Chapter 89: A Promise Kept

Words : 1006 Updated : Sep 21st, 2025

Chapter 89: A Promise Kept The evening was a symphony of light and sound, a stark, beautiful contrast to the grim silence of the goblin-infested woods. I found myself holding the hand of a small, white-haired girl, a ridiculously large stuffed wyvern tucked under my other arm, while a discreet but watchful maid trailed a few paces behind us, her arms already laden with a small mountain of bags filled with sweets and trinkets we had acquired. The air, once thick with the scent of fear and despair, was now alive with the warm, inviting aroma of roasted nuts, spiced cider, and sweet, fried pastries. The village, which had been a place of shadows and sorrow just a day before, was now a kaleidoscope of life and laughter. Lanterns, glowing with a soft, magical light, were strung between the small, rustic cottages, casting a warm, golden glow on the cobblestone streets. Music, a cheerful, lively tune played on a fiddle and a drum, drifted from the central square, where villagers, their faces now filled with a fragile, hard-won joy, were dancing. It was a beautiful sight, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. "Now then, Lana," I said, my voice a low murmur as I looked down at the small girl whose hand was so trustingly enclosed in mine. "What would you like to do next?" She looked up at me, her rose-pink eyes wide with a wonder that was almost painful to behold, and simply said, "Whatever you want, uncle." I was confused. I had never found any of this sort of thing interesting. The games, the music, the pointless, cheerful chatter—it was all a foreign language to me. But then, I followed her gaze, and I saw it. She was staring, not at the dancers, not at the food stalls, but at a small, beautifully crafted purse, its leather dyed a deep, royal blue and adorned with a single, shimmering moonpetal flower. It was hanging as a prize in a nearby game stall. "Do you want that?" I asked, my voice a gentle probe. "Umm... I don’t know," she said, her voice a shy whisper. "I just... I like it." "Fine," I said, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. "I’ll win it for you." I reached the stall, a brightly painted affair run by a cheerful-looking man with a magnificent, and obviously fake, mustache, and quickly realized my mistake. The purse wasn’t for sale. It was a prize. "And how does one claim this prize?" I asked, my voice flat and devoid of the festive cheer that surrounded us. The shopkeeper grinned, a wide, practiced expression. "It’s simple, my lord! You have three chances. You will be given a soft, leather-stuffed ball, and you have to hit down all the piles of buckets that are placed at that distance." I looked at the distance, at the pyramid of fifteen brightly painted buckets stacked precariously on a small, wobbly table, and thought to myself, Hell nah. I can’t do that. That’s just some great, and very effective, business tactics. The ball was so soft that even a full-strength strike at the table itself probably wouldn’t do anything. I was left with no choice. Lana, who was now holding the hand of her maid as I had instructed her, watched with a quiet, hopeful anticipation. I passed a single gold coin to the shopkeeper. He blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief. "My lord, that’s... that’s too much. Even the purse itself is worth less than that." "Just keep it," I said, my voice a low, commanding murmur. "And do exactly as I say." I leaned in and whispered my plan, a simple, elegant solution to an unsolvable problem. Then, I turned to Lana. "Lana, come here. It seems we need to win this game before we can get your prize." She came to my side, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and a new, dawning understanding of the challenge before us. "Keeper," I said, my voice ringing with a false confidence. "Start the game. Give me the ball." He handed me the soft, useless ball. "Lana," I said, "watch your uncle." Then, I threw the ball. It missed. By a lot. The maid let out a soft, stifled chuckle. Lana, however, just giggled. Then I threw the next one. It was closer, but still a miss. How could I, a man who could thread a needle with a shadow spear from a hundred yards away, be so poor at aiming a simple ball? Lana, who didn’t fully understand the rules, was asking her maid in a hushed, excited whisper. After a moment, she seemed to grasp the situation. If her uncle wanted to win, he had to bring all fifteen buckets down in his final throw. She then, with a fierce, unwavering conviction, began to cheer me on. "Uncle, you can do it! Come on!" I exhaled, a long, slow breath, and focused. I threw the ball. The aim was pathetic. I had aimed for the center, but the ball, as if it had a mind of its own, was veering left, far out of bounds. Lana’s eyes, and my own, were fixated on its trajectory. Then, just barely, it connected with the edge of a single bucket on the far left. The bucket toppled, falling to the ground with a soft thud. One out of fifteen. A failure. But that’s where my plan came in. The shopkeeper, who had been standing near the table, "accidentally" stumbled, his hand knocking against the wobbly leg of the table. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough. The pyramid of buckets, already precariously balanced, swayed for a moment, and then came crashing down. Lana screamed, a high, piercing sound of pure, unadulterated joy. "Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!" Her scream, and the subsequent clatter of the falling buckets, drew a few curious glances. The maid’s mouth was hanging open, her expression a mask of shocked, and slightly scandalized, disbelief.

Chapter 89: A Promise Kept

Comments (0)