The Long Blade of Elmbridge by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter 11 – Claim Wars

By mid-morning, Elmbridge was moist with gossip and hot with speculation.

The town’s new obsession? The magical sword.

Or more specifically — Artan’s connection to it.

Or even more specifically — how “reactive” his aura got when touched.

“Cuddled, pinned, or licked,” as the tavern cook said, wiping her hands on her apron while gleefully retelling yesterday’s fountain-side incident for the fourth time.

News had spread faster than a heatwave in a sauna.

Artan tried — really tried — to ignore it.

But it was hard when Gwenya had declared “proximity rights” and now sat in his lap like she was part of the chair’s original design. Her tail flicked lazily, her claws idly tracing circles on his stomach while she sipped her morning cider.

“Stabilizing you,” she said when he glared at her.

“With your ass?”

“Do you feel unstable?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

Meanwhile, Linna had taken to appearing in increasingly tight schedules of “aura maintenance,” arriving uninvited with steaming poultices and a nervous smile.

“I-it’s important to check consistency,” she stammered, pressing two trembling fingers to his shoulder.

“See? Minimal flicker response. Except when I — oh! Th-that’s… high resonance…”

She dropped her satchel.

Again.

Then there was Elva — blessedly confident, infuriatingly ceremonial.

She strutted up to Artan in the square, took his wrist in both hands, and licked a slow, glowing stripe up the inside while murmuring:

“Sacred conduits must be honored. This is optimal grip calibration.”

Artan nearly choked on his own tongue.

Vileni, upon hearing of the incident, spent four hours drafting a “Public Contact Restriction Edict for Magically Reactive Subjects” , rolled it in lace ribbon, stamped it with five seals…

…and watched Gwenya bite the scroll in half before tossing it into a flowerpot.

“Guess we’re not doing that,” Artan muttered, half-dressed and entirely exhausted.

So many hands reaching for the hilt, Seyra purred in his mind. This is better than last time. At least no one’s set fire to a shrine.

Yet.

Artan groaned.

“I just want to go to the forge,” he whispered, “without being straddled.”

Liar, Seyra whispered back.

✦✦✦

By evening, the Twilight Lantern Inn had stopped being a tavern and fully evolved into a battlefield for emotional warfare, thigh placement, and magical one-upmanship.

Tables had been flipped.

Benches had been repurposed into lounging altars.

Rumors had become currency.

And Artan’s lap? Internationally disputed territory.

Gwenya sat cross-legged on one corner of the bar, tail flicking with war-cat smugness as she casually sharpened a butter knife.

“I’m just saying,” she drawled to no one in particular, “his aura spikes most when I’m on top. Empirical fact. I’ve charted it.”

Vileni sat stiff-backed across from her, papers fanned like playing cards.

“Incorrect. Prolonged back contact triggers mana pooling, not elevation. You’re confusing intensity with saturation.”

“Funny, that’s what I said to you the night you passed out hugging his waist like a life preserver.”

Elva, draped along a booth table like a velvet-clad daydream, simply lifted a glass and said serenely:

“Only I have tasted his essence.”

Pause.

“From his wrist, ” she added with a little smile.

“Elven magic…”

Linna made a strangled sound and dropped a poultice into someone’s soup.

In the corner, a group of tavern regulars had started placing copper bets in a cracked bowl labeled “ Next Accidental Mount.

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