May 20, evening — Flotsam Forests Free Camp — Victor's private tent
"Hah… ah… mm." Victor let out a long yawn.
He'd finished his alchemy work for the afternoon. Today's material had been specially gathered by Toruviel: something called a "memory rose," said to grow only in the Flotsam forests, somewhere amid the ruins of an old elven site.
Judging by the name and the scraps of records that remained, it was some kind of magically charged medium tied to the mind. Unfortunately, he didn't have any usable formula on hand, so all he could do was run basic tests to map its properties.
Of course, behind that beautiful name and lovely appearance, there was an elven love story and a set of equally dreamy "miraculous traits"—like how the roses would wither unless watered with blood or sold to someone else, and how gifting one to the person you loved would make it never fade… the sort of nonsense people told themselves when they wanted the world to be kinder than it was.
He casually tucked the memory rose into his herb pouch, stretched, and prepared to head out for the celebration. After more than twenty days of bland, rough camp food, he was genuinely looking forward to eating his fill of roast meat for once.
Today was the elves' summer solstice festival. Put simply, it was a celebration that summer had arrived: men and women singing and dancing around bonfires under starlight—then choosing whoever caught their eye and slipping into a tent together.
If you woke up the next morning and still felt good about it, you might end up as a pair. If you finished and immediately realized, no, absolutely not, it was also pretty common to leave the tent at once and go looking for a second "chance encounter."
Angoulême, who'd been effectively detained all afternoon at the side table with a book, saw Victor stand up and lit up. She slapped the book down and sprang to her feet too, whistling cheerfully.
On the perch rack, the hawk—"Catherine"—answered with a low call and hopped onto the special shoulder rest Angoulême wore. It nuzzled in close and pecked affectionately at her hair, and she stroked the feathers on its chest in return.
While Victor had been busy brewing potions and teaching formulas, that wild girl had been running all over camp. She'd somehow befriended the elves' falconers, and then—out of nowhere—triggered one of those "the chick chooses its rider" situations.
So she ended up with "Catherine": a beautiful golden hawk. According to the elves, even among their own people, a fledgling choosing a handler was ridiculously rare.
Honestly, having a spirit-bonded bird that understood you did look cool as hell. Victor had gone to try his luck the next day, full of excitement.
Unfortunately, not a single bird gave him the time of day.
Watching the girl and her hawk together, Victor's darker thoughts quietly surfaced: maybe it was time to add a few extra "character-building" lessons to Angoulême's schedule.
Right as he was considering it…the tent flap lifted.
Ciaran aep Easnillen—Flotsam's Scoia'tael chief executive officer—stepped inside. The young elf was handsome in a sharp, clean way, and he bowed politely to Victor.
"Master. The festival is about to begin. Lord Iorveth asked me to invite you over."
Then, thinking Victor hadn't noticed, he slyly winked at Angoulême.
Victor stared, dead inside.
"Well, damn. Who would've thought this straw-haired, flat-assed, flat-chested, thick-waisted little stump was this popular…?"
Then another thought followed immediately, practical and grim.
"I've been overlooking the fact she has needs too. And who knows how reliable contraception is in this era. I should find time to make her some emergency pills to keep on hand."
…
May 20, night — Flotsam Forests Free Camp — Central Square
There were thousands of them—an endless sea of bodies and laughter. The summer festival was far more lively than Victor had imagined.
The roast meat smelled incredible. The alcohol flowed like a river. The dancing looked like a painting, and the passion burned like fire.
Of course, the last two had little to do with Victor. He was a human—and Iorveth's guest. If he didn't step onto the dance ground himself, no one would come drag him in.
Angoulême, on the other hand, got drunk and turned into a grinning idiot, perfectly at ease as she melted into the elves' dancing crowd. With her little cap on, she blended in so naturally it was almost absurd. It reminded Victor of how she'd done the exact same thing back in a Flotsam tavern—mixing with dwarves like she belonged there, with nobody even blinking. That kind of social camouflage had to be a talent.
In the chaos of laughter and chatter, Iorveth came over with a cup in hand and sat beside Victor.
"Not going down there to dance a bit?" he asked. "This is a free occasion—no restrictions. Man or woman, all that matters is you like what you see."
Victor glanced at him, half-mocking, half-amused. "That's exactly the problem. If all that matters is liking what you see, then I'm probably doomed."
Iorveth lifted his cup toward Victor's painfully ordinary face. "Have faith. Once they're drunk enough and their eyes go blurry, 'doomed' turns into 'close enough!'"
Victor snorted into his drink. "I didn't think you had such a decadent side."
"It's a festival," Iorveth said, taking a heavy pull of wine. "Long ago, the festivals were ten times bigger than this."
"…" Victor felt that wasn't something he could respond to, so he took a sip of cream ale and kept quiet.
Iorveth paused, then added, "Sorry. That wasn't fair to say."
Then he stood and clapped twice to draw the square's attention, raising his voice.
"Since we're all in good spirits tonight, I'll play a tune to add to the fun!"
A roar of cheers surged across the crowd. Iorveth pulled a long flute from his belt, and a clear, winding melody rose into the night.
It was a song the elves all seemed to know. They started linking arms in circles, humming along softly.
For a long while, in the lingering afterglow of something that felt like a washed, lighter soul, Victor was simply enjoying the music—
Until he suddenly felt a chill of danger.
Because he saw Angoulême, cheeks flushed with drink, staring at him with an excited, glittering brightness that was frankly alarming.
He didn't have time to stop her.
Angoulême had already shouted at full volume: "Iorveth's music is incredible! And since we're so happy tonight—how about we let our bard Victor play something for us too!"
Back in a Flotsam tavern, when he'd been in the mood, Victor had played the lute once or twice. The result had been: free drinks for the night, and then getting forcibly thrown out by male dwarves for "trying to seduce dwarven women."
He swore on his life he hadn't even thought of that for a single second, but dwarves—Victor still had no idea why—seemed firmly convinced every other race was plotting to steal their women.
Fine. Tomorrow's swim training gets doubled, Victor thought viciously, while unwillingly enduring the weight of a thousand stares.
Then applause broke out—led by Iorveth himself, wearing an infuriatingly amused, suggestive grin. Angoulême's announcement clearly delighted him.
An alchemy master they'd known for twenty-something days—also a witcher apprentice—and he was a bard too!?
This was not a song to be missed.
…
Victor accepted the lute Ciaran handed him and tuned it with practiced ease, fingers moving by memory.
Iorveth's flute piece had been undeniably beautiful. Even without understanding the lyrics, it had stirred something like homesickness.
It reminded him:
He was a stranger here.
The familiar motions summoned familiar ghosts. It had been more than a year since he'd come to this world—how were you all doing back in the alchemy world? How were you all doing back on Earth?
Maybe because he'd sunk too deeply into those thoughts, Victor took too long to begin. The square, which had been quietly waiting, started to fill with murmurs.
Iorveth frowned. He might have been egging the crowd on, but that had been based on the assumption that Angoulême was telling the truth—that Victor actually could play. He had no intention of letting his guest embarrass himself.
Just as Iorveth started forward to rescue the situation—
Victor brushed his fingers down the strings.
The first seven notes hit like a spell.
Iorveth froze where he stood, and the entire square fell into silence.
Seven notes—and suddenly everyone's heart was pulled into Victor's world, into a place where he was about to tell them a story.
That breathtaking beginning didn't disappoint. The music that followed flowed like a confession filled with hope—like a father's warm gaze, and a mother's gentle expectation—washing slowly through each listener's chest.
As the melody rose and dipped, Iorveth quietly withdrew from the center and climbed into the branches of a beech tree. He could feel his eyes growing wet, and that was not a sight he intended anyone to witness.
At last, the song came to an end—
"This piece is called 'With You.'" Victor spoke over the thunder of applause. "I hope everyone here finds the person they're looking for tonight."
His plain face seemed to glow under the firelight. Then he bent at the waist in a clean bow and stepped away with effortless flair.
In the crowd, Toruviel stared at Victor.
Her eyes were bright—glittering—bright enough to be frightening.
…
Victor slipped back into his tent under countless heated looks, his heart cool and steady as he prepared for sleep.
His only small regret was that he hadn't had bedtime milk in almost a month. Goat milk was tolerable, but that sharp, animal tang would never truly satisfy him.
After a few stretches, he dropped onto his bedding and fell asleep instantly—deep as an infant.
Until he realized he couldn't move.
Sleep paralysis.
Instinctively, he tried to cry out for help.
"Shut up," a voice whispered.
It was Toruviel.
She was the one pinning him down. Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard from her—warm breath spilling into his ear, ticklish—and then she covered his mouth completely.
Victor's shock clicked into horrified clarity.
Yes. There was exactly one kind of "attack" where the host didn't protect the guest—
A woman's midnight visit to a man.
In some circles, it was even treated as a form of enthusiastic hospitality.
Meaning: even if he could speak, even if he screamed himself hoarse, no one would come.
With that realization, Victor made the decision every normal man would make.
If you can't resist… then you might as well accept your fate.
Unfortunately for him, the bard Victor's tent did not become peaceful after that.
More than ten minutes later, Toruviel's sharp scolding shattered the wordless night:
"Get out! Can't you see I'm busy here? Go line up outside—one by one, in order! Do you young people not know how to follow basic rules anymore?!"
And for the record—
Victor's mouth was still very firmly covered.