below.

"Why so troubled, my dear Lemon?" The voice came from behind him, soft as silk. Wizard Quinn materialized, his cloak swirling like mist. The old man's eyes held secrets older than the hills themselves.

He spun around, and there, standing on the precipice, was Wizard Quinn. His cloak swirled like mist. Lemon's breath hitched. How had the wizard found him here, perched on the top of a hill in the dead of night?

"Why are you here, Wizard Quinn, that too at this hour?" Lemon's voice trembled. The old man had a way of slipping through and appearing when least expected.

Quinn settled beside him, legs dangling over the abyss. "Rest is for fools and jesters. I am neither." His voice was soft. "But I see your heart, young one. It throbs like a caged bird, wings beating against fate."