Chapter 63: Cedric
Later that night, their room was quiet except for the faint creak of the wooden floorboards as Oliver shut the door behind them.
Isolde had already flopped onto the bed, one arm draped lazily over her stomach, her nightdress riding up dangerously high on her thigh. She looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world, but Oliver knew better.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, watching her in the dim candlelight. "Hey, Isolde..."
"Hm?" She turned her head, crimson eyes half-lidded but alert.
"You sounded... angry downstairs. About Tenebris. And the elves." He hesitated. "Does it still... bother you? What happened to your country?"
For a moment, she didn’t answer. The playful smirk she usually wore was gone, replaced by something harder to read. Her gaze shifted toward the ceiling.
"...Of course it bothers me," she said at last, her tone quieter than usual. "I was sealed away while everything I knew burned. My people, my home, everything I swore to protect as a princess... gone. And I couldn’t lift a finger to stop it."
Oliver frowned, his chest tightening. "That wasn’t your fault."
Her lips quirked into a bitter smile. "Maybe. Maybe not. But the weight of failure doesn’t vanish just because you tell yourself it wasn’t your fault."
The silence lingered. Oliver reached out, almost without thinking, and placed his hand over hers.
She blinked at him, then let out a soft laugh — low, almost self-mocking. "You’re a fool, Oliver. But..." She shifted her hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "You’re my fool."
Oliver gave a small smile of his own. "I can live with that."
Isolde rolled onto her side, tugging him down beside her. Her lips brushed his cheek, lingering just long enough to make his face heat. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, her smirk returning in full force.
"Don’t get used to me being sentimental," she teased, slipping her leg over his waist. "You asked, I answered. That’s all."
Oliver chuckled under his breath, wrapping an arm around her as she nestled closer. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, princess."
Her eyes softened at that — just for a moment — before she closed them and let the silence settle around them again.
For the first time that night, Oliver thought he caught a glimpse of the woman behind the smirk. And it made him want to hold her just a little tighter.
The room dimmed as the candle burned lower, its soft light flickering across the wooden beams overhead.
Oliver lay on his back, Isolde curled against him. For once, she wasn’t teasing, wasn’t smirking, wasn’t trying to get a rise out of him. She was simply... there. Warm. Real. Her breathing evened out slowly, the steady rhythm pressing against his chest.
Oliver stared up at the ceiling, mind still restless from everything that had happened — Cedric, the guild, the fight in the alley, Nyra’s story, Isolde’s rare moment of honesty. It all churned in his head like a storm.
But then her fingers tightened around his shirt, clutching lightly even in sleep.
And just like that, the storm quieted.
Oliver turned his head slightly, brushing a kiss against her hair. She murmured something incomprehensible, shifting closer, her leg sliding more securely over his.
He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. I’m not going anywhere."
The last of the candle sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness. Wrapped in the quiet warmth of Isolde’s presence, Oliver finally let his eyes close, drifting into sleep.
~~~~
Morning sunlight streamed through the inn’s windows, carrying the smell of fresh bread and spiced stew down the stairs.
Oliver stretched wide as he descended with Isolde beside him, both freshly washed and looking more rested than the night before. The common room was already lively, filled with the chatter of merchants and early-rising adventurers.
But what caught Oliver’s eye immediately wasn’t the food or the crowd — it was Nyra.
Gone was the timid, dirt-streaked figure from last night. She looked almost like a different person. Her long silver hair, now brushed and clean, shimmered under the morning light. She wore a simple cream-colored dress with a fitted waist and flowing skirt, tied neatly with a green ribbon. It wasn’t noble attire by any means, but it was new, clean, and suited her well. A small apron tied around her front as she moved from table to table, balancing mugs of ale and plates of food with surprising grace.
Oliver blinked. "Someone seems quite energetic."
From behind the counter, Serena let out a soft chuckle. "Ha~ Ha~ She insisted on working. Said she didn’t want to freeload, so I told her she could help serve if she wanted. And, well—" she gestured at Nyra bustling about, "—you see the result."
Oliver leaned against the counter, watching the girl weave between tables. "She’s diligent. She doesn’t want to be a burden on you, landlady. She’s just trying to show her worth... afraid you might throw her away if she doesn’t."
"I would never do such a thing," Serena said indignantly, crossing her arms.
"Of course I know that." Oliver gave her a half-smile. "But with her life experiences, she thinks like an adult at her age. That’s why she pushes herself."
Isolde, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke with her usual coolness. "Sigh. It would have been better if she acted her age."
Serena softened, her expression bittersweet. "...You’re right. But some things can’t be helped."
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, at least she looks happier than last night."
Nyra glanced toward them at that moment and, catching Oliver’s eye, gave a small but genuine smile before hurrying off again with a tray.
The three of them shared a quiet look before Isolde broke the silence with her usual straightforwardness. "Leave it be. Can we get the usual?"
"Be right there," Serena said with a nod, slipping back toward the kitchen.
Oliver exhaled and sat down at a corner table with Isolde, resting his chin in his hand as his stomach growled loudly enough for Isolde to smirk at him.
~~~The smell of fresh stew and baked bread soon reached their table, Serena herself bringing over two steaming bowls and a plate of buttered rolls.
Oliver rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Finally! I thought my stomach was going to eat itself."
Isolde gave him a sideways glance, elegant even as she tucked her hair behind her ear. "You sound like a starving wolf. Have some dignity."
Oliver shrugged, already dipping into the stew. "Dignity tastes worse than food."
That earned him a quiet snort from Isolde, who picked up her spoon with far more grace than him.
Across the room, Nyra continued darting between tables, balancing trays with an ease that surprised Oliver. For someone who had been starving just last night, she had slipped into her new role quickly. She even smiled faintly when a merchant complimented her quick service, though her gaze often flicked toward Oliver as if making sure he was still there.
Serena, returning to wipe a nearby counter, caught his glance. "She’s trying hard, isn’t she? Poor girl. But she’s already warmed the hearts of half the regulars. It’s just one morning and she had charmed all the customers with her adorable face and that cheerful personality."
"She’ll fit in just fine," Oliver agreed, tearing a piece of bread. "I would have never been that cheerful if I went through her life experience."
"She’s choosing to forget her past and forge her new future," Serena replied, firm. "That’s something worth respecting."
The simple conversation, the smell of food, the sight of Nyra bustling about — it made the inn feel warm, almost like family. For a moment, Oliver let himself relax, enjoying the peace.
But that peace shattered in an instant.
BANG!
The front door slammed open so hard the hinges rattled.
Dozens of armored knights stormed into the common room, their boots pounding against the wooden floor in unison. The lively chatter died immediately. Patrons froze with spoons halfway to their mouths, some shrinking back in alarm.
Oliver pushed back from the table, hand instinctively brushing against his sword. Isolde’s crimson eyes narrowed, her posture straightening like a predator about to pounce.
"W-What... what’s happening?" Nyra whispered, her tray trembling in her hands. She ducked behind a pillar, then scurried toward the kitchen, fear etched across her face. Oliver caught the look — she thought they had come for her.
But Serena’s sharp gasp redirected his attention. Her eyes fixed on the sigils painted across the knights’ breastplates — a golden hawk wrapped around a laurel.
"That crest..." her voice was tight. "Those are the knights of Viscount Valtaine."
Oliver’s stomach dropped. The name alone was enough to spark a bitter suspicion.
That suspicion turned to certainty a heartbeat later.
Because waddling in behind the armored men came a bloated figure dressed in silk too tight for his body, jeweled rings clinking on his sausage-like fingers. His smug grin spread wide the moment his beady eyes found Oliver and Isolde.
Cedric.
The same pompous fool who had been humiliated in the high-class diner.
And judging from the sneer curling on his face, he was here for revenge.