"So, how was your last date?" Elias asked with genuine curiosity, his voice light and teasing as it cut through the girls' chatter like a playful breeze, eyes locking onto Lirael—one of his cousins, her cheeks still flushed from their earlier makeup demonstrations, a faint rosy tint blooming beneath the luminous powder that caught the sunlight in a soft, iridescent sheen. The words hung in the air, carrying the subtle warmth of shared secrets, the faint, powdery scent of her violet-infused blush wafting toward him on the gentle stir of her laughter.
Hearing this, all the girls turned to look at her with wide-eyed curiosity, their faces a mosaic of eager expressions—eyebrows arching like drawn bows, lips parting in soft, expectant smiles that revealed the glint of morning-polished teeth. The circle tightened instinctively, silk sleeves brushing against one another with a hushed whisper of fabric, the collective rustle mingling with the distant trill of birds and the earthy sigh of wind through the training ground's hedges. Lirael hesitated, her fingers twisting idly in the hem of her tunic, the linen threads rough and warm from her earlier fidgeting, while the others leaned in, their perfumes blending into a heady bouquet: the crisp citrus bite of Sienna's bergamot lotion, the creamy vanilla undertone of Mira's rosewater mist, and the subtle, spiced clove note from Thalia's embroidered collar, all underscored by the fresh, dewy tang of the grass beneath their slippers.
"Spill it, Lirael—every juicy detail!" Sienna chimed in first, her voice a bright, insistent lilt that danced like sunlight on water, dark curls bouncing as she nudged Lirael's shoulder with her own, the brief contact sending a faint vibration through the air.
"Yeah, was he as dreamy as you hoped, or did he turn out to be a total bore?" Mira added, her tone laced with mischievous glee, green eyes sparkling with reflected mischief as she tucked a stray auburn strand behind her ear, the motion releasing a faint, herbal whiff of chamomile from her hair oil.
Thalia, ever the dramatic one, clasped her hands together with a theatrical gasp, the silver rings on her fingers chiming softly like distant bells. "Come on, don't leave us hanging—was there kissing? Dancing? Tell us before we all combust from the suspense!"
In unison, their questions tumbled forth like a cascade of laughter-tinged whispers, overlapping in a harmonious rush that filled the space between them, warm and inviting, drawing Elias deeper into the circle as the morning sun climbed higher, bathing their faces in a golden haze that promised tales yet untold
We five—Elias and the cluster of cousins, Lirael with her lingering flush of embarrassment, Sienna's curls still tousled from her animated gestures, Mira's green eyes alight with teasing sparkles, and Thalia's rings glinting as she punctuated her dramatic retellings—huddled closer in our discussion of that hilariously failed date, the air between us thick with peals of muffled laughter that bubbled like fizzy wine, warm and effervescent against our cheeks. The scent of crushed wildflowers clung to our hems from the training ground's turf, mingling with the girls' fading perfumes in a sweet, nostalgic haze, while the sun's midday warmth soaked through our tunics like a lazy embrace, casting dappled shadows that danced across our animated faces as Lirael's voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper, recounting the suitor's awkward fumble over spilled claret, the tart, iron-tinged memory drawing fresh snickers from us all.
When suddenly, the children's voices pierced the moment like a joyful fanfare—"Big brother, play with us!"—their high-pitched chorus slicing through the air on a rush of pounding footsteps, the ground vibrating faintly beneath our soles with the thunderous patter of tiny boots kicking up clods of damp earth that released a fresh, loamy burst into the breeze, carrying the innocent tang of sun-baked mud and wild berry stains from their morning romps.
Seeing this, I and all the girls opened our arms wide for hugs, the motion unfolding our sleeves with a soft whoosh of linen against skin, hearts swelling in anticipation as the cool rush of wind tugged at our hair, the distant trill of their giggles sharpening into excited squeals that promised sticky embraces and the powdery warmth of small bodies tumbling into ours.
The children were still some distance from us, their forms a blur of colorful tunics fluttering like flags in the gusts, faces alight with unbridled glee, oblivious to the world beyond their game—when suddenly, a poison needle shot forward toward the children, its barbed tip whistling through the air with a venomous hiss, glinting wickedly in the sunlight like a sliver of obsidian death, followed by a swarm of its kin, a deadly hail slicing the blue sky with unnatural precision, the faint, acrid reek of alchemical toxin trailing in their wake like a sour whisper on the wind.
Seeing this, all of us—including the boys who had ambled over from their sprawl, their sweat-damp tunics slapping against thighs as they lurched to their feet, and the girls whose laughter choked into gasps of horror, and me, my pulse hammering like war drums in my throat—tried to stop the needles, hands thrusting out in frantic weaves of half-formed spells and desperate grabs, the air crackling with the ozone tang of hastily summoned barriers that shimmered like fractured glass, muscles straining with the metallic bite of adrenaline flooding our veins, shouts ripping from our lungs in a raw cacophony of "No!" and "Get down!" that echoed off the stone walls.
But the needles were too fast, streaking like vengeful hornets, their poisoned barbs humming with lethal velocity, carving invisible trails that stirred the hairs on our arms to electric prickle, shadows flickering across the grass in lethal prelude.
The needles almost hit the children—their tiny forms mere heartbeats from impact, the lead child's wide eyes still sparkling with trust, her braid whipping like a banner in her sprint—when suddenly, every single needle stopped dead in mid-air, quivering to a halt as if snared by invisible threads, the swarm halting with a collective, eerie chime like struck crystal, then rearranging into one precise, hovering constellation, barbs pointing outward in a blooming, starburst formation that pulsed with an unnatural, emerald glow, the toxin's fumes curling lazily like spectral incense in the stunned silence.
Seeing this, the children had no clue, still running toward us with undimmed fervor, their laughter undeterred, small hands outstretched, the earthy patter of their feet growing louder, closer, the sweet, milky scent of their exertion wafting ahead like an innocent herald.
Seeing this, the assassins finally showed up, cloaked figures materializing from the hedges' shadows like wraiths uncoiling from smoke, their black garb rustling with a serpentine slither, faces obscured by void-dark masks that drank the light, and this time they attacked directly toward the children, daggers flashing in lethal arcs that sang through the air with a cold, keening edge, boots thudding into the turf with predatory grace, the metallic tang of oiled steel and hidden poisons sharpening the breeze to a knife's edge.
When suddenly, the same needles attacked them back, the constellation erupting in a vengeful whirl, barbs reversing with a whip-crack snap that split the air, embedding into flesh and armor with wet, thudding impacts that sprayed flecks of crimson mist—hot and coppery—across the grass, the assassins staggering a few steps, knees buckling with guttural grunts that rasped like grinding gravel, bodies jerking as toxin surged through veins like liquid fire, the ground staining dark beneath their faltering forms.
And she stepped out—Vespera, the unchallenged number one prodigy of the entire younger generation, her entrance epic and unyielding, emerging from a veil of swirling mist that parted like conquered fog at dawn, her lithe form clad in midnight-silk robes embroidered with silver runes that gleamed like captured starlight, long raven hair unbound and whipping in an unseen gale she summoned with her mere presence, bare feet silent on the blood-flecked earth, violet eyes blazing with ethereal fury that lit the air around her in a corona of crackling azure energy, the scent of storm-ozone and blooming nightshade rolling off her like a thunderhead's promise.
Seeing her, she roared—which motherfuckers dare to attack House Valerian?—her voice a seismic thunderclap that shook the leaves from the hedges in a verdant rain, reverberating through our bones like the toll of a colossal bell, raw and primal, laced with the guttural edge of ancient incantations that made the very air hum and the assassins' masks crack under the sonic assault, her lips curling back to bare teeth in a feral snarl that promised oblivion.
Seeing the children finally catch the shift in the air—the acrid sting of poison lingering like a foul aftertaste on the tongue, the metallic tang of spilled blood soaking into the turf with a wet, darkening seep—they faltered mid-stride, their joyful squeals twisting into whimpers that clawed at the heart, tiny chests heaving with sudden, hiccuping sobs as they skidded to a halt on the dew-slick grass, blades yielding cool and clammy beneath their trembling knees. In a flurry of flailing limbs and tear-streaked faces, they scrambled to hide behind us, small hands clutching at our legs and tunics with desperate, sticky grips that left smears of berry juice and earth across the fabric, their warm, quivering bodies pressing close, radiating the innocent heat of uncomprehended fear mingled with the faint, milky sweetness of their morning milk still on their breaths, while their wide eyes peeked out from the safety of our shadows, lashes clumped with unshed tears that caught the fractured sunlight like shattered diamonds.
In front of us, she was standing—Vespera, poised like an unbreakable bastion, her midnight-silk robes billowing in the residual gust of her own summoned gale, the fabric whispering against her skin with a silken hush that carried the crisp bite of ozone from her crackling aura, her bare feet planted firm in the blood-muddied earth, toes curling into the cool, gritty loam as if drawing strength from its depths. She embodied the leader she truly was, chin lifted in defiant silhouette against the roiling storm clouds she had unwittingly gathered overhead, violet eyes narrowed to slits of smoldering amethyst that pierced the haze, her raven hair a wild cascade framing features etched with unyielding resolve, the air around her humming with the low, vibrational thrum of barely leashed power that raised the fine hairs on our arms like an approaching tempest's caress.
When we were almost about to clash—the assassins regrouping with guttural snarls that rumbled like distant thunder, their daggers rasping free from sheaths with a hungry sching of steel on leather, boots scraping furrows in the grass that released sharp, green bursts of chlorophyll, our own breaths syncing into ragged unity, pulses thundering in our ears like war drums building to crescendo, the metallic prickle of impending violence charging the air like static before lightning—
Suddenly, boom!—a concussive blast erupted from the direction of the private chambers, the shockwave slamming into us like an invisible fist, rattling the hedges with a violent rustle of leaves that showered down in a verdant hail, carrying the faint, charred whiff of disrupted wards and splintered wood, the ground quaking beneath our feet with a deep, resonant tremor that sent pebbles skittering like frightened insects. Our old grandpa, Elder Garrick, who was supposed to train us, burst out from the treeline in a whirlwind of motion, half-naked and unashamed, his weathered, scarred torso glistening with a sheen of sweat that caught the light in rivulets like molten bronze, clad only in threadbare underwear that sagged comically at one hip, the coarse fabric chafing audibly against his thighs with each pounding step, silver chest hair matted and wild, his bellow a raw, earth-shaking roar that drowned the assassins' hisses. Beside him, the head maid, Matron Elowen, was locked in ferocious combat with another assassin who had slunk from the underbrush like a shadow given fangs—her own form half-naked in a disheveled bra and panties of faded lace that strained against her timeless curves, the delicate threads fraying with the whip-crack of her strikes, her silver-streaked hair whipping like a lash as she drove a knee into the intruder's gut with a meaty thud that expelled a wheeze of fetid breath, her skin flushed hot and dewy, marked with faint red welts from the skirmish, the air around her thick with the mingled scents of jasmine oil and fresh exertion, sharp and heady like overripe fruit.
Seeing this, we froze—our bodies locking in a tableau of stunned tableau, breaths catching in our throats like swallowed stones, eyes widening to saucers as the surreal tableau burned into our retinas, a flush of secondhand embarrassment creeping hot up our necks like spilled wine, the girls' cheeks blooming crimson beneath their makeup sheens, the boys' jaws slackening with identical gapes that let out faint, disbelieving huffs. The assassins froze too, their advance halting mid-lunge, daggers hovering forgotten in slackened grips, masked faces tilting in baffled silence beneath the void of their cowls, the collective pause hanging heavy as a held breath, the only sound the distant drip of a assassin's blood pattering onto the grass like erratic rain.
The children blinked—blink, blink—innocently from their hiding spots, lashes fluttering like startled butterflies against porcelain cheeks, their confusion a palpable wave of wide-eyed puzzlement that furrowed tiny brows, small mouths forming perfect O's of bewilderment, the faint, salty tang of their drying tears still beading on upper lips as they tilted heads, utterly oblivious to the undercurrents of absurdity and peril swirling above them.
The old grandpa said seamlessly, his voice cutting through the stunned hush like a well-honed blade, gravelly and commanding yet laced with that unflappable twinkle of irreverence, as if bursting half-naked into battle were the most natural interlude in the world: "Protect the children."
Saying this, he left to fight the assassins, charging forward with a ground-eating stride that churned the turf into flying divots, his laughter a booming aftershock that rolled like thunder in his wake, callused fists already weaving threads of raw, ancestral magic that crackled blue-white along his knuckles, the air ionizing with the sharp, electric bite of impending storm as he plunged into the fray, leaving the echo of his command thrumming in our veins like a rallying cry.