For the past fucking trip toward the southern manor, we encountered more problems than I could count.
At first, it was just wild monsters. Nothing too insane—until Jane casually slaughtered them all without even wrinkling her dress.
Then, five minutes later, a group of bandits jumped out.
"Give us all your gold!" one of them shouted.
Ah… spoken like true bandits. Classic.
Jane beat the hell out of them too, of course, but I stopped her before she could kill the lot. "Tie them up. Leave them in the road. Let someone else deal with the trash."
And then, for some godforsaken reason, that loop kept repeating.
Monster. Bandits. Monster. Bandits. Bald bandits. Aggressive monsters. Bigger monsters. Bigger, balder, more aggressive bandits.
"FUCKING SHIT!" I finally screamed at the coachman. "Did you even take the right road?!"
The coachman flinched. "M-my Lady, I swear this is the official route! This—this isn't my fault!"
"Not your fault?! Then whose fault is it, huh? The damn weather?!"
Anna tried to calm me. "M-my Lady, perhaps the South's roads are just… prone to these kinds of dangers."
Prone?! If this was "prone," then the South was basically a glorified circus.
When we finally made it to the border of the South, the city guards immediately detained us. For a whole fucking day.
"Why are we being held?" I asked flatly.
One of the guards shuffled nervously. "Uh… it's… because you're a Konrow."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
Apparently, the rumors from the banquet had already reached here. Specifically, the one about Angelica beating the shit out of Percy in front of the emperor. The South loved its gossip, and right now, the Konrows were hot news.
So instead of letting us in, the guards left us waiting outside the walls.
We set up camp. Jane and Anna worked without complaint, and I just sat there, bored out of my mind, until I noticed the children.
Thin, dirty, clutching empty bowls. Southern strays.
I sighed, pulling out food from subspace. "Here. Eat."
Their eyes lit up as they devoured the bread and stew, as if they hadn't eaten in days.
For a moment, I just watched quietly.
Even in a wealthy duchy like this, there were kids starving outside the walls. Nothing changed, no matter how far you went.
After a full day of waiting, the guards finally returned. "You may enter now."
"Finally," I muttered.
And so we entered the South in its full view.
The city was… different.
The architecture was bright, vibrant, with wide roads lined with colorful stalls. The air smelled of salt and spice, the sea breeze cutting through the humid warmth. Merchants shouted in accents I'd never heard before, waving silks and jewelry from foreign lands.
It felt less like a ducal city and more like a massive port marketplace.
"Ugh," I groaned, holding my stomach. "Now I'm craving cornbread…"
Jane blinked. "Corn… bread, my Lady?"
Anna tilted her head. "Is that… southern cuisine?"
I sighed. "Forget it. Just get me something fried."
We eventually reached the southern manor — located in a coastal city called Marisport — after another half day's travel. The road in was lined with low white houses and stalls selling everything from salted fish to bright fabrics that caught the sun; we stopped at a handful of vendors on the way, ate like the ragged travelers we pretended to be, and honestly felt more undercover than a noble trio ever would. Jane and Anna blended right in, and nobody gave us more than a curious glance. Perfect.
By the time we rolled up to the manor proper it was twilight. The place sat on a gentle rise overlooking the sea: white-washed walls, wide verandas, and tiled roofs darkening to indigo as the sun slid away. Gardens of citrus trees and lavender stepped down toward a private cove; lanterns dotted the path like fireflies. It wasn't flashy, but it had that clean, lived-in wealth — the kind that meant the owner spent on comfort rather than ostentation. Good bones. Quiet dignity. Exactly what a southern noble's manor should be.
"My Lady, we'll unpack your things. You should go see the beach behind the manor," Jane said, already busying herself with trunks.
I couldn't refuse. I left the maidservants to flit about and walked down a worn stone path to the small staircase that led to the sand.
The beach was stupidly beautiful. Narrow cove, pale sand like sifted flour, and the water a weird, impossibly clear green that threw the sunset back as shards of gold. Waves licked the shore in lazy, even breaths. Fishing boats dotted the horizon like sleepy beetles. A faint smell of citrus and sea-salt hung in the air. The cliffs framing the cove were topped with windswept grass and the silhouettes of a few old statues — guardian figures in the southern style, weathered but still proud.
I sat down on a driftwood log and let the sound of the surf do the thing it does: quiet the little screaming panopticon inside my head. For the first time since the banquet-turned-blood-spectacle, it felt like the world might not absolutely require my immediate, furious intervention. I could almost relax. Almost.
[Hecatia: "Ah, the sea. Soothing even for the divine-adjacent."][Loki: "Don't jinx it. She's a walking disaster zone!"][Eros: sighs dramatically "Romantic beach scene incoming?"]
Trynda rustled in my pocket like an annoyed moth. "We are on a mission, not a vacation. Do not become sentimental."
"Shut up and enjoy the ambiance, bird." I poked his feathery head where he peered out. He huffed. For once, he sounded like an actual competent familiar and not the drama queen he usually was.
"You're actually making me do my job. What is happening?" Trynda muttered, grudging respect slipping into his tone.
"Try not to fall in love with the sea," I told him. He coughed an offended chirp.
I kicked off my shoes and let the water lap at my toes. The sky blushed purple. Fireflies began their polite, sporadic show in the hedgerows. I thought of nothing in particular and then everything wrong at once — the Marquis, Peter's uncomfortably relentless stare, Adele's tight smile — and promptly shoved those annoyances into a tiny, well-concealed mental chest labeled later.
That's when I noticed movement on the path behind the rocks: someone walking toward me, slow, silent. They wore a cloak that swallowed the light; they were masked. Masks in idle coastal towns were nothing new — masquerades, local festivals — but this felt different. Intentional. Focused.
I didn't flinch. No one should flinch if they are me. Not anymore. My body stayed pleasant and indifferent while my brain flicked through defensive spells out of reflex. I let my face do the work instead: a mild, polite curiosity that said, Well?
They stopped a respectful distance away. The air seemed to hold its breath. The sound the person made when they spoke was low and amused in the way demons act.
"To think the God's Beloved would come here herself," the masked voice said.
"Know that we are watching your actions, Josephine von Konrow" before they walked back to where they came from.