The morning broke under a dim, pale sky, the kind that promised neither rain nor comfort. Melissa's tent still stood when the rest of the caravan had already begun to stir—the mules snorting clouds of breath, the drivers rolling up canvas sheets, the guards cinching straps on their cuirasses.
Inside the tent, Melissa lay tangled in her blanket, her hair spilling over the pillow like a silken storm. She had not slept well.
Last night she had waited far too long for her maid, Emmy, to bring the promised rabbit stew—her dinner, her redemption after an exhausting day of travel. She had waited until her stomach began to growl in rebellion, only for Emmy to return empty-handed, wearing that pitiful, apologetic smile.
Melissa's fury had been immediate and volcanic. She had called Emmy every name she could think of—liar, slacker, useless girl—and then, too hungry to keep fighting, devoured a few scraps from the supply bag before diving into her tent in a huff. Even in sleep, resentment had gnawed at her.
Now, as dawn ripened outside, her anger had cooled into something like sulky fatigue. She sat up, rubbing her temples, the taste of yesterday's argument still sour in her mouth.
Outside, Mura, the caravan's quartermaster and a weathered man who had learned the delicate art of surviving noble tempers, waited with patience that was quickly wearing thin.
When he saw her shadow stir behind the tent flap, he raised his voice, careful but firm.
"Miss Melissa," he began, "if everything's all right, we should start breaking camp. Everyone's ready to go."
Melissa's first instinct was to scold him for rushing her. But when she stepped outside and saw dozens of tired faces and the long row of wagons waiting for her word, the flush of embarrassment climbed her neck. She wasn't a cruel person—spoiled, yes, entitled perhaps—but not heartless.
"Fine," she muttered after a pause. "Go ahead."
Mura exhaled in relief, nodding to the porters. Within minutes the tent came down, the gear was loaded, and Melissa—washed, dressed, and still visibly irritated—was seated in her cushioned carriage. The caravan set off again, wheels creaking, horses snorting in rhythm to the slow beat of travel.
At the head of the column, Richard rode alongside the First Guard Unit, eyes scanning the road with habitual vigilance.
The day stretched long and airless.
Though clouds blanketed the sun, the air itself was suffocating—thick and heavy as boiled wool. The heat pressed from every side, and soon the drivers' shirts clung to their backs with sweat. Even the oxen groaned under the burden.
Melissa sat in her carriage, one elbow against the window frame, her chin propped in her palm. The world outside shimmered through a haze of dust and fatigue. The road was endless. Her patience, not nearly as long.
Several times Emmy crept close, chirping silly jokes or gossip from the other wagons, desperate to lighten her mistress's mood. Each time, Melissa silenced her with a sharp glare or a curt, "Leave me alone."
By the time afternoon began to fade, the heiress was slumped against her seat, fanning herself in lazy, useless strokes.
At last she called out, her voice sharp with irritation.
"Mura! When are we stopping? I'm melting in here!"
Mura, riding beside the wagon line, turned halfway in his saddle. "Not for another two hours, Miss Melissa. We'll stop by sunset."
"Two hours?" she repeated in disbelief. "We've been on this cursed road forever already! How far have we gone?"
"That…" Mura hesitated. He knew she could read the caravan's route map, knew she would notice the discrepancy at once if he lied.
Melissa narrowed her eyes. "We've gone more than forty miles, haven't we?"
Silence was as good as confession.
Finally, Mura sighed. "Closer to fifty."
Her brows shot up. "Then why haven't we stopped? You promised—forty miles a day, no more!"
"I know, but—"
"No buts!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the dusty air. "I said forty, and I mean it! Stop the caravan now!"
Mura winced as the caravan began to slow, wagons creaking to a confused halt. He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Miss Melissa… I promised Sir Richard yesterday that we'd cover sixty miles today. It's important for the schedule."
Melissa gasped, affronted. "You what? Mura, how could you let that arrogant boy order you around? This caravan belongs to the Briarflower Trading Company, not to him! We stop at forty miles—no more. If Richard has a problem, tell him to come talk to me!"
Before Mura could answer, his gaze flicked up the road—and his face sank.
"He's already on his way."
Richard approached at a brisk canter, dust rising beneath his horse's hooves. His expression was calm but faintly disapproving, the look of a commander about to find out why his troops had stalled.
He slowed his mount near the lead wagon, eyes moving from Mura to the fiery young woman standing upright in her carriage. Melissa's posture was defiant, chin raised, her silken hair sticking slightly to her flushed cheeks.
Her glare met his like a thrown gauntlet.
"So you're Richard," she called out, her tone sharp enough to cut. "The one who bullied poor Mura into marching sixty miles today! Well, I've had enough. The Briarflower Caravan doesn't belong to you, and we travel at forty miles a day. Not one more!"
Richard held her gaze without blinking. His voice, when it came, was quiet and measured.
"Why?"
That single word landed heavier than she expected.
"Why?" Melissa echoed, astonished. "Because it's scorching hot! People will faint, get sick! I won't have anyone collapsing from heatstroke on my watch."
Richard's brow furrowed slightly. He swept his eyes across the caravan: dozens of drivers slick with sweat, yes, but none seemed ill or faint. Then he looked back at her.
"Heat exhaustion," he said evenly, "comes from dehydration and loss of electrolytes. As long as everyone drinks properly balanced water with salt, no one will collapse. I don't see anyone unwell."
Melissa froze. For a moment she was speechless, her authority slipping through her fingers. Then she grasped at the only defense left.
"Well I am unwell!" she snapped. "I get motion-sick! I feel dizzy when the carriage moves too long. Forty miles is my limit, and I won't take another step! Is that so hard to understand?"
Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, fury and embarrassment tangling together.
Richard studied her silently. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite pity. He knew a lie when he heard one.
A girl who had crossed the sea by ship without incident did not suddenly develop carriage sickness.
Fine, he thought. If she wanted a duel of reason, she would get it.
He nudged his horse closer, his voice calm as steel.
"You're certain you get motion sickness, Miss Melissa?"
"Of course!" she declared, doubling down.
"Then tell me," he said softly, "do you know what causes it?"
Melissa blinked. "What… what causes it?"
"The human sense of balance," Richard explained, "comes from the inner ear, not the brain. When what your eyes see doesn't match what your body feels—the ground moving beneath you while your vision stays still—it creates conflict in the senses. That conflict makes you dizzy, nauseous. That's motion sickness."
She stared, dumbfounded. "The inner ear? Conflict in the senses?" Half the words might as well have been spells.
Richard continued, unbothered. "Drunkenness works in a similar way. Alcohol dulls the brain, confuses the body's ability to balance. The result—stumbling, disorientation. It's all a question of perception and equilibrium."
Melissa's mouth hung open. She had never heard anyone speak like this, as though explaining the secrets of the world with patient logic. Around them, drivers and guards glanced uneasily at one another, unsure whether to laugh or keep quiet.
Richard finally leaned slightly forward in his saddle.
"So tell me, Miss Melissa—does your head spin because the carriage jolts, or because you don't like not getting your way?"
A hush rippled through the caravan.
Melissa's eyes widened, outrage flaring bright and hot. "You—how dare you!"
But Richard didn't flinch.
"I'm not here to humiliate you," he said evenly. "We're crossing bandit country. If we stop early, we risk being caught in the open after nightfall. I won't endanger the caravan because someone feels 'dizzy.'"
That last word carried a deliberate sting.
For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled—her pride against his resolve. Then Melissa tore her gaze away, cheeks burning. She turned toward Mura, her voice trembling with restrained fury.
"Fine. Do as you like. But if anyone faints, if anyone gets sick, I'll have you all know this was his decision!"
Mura only sighed. Richard inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, then wheeled his horse around and rode to the front of the line.
The caravan began to move again, creaking forward into the waning light.
Melissa sat back down hard, folding her arms. Emmy, perched beside her, dared not speak. Outside, the landscape rolled on—brown hills, fading grass, a horizon blushing with the first traces of dusk.
Inside the carriage, silence settled thick as the heat itself. Melissa glared out the window, her pride stung deeper than she would admit. Yet beneath the anger, something else stirred—a faint, unwelcome awareness that Richard's words carried a kind of sense she couldn't easily dismiss.
The wheels turned. The miles passed. And as twilight descended over the long road west, the heiress of the Briarflower Company stared into the darkening sky and wondered, perhaps for the first time, whether she truly understood the world beyond her comfort.