The Fruit of the Vined
Lysanthir crouched behind an overturned amphora, snickering to himself as glowing droplets of enchanted hiccupberries dripped into the ceremonial wine vat.
“Just a splash,” he whispered, twirling a strand of silver hair around his finger. “For dramatic effect.”
The wine fizzed. The air shimmered. Somewhere, a tambourine began playing itself ominously.
He’d swapped the regular vintage with his own blend, a magically enhanced concoction that caused spontaneous giggling, suggestive winking, and in rare cases, the uncontrollable urge to confess deep truths to fruit bowls.
The first priest to taste it burst into song. The second attempted to marry a tree.
Perfect.
At least until...
“Really, Lysanthir? Again?”
A dry, velvet voice cut through the garden like a flute dipped in sarcasm.
Lysanthir turned slowly, caught mid-pour, one leg hooked around a grapevine for balance. Standing there, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in weaponized judgment, was Thornas, the eternally unimpressed Fae of Boundaries and Absolutely No Fun Before Sunset.
His hair was dark gold, his eyes a glacial blue, and his fashion sense screamed “gloomy theatre kid accidentally made pact with forest spirits.”
“Darling, I was enhancing the mood,” Lysanthir grinned, flashing wine-stained teeth.
“You wouldn’t want the worshippers sober, would you?”
“I wouldn’t want them proposing to sacred ferns, either.”
“One time! And honestly, Fernilda was flattered.”
Thornas stepped forward, snatching the bottle from Lysanthir’s hand and holding it up with a look of pure withering elegance.
“Do you even know what you put in this?”
“Just a pinch of giggle root. A dash of naughty plum. A whisper of lustfruit—”
“A whisper?! It smells like aphrodisiac sangria and poor decisions!”
“Why thank you,” Lysanthir purred.
Their eyes locked.
Tension sparked.
Somewhere, a drunk satyr fell into a fountain and applauded.
Thornas exhaled, the sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, drawn in like a moth to my flaming nonsense.”
“I should report you to the Council of Woven Order.”
“But you won’t.”
Lysanthir stepped closer, voice softening like honey left too long in the sun.
“Because you like it when I’m bad.”
Thornas flushed.
A single vine coiled around his ankle, Lysanthir’s doing, no doubt
and the wine vat behind them let out a soft hiccup.
“Ugh,” Thornas muttered,
“Fine. But if someone ends up licking a statue again, you’re explaining it to the High Priestess.”
“Deal,” Lysanthir beamed, tossing his silver hair. “But only if you agree to dance with me later.”
“Only if I get to lead.”
Lysanthir smirked.
“Darling… I always lead.”
“Just a splash,” he whispered, twirling a strand of silver hair around his finger. “For dramatic effect.”
The wine fizzed. The air shimmered. Somewhere, a tambourine began playing itself ominously.
He’d swapped the regular vintage with his own blend, a magically enhanced concoction that caused spontaneous giggling, suggestive winking, and in rare cases, the uncontrollable urge to confess deep truths to fruit bowls.
The first priest to taste it burst into song. The second attempted to marry a tree.
Perfect.
At least until...
“Really, Lysanthir? Again?”
A dry, velvet voice cut through the garden like a flute dipped in sarcasm.
Lysanthir turned slowly, caught mid-pour, one leg hooked around a grapevine for balance. Standing there, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in weaponized judgment, was Thornas, the eternally unimpressed Fae of Boundaries and Absolutely No Fun Before Sunset.
His hair was dark gold, his eyes a glacial blue, and his fashion sense screamed “gloomy theatre kid accidentally made pact with forest spirits.”
“Darling, I was enhancing the mood,” Lysanthir grinned, flashing wine-stained teeth.
“You wouldn’t want the worshippers sober, would you?”
“I wouldn’t want them proposing to sacred ferns, either.”
“One time! And honestly, Fernilda was flattered.”
Thornas stepped forward, snatching the bottle from Lysanthir’s hand and holding it up with a look of pure withering elegance.
“Do you even know what you put in this?”
“Just a pinch of giggle root. A dash of naughty plum. A whisper of lustfruit—”
“A whisper?! It smells like aphrodisiac sangria and poor decisions!”
“Why thank you,” Lysanthir purred.
Their eyes locked.
Tension sparked.
Somewhere, a drunk satyr fell into a fountain and applauded.
Thornas exhaled, the sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, drawn in like a moth to my flaming nonsense.”
“I should report you to the Council of Woven Order.”
“But you won’t.”
Lysanthir stepped closer, voice softening like honey left too long in the sun.
“Because you like it when I’m bad.”
Thornas flushed.
A single vine coiled around his ankle, Lysanthir’s doing, no doubt
and the wine vat behind them let out a soft hiccup.
“Ugh,” Thornas muttered,
“Fine. But if someone ends up licking a statue again, you’re explaining it to the High Priestess.”
“Deal,” Lysanthir beamed, tossing his silver hair. “But only if you agree to dance with me later.”
“Only if I get to lead.”
Lysanthir smirked.
“Darling… I always lead.”
