Chapter 82: Retail Therapy and Random Violence

Chapter 82: Retail Therapy and Random Violence [Lavinia’s Pov] TA-DA~~~~~ A fluffy, neon-green, Mickey-shaped cotton candy the size of my entire head appeared in front of me like a divine miracle. It sparkled under the sunlight like it had been blessed by the sugar gods. My eyes sparkled like stars in a cookie jar. My mouth? Drooling like a waterfall. I was a proud little bundle in Grandpa’s arms, wearing my Explorer Goggles of Doom and Glory (okay fine, they were just goggles, but I felt glorious). "Here, my precious," Grandpa said with the dramatic flair of someone handing over a sacred artifact. I snatched it like a raccoon in a bakery. Instant. Instinctive. My hands moved before my brain did (if I even had a brain left after seeing this glorious sugar cloud). I chomped. And chewed. And chomped some more. The candy was sweet and fluffy and melted like happy dreams. Behind us, someone let out a sharp breath. "If you’re done..." came Lysandre’s voice—low, tight, dangerously close to a tantrum. "...Give her to me. I want to hold her too, Uncle." Grandpa blinked. Turned his head verrrrry slowly. Stared. Then without breaking eye contact— FWIP. . That’s the only way to describe it. He fwipped forward like he didn’t hear anything. "NO." Lysandre practically exploded. "WHY?! WHY CAN’T I?! I’M HER BROTHER! I HAVE RIGHTS! I WANT TO HOLD HER TOO!" Lysandre yelled like someone had stolen his sword, his books, and maybe also his soul. We all turned around at the same time—me mid-bite, cheeks puffed with green sugar fluff. Chew. Chew. Chew. It was better than puppet shows. "I swear," Marella mumbled, "he is a hundred years old and still throws tantrums like a toddler." Ravick nodded solemnly and handed her a napkin. "Elf tradition, I guess." We kept walking. Lysandre kept yelling. The cotton candy? Still delicious. We were in the heart of Nivale City, in the legendary Astrails Market, where every breath tasted like adventure and magic taxes probably cost a fortune. The cobblestones glowed faintly beneath the sunlight, like they were secretly enchanted (they probably were). Soft, warm magic sparkled in the air, brushing against my cheeks like hugs made of light. Elven merchants sang in silvery voices. Their stalls were overflowing—silks in colors I didn’t know the names of, shiny crystals humming softly, and absolutely unnecessary but completely essential things like pocket-sized wind chimes and boots that jingle when you walk. Everything smelled like spiced bread, citrus dreams, and starlight. I didn’t know what starlight smelled like either. But if I could bottle this smell, I’d wear it forever. I’d wear it to bed. To the royal meetings. Even to my future wedding (ew, maybe not that; I’m five). Elven cities were unfairly pretty. Like someone spilled moonlight everywhere and then told every single leaf to shine or else. And the people? Tall. Elegant. Sparkly. It was like everyone had eaten fairy dust for breakfast and washed it down with glitter milk. Meanwhile— Me? I was two feet of goggles, ambition, and chaos. I was a whirlwind of snack crumbs and wide-eyed curiosity. I was sticky-fingered and proud of it. And then—"OH MY! Grandpa!" I gasped dramatically, tugging at his sleeve like my life depended on it, cheeks puffed with half-melted cotton candy. "Can we buy that glowing frog? I want a glowing frog. I need it for—science. And emotional support. Probably both." Grandpa’s eyes glinted. Dangerously. He turned to the stall owner with the kind of face that meant he was about to commit a financial crime. With a slow, royal wave of his hand, he pointed from one end of the stall to the other. "From here... to here... PACK EVERYTHING. I AM BUYING THE ENTIRE STALL." I gasped. Even the stall owner gasped. I gasped in capital letters. In italics. In bold. Is this... Is this that moment? That legendary drama moment when the rich male lead buys the whole store for his love interest in those cheesy shows I totally didn’t binge-watch in my past life? Am I... Am I living the dream?! Was I the female lead??? But with more frogs??? Then—my eyes fell upon the next stall. A totally unnecessary but mysterious-looking collection of rocks. Magic stones, they called them. But they looked suspiciously like shiny potatoes. "Grandpa—I—" I began, finger trembling in desire. But before I could even finish the sentence— "I WILL BUY THE ENTIRE STALL!" He thundered again, already tossing gold like confetti. Oh. My. GOD. This man was on a shopping rampage. I pointed to a stall selling dancing wind chimes shaped like chickens. "What about—" "BOUGHT." A rack of jingle boots that lit up when you lied. "And th—" "BOUGHT." I pointed to a basket of suspiciously glowing pickles. "Thos—" "EVERY. LAST. ONE." At this point, even Lysandre stopped yelling about not getting to hold me. He was now just silently staring at Grandpa with the face of someone who just realized they’d been adopted into the royal version of a sugar-fueled typhoon. Marella muttered something about "dangerous levels of spoiling," while Ravick took out a ledger and started updating it to tell Papa everything when we go back to Elarion. And me? I was living my best life. On Grandpa’s arm. Sticky. Hyped. Surrounded by future frogs, magic rocks, and pickles. I didn’t remember much about being spoiled like this before. Maybe in my past life, no one ever bought me glowing frogs or jingle boots that tell when you lie. Back then, even birthdays were quiet. Sometimes forgotten. There were no glowing frogs or chaos-chicken wind chimes. Just flickering screens and a cupcake I bought myself. But now?I was the chaos gremlin princess of the Elorian Empire and Nivale City, and I was loved. And that, honestly, was better than any fairy tale. This was retail therapy with battle music. Everything was perfect. Until—"ACKKK!!!" A sharp, echoing noise rang out from one of the alleyways behind the market stalls. Like someone had stepped on a goose. Or worse—like a goose had stepped on a person. I froze. Ravick immediately stepped in front of me, eyes narrowing, sword halfway out like he was about to star in an action scene. The guards formed a tight wall around us like this was the final boss level. Grandpa’s playful smile vanished. His eyes turned sharp and serious, and without a word, he scooped me into his arms, clutching me tight. And then—another voice boomed through the market. "PICK YOUR SWORDS NOW!!!" I blinked. Then I peeked. Peeking is an art. You can’t just shove your face out and hope not to get caught. You sneak it. You ninja it. Especially when your entire guard squad is built like walking walls. So I wriggled a bit in Grandpa’s arms and poked my head out from under Ravick’s cloak, just enough to witness... the drama. All I heard was: "Where did he come from?!" A man stumbled out of the alley, gasping for breath like he’d just outrun a dragon—or an ex with a debt ledger. His clothes were torn, his expression panicked, and he kept glancing behind him like something terrifying was chasing him. And then— THUMP. From above, a man dropped. Not jumped. Not climbed. Dropped. Like a dramatic squirrel sent by the gods of chaos. He landed right on the poor guy’s head like he was auditioning for a new form of transportation, stood up tall, hands on hips, and grinned. That grin? That was the grin of a comic book villain who knew exactly where the spotlight was. "Where do you think you’re running to, hmm?" he purred, cracking his knuckles like it was a musical cue. "You know the rules. You don’t run. You fight. To. The. Death." I squinted. Green hair. Green eyes. Smirk sharp enough to cut steel. He looked like— I glanced up at Grandpa. He looked like Grandpa’s younger version... if Grandpa had gone full chaotic anime anti-hero. Before I could ask— "I knew it," came a voice behind us, dry and almost bored. "So this is where he ran off to." Lysandre. Of course it was Lysandre. Strolling forward like this was an afternoon picnic and not an open-air sword fight, hands tucked inside his sleeves like he was too elegant to be bothered. Then he looked at me with a big, cheeky smile. "Lavi... do you know who that is?" he asked, eyes twinkling with mischief. "That’s your first brother. Soren." I froze. Then blinked. "Oh. I see." Was I surprised? ...Not really. I mean, this is my life now. Swords. Blood. Dramatic flips. Men who either kill or talk absolute nonsense. "Thwack!""AAACK!!""BOOM!""BAM!" ...in that exact order. A few seconds later, there was silence. Dust floated in the air like confetti after a very violent parade. Soren—another cousin—casually dusted his hands off, standing on a pile of groaning limbs. He turned with a grin so smug it could shine shoes. "Alright. It’s done." Then he looked up—and spotted us. "Oh... Uncle? Lysandre?" His voice cracked slightly in surprise. "What are you doing—" And then...Our eyes met. There was a beat of silence. His smile faded.His head tilted.And then— "What’s that thing?" I froze. WHAT. THING?! Did he—Did he just— DID HE JUST CALL ME A THING?!?!