the angels hidden blade

THIRTY ONE

The dissonant chords of a confrontation rang through the air, drawing Nefeli's gaze like a magnet. 

Pushing through the gathering crowd, she spotted an old, repulsive-looking man with gnarled features, his eyes ablaze with fury, as he seized hold of Jaskier.

Jaskier, with his tousled hair and a look of surprise, etched on his face, found himself at the mercy of the irate man's accusations. 

Something about sleeping with his wife. Which was probably true.

Onlookers whispered from spots around the ballroom, their curiosity piqued by the unfolding fight.

As the man bellowed angrily, Nefeli's heart quickened with concern. 

She recognized the urgency in the situation, her instincts flaring as she moved with grace through the crowd, her silken dress billowing around her like a stormy cloud.

The old man's anger seemed boundless, his words a torrent of accusations and profanities. 

Determined to intervene and diffuse the escalating tension before Jaskier got hurt, Nefeli approached the duo with a sense of purpose. 

Her presence, though seemingly delicate, exuded an undeniable strength.

"I didn't get a proper look at the little shit's face, but that pimply arse I'd remember anywhere!" the man snarled, reaching out menacingly for Jaskier's pants. 

The crowd gasped in anticipation, the tension thickening like a storm about to break.

Nefeli's protective instincts kicked in, a glint of steel catching the candlelight of the ballroom as she tightened her grip on the knife strapped discreetly to her thigh. 

The blade, finely honed and gleaming, remained concealed beneath the folds of her flowing dress, a weapon ready to be unleashed if necessary.

As she closed the distance, Nefeli's pale pink eyes surveyed the scene, assessing the potential danger. 

Her every movement bespoke a mix of grace and determination, a juxtaposition that hinted at hidden depths beneath her seemingly fragile exterior.

Jaskier's nervous chuckle hung in the air like a fragile melody, a stark contrast to the volatile atmosphere surrounding him. 

His eyes darted anxiously between the enraged man and her, unsure of the outcome that loomed on the horizon. 

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, betraying the anxiety that gripped him.

As Nefeli rounded on them, she faced the older man and gagged as she smelt the stench of alcohol radiating off him. 

A subtle shift in the air alerted her to the looming presence of Geralt behind her. 

His arrival sent a ripple through the already charged atmosphere.

Nefeli's body tensed in response, not solely from the imminent threat before her but from the unanticipated fire kindling within. 

The proximity of Geralt stirred something profound, a magnetic pull that transcended the immediate danger. 

She could feel his breath on her neck, a whisper of warmth that sent shivers down her spine. 

Every hair on her body stood on end, attuned to the electrifying energy that surrounded them.

Nefeli's voice, soft and apologetic, cut through the charged air as she addressed Geralt, her words a fragile attempt to defuse the escalating situation.