Page 7

“ Y ou should have seen the three of us, we were a sight!

We huddled together on the cliff's edge, feeling the spray of seagulls’ droppings as the birds dive-bombed us, their angry cries reverberating off the cliff face, making the air vibrate.

We emerged from the encounter, our clothes stained with bird droppings and our skin a canvas of angry red welts from the relentless pecking of the birds.

Polar was growling and snapping, his fur bristling with frustration as he cursed me to the end of my days for dragging him on such a wild quest. Oliver, on the other hand, swore he'd never play another game of dare, his voice laced with mock horror. Of course, it was a lie, I knew he'd be itching for another challenge before long,” Or’Ang shared, laughing at the memory.

“What did your parents say when they saw you? Did you find the golden egg you were searching for?” she asked.

Elizabeth was leaning forward, completely enraptured by his tale. She picked at the remnants of the meal. He couldn’t help but follow the path of her fingers as she popped a berry between her lips. It was taking all of his concentration to remain focused on his story.

“Mother tried to be stern and scolded us for being reckless.

I fear her reprimand fell short, as Father was having a good hoot at our misadventure.

Mother sent us down to the livery stable to bathe.

We were a mite ripe from all the bird droppings.

Later we were quickly disappointed to discover that the bard's tale of the golden egg was just that - a tale.

There was no magical golden seagull egg that would grant us the ability to fly.

‘Tis a shame, we were really looking forward to that,” he mused.

Her infectious laughter filled the garden, its joyful melody a welcome change from the quiet that had settled there.

A sigh of contentment flooded him, a warm feeling spreading through his chest like a gentle wave.

He felt a familiar ache in his throat, a consequence of sharing tales of Polar, Oliver, and his own misadventures from a lifetime ago.

The memories of his parents were now a comforting blanket, wrapping him in the warmth of their love and reminding him of the joy that had once filled his life.

He looked around the garden, seeing it with fresh eyes – through Elizabeth’s eyes.

He could almost see the fairies, their tiny bodies adorned with dew-kissed petals, emerging from the vibrant flowers to listen to his tales.

The trees, ancient and wise, swayed gently, their branches reaching out to catch the sound of Elizabeth's laughter, while the water sprites, their forms shimmering in the sunlight, danced in joyous celebration.

His eyes lingered on her flushed cheeks, a wave of longing surging through him as he imagined the taste of her rosy lips. The playful smile on her lips vanished as their eyes met, the air thickening with unspoken tension. A wave of emotion softened her gaze.

“I would very much like to meet Polar and Oliver. It would have been nice to have such good friends growing up,” she said.

“Did you not have friends?” he asked.

She gave him a rueful smile and shook her head.

“Not really. Our cottage was on the outskirts of the glen near the river. Father traveled much of the year. There was always much that needed to be done. I had little in common with the other children my age. Father would bring paper and colored pencils back from his travels. I found great joy in exploring the forests and meadows, drawing the wonders I saw there. The other children of my age thought me odd for loving to read and learn. They thought Mother was a witch. The villagers were afraid to come near us—unless they were ill. Then, they had no issues knocking on our doors.”

“Why did they think your mother was a witch?” he asked.

She released a low laugh, a bittersweet sound that drifted through the garden, her eyes sad as she turned in her chair to look out over the vibrant flowers.

He reached out, his fingers gently closing around hers, and cupped her hand in his.

She stole a quick look at him before her eyes lingered on their intertwined hands.

A tiny smile, barely perceptible, curved her lips before she returned her focus to the garden.

“Mother was very good with herbs and plants. Like your queen, she loved to garden and knew the names of all the plants and how they could help. Father would bring back herbs and share with her how they were used. The villagers didn’t understand my parents love for learning and disapproved of my father’s long journeys.

” She paused and sighed. Squeezing his hand, she pulled her fingers free from his grip, rose, and walked over to stand near the opening.

“Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful childhood.

I was free to roam and explore without the disapproval or restrictions placed on the other children.

My parents taught me how to read and opened my eyes to the wonders that lay beyond our small glen.

Most of all, they loved me and taught me to believe that we all have a place and gifts that should be shared.

I was different… and I was proud of it.”

He rose gracefully from his seat, his steps silent as he approached her and stood beside her.

Lifting his hand, he gently caressed her cheek, his fingertips lingering on her skin.

The tingling sensation in his fingertips intensified, and his desire to kiss her grew so overwhelming it took his breath away.

With a slight lift of her chin, she turned to face him, the sun illuminating the curve of her neck.

“I’m going to kiss you, Elizabeth,” he murmured.

A wave of emotion rippled in her eyes, and her lips twitched slightly as he whispered his warning.

“I was hoping you would,” she confessed.

Her lips, soft and warm, yielded to his gentle exploration, fitting perfectly against his.

With a touch that set his skin ablaze, her hands snaked up his chest to clasp behind his neck.

A radiant warmth filled Or’Ang as he embraced her, the world around them fading as he savored this newfound completeness.

He had found his mate, and the world suddenly seemed to burst into vibrant color.

“Your majesty! King Or’Ang, a word if you please, sire!”

Bobbin’s familiar, raspy voice sliced through the quiet, making Or’Ang stiffen.

His face tensed with annoyance at the interruption.

He kept his eyes locked on Elizabeth’s face.

He watched with growing resignation as confusion flickered in her beautiful eyes when she heard Bobbin addressing him by his real name.

Her breath hitched in her throat, a soft hiss escaping, while a stifled protest formed on his lips as Elizabeth pulled away to smooth her dress, trying to regain her composure.

Dread filled him as Bobbin rounded the fountain and hurried toward them. He couldn’t miss the way Elizabeth’s face flushed. The delicate pink hue of her cheeks mimicking the blush of a freshly bloomed rose. Her fluster turned to a frown as she noted Bobbin’s crisp court attire.

“Your majesty, oh—” Bobbin’s eyes widened when he saw Elizabeth. “My apologies, sire.”

Or’Ang gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening, as Bobbin halted abruptly, a stiff bow accompanying the unexpected stop.

Descending the steps of the gazebo, Elizabeth paused and studied the portly advisor, her brow furrowed in confusion as she turned to meet Or’Ang’s eyes.

He stiffened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height.

“What is it, Bobbin?” he replied, wincing when he realized he had sealed his own fate by revealing his lie.

“Bobbin? But, you said you—” Elizabeth murmured in confusion.

Bobbin gave her a tentative smile before turning his attention back to his king.

“Sire, I’m afraid not all your guests have departed.

Lord Beasley from the fox shifter’s insists on an audience with you.

He wishes to propose an alliance with the forces of the fox shifters in exchange for the hand of his lovely daughter, the Countess Fiona. ”

As Elizabeth listened, the confusion in her eyes slowly melted away, replaced by a wave of hurt.

He took a step down, then hesitated when she recoiled, a look of apprehension etched across her face.

Tears welled in her eyes as her lips trembled, and she gently touched the spot where his lips had just been, feeling the memory of his kiss.

“You lied. Who-who are you… really?” she demanded in a strained voice.

Bobbin released a snort of disbelief beside her. “Do you not know the king?”

Elizabeth slowly shook her head, retreating another step along the path. “No. I’m… naught but a simple traveler to his kingdom. My apologies for intruding, your majesty.”

He winced internally, the sight of Elizabeth's graceful curtsy before she dashed away a jarring contrast to the other women who had vied for his attention. His eyes fixed on Elizabeth’s slender form as she fled, he descended the last two steps of the gazebo, his heart pounding in his chest. He would have followed if Bobbin, intent on fulfilling his duty, hadn’t stepped in front of him.

“What shall I tell Lord Beasley, sire?” Bobbin asked.

“Tell him I will meet with him within the hour. Make sure he brings his daughter with him,” he ordered, his eyes still focused on the direction Elizabeth had fled.

“Yes, sire,” Bobbin replied.

Already lost in thoughts of Elizabeth, he dismissed Bobbin and turned back toward the gazebo.

He noticed the supple, scarred leather satchel, its worn strap dangling from the back of the chair.

He climbed the steps and walked over to the table.

He swallowed, running his fingers over the waxed paper left from their meal.

The satchel felt heavy in his hands as he opened it, curious about what Elizabeth had packed.

Inside were three books, a leather pouch filled with charcoals and colored pencils, and a journal bound by a leather band containing pristine parchment paper.

He tugged the bundle free from its hiding place and carefully untied the string, its rough texture familiar against his fingertips.

The pages of flowing manuscript were filled with delicate, artistic strokes, each letter carefully crafted on the soft, fibrous paper, creating a tapestry of words.

Whimsical creatures, painted with the vibrant strokes of a master artist, leaped from the page, their breathtaking images bringing the tales to life.

The weight of the treasure in Or’Ang’s hand brought an ache to his chest, reminding him of the enchanting woman who had shared her meal with him and filled his afternoon with warmth and laughter.

Sinking down into the chair, he was soon captivated by the story of a human, shrunk to the size of a seamstress’s thimble, discovering the enchanting world where creatures, both make-believe and real, lived, their tiny voices whispering secrets in his ear.

The friends she had made, her deepening love for the shifter king, and the ever-present threats they faced all made him laugh, a testament to their resilience in the face of adversity.

The words on the page seemed to radiate a comforting glow, filling him with a sense of warmth that grew with each sentence he read.

No one can write something this beautiful and hold greed and malice in their heart, he thought.

He meticulously returned the pages to their well-worn binder, the leather soft beneath his fingers, and tied the string back into a perfect bow.

His hand lingered on the cover, lost in the memory of her blood's metallic sweetness, a taste that was nothing compared to the intoxicating sweetness of her lips against his.

He gently placed the journal back in the satchel, his fingers lingering on the worn leather, before glancing at the titles of the books within.

The kingdom’s future queen reveled in stories that painted vivid pictures of love, magic, and exciting journeys.

A low, deep, joyous laugh, like a rumbling brook, slipped from him as he clutched the bag and rose.

The sight of the garden before him, bursting with life, ignited a spark of determination in his eyes.

“’Tis will be a magical story made for legends, my beautiful Elizabeth. A tale of love between an enchanted shifter king and the gentle, yet adventurous human who is destined to be his queen.”

The intimate insight into Elizabeth ignited a spark in him, filling him with energy as he raced down the steps.

His laughter, a joyous sound that hadn't been heard in years, filtered through the trees, eliciting a flurry of chirps and flutters from the birds in the branches as they poked their heads out, curious about the sudden outburst. Outside the walled garden, an old otter shifter stopped, his keen ears pricked up, a grin spreading across his furry face as he listened to the unfamiliar laughter drifting from the Queen's garden, a beautiful, whimsical laughter filled with joy that piqued his curiosity.

He continued his journey homeward, the smell of freshly baked bread, a mix of sweetness and warmth, filling the air and reminding him of his own love that awaited him when he got home.