Morning. Hot soup. Spicy enough to peel paint. My tongue was on fire, lips numb, and I was halfway through sweating out last week's sins when the Dwarf next to me groaned like death was offering him a discount.
His forehead was mashed against the wooden counter of the food stall. His beard stuck to something sticky — probably eel sauce. Or maybe blood. Hard to tell with him. I elbowed him in the ribs.
"Shut it," I said. "You drank enough to pickle a centaur. You got your money's worth."
He just groaned louder. Somewhere deep in his guts, something tried to escape.
The market was waking up ugly. Pots clanging, hawkers screaming, pigs squealing, someone's baby screaming like it owed back taxes. I slurped up another tentacle. Chewy. Perfect. The fishmonger's wife across the way was skinning something that still twitched. There were hot dumplings, sour plums, and a guy selling belts made of snake skin that probably still had snake in them.
And then everything went quiet. Not actual quiet — more like market quiet. The kind of hush that meant something shiny had arrived.
The palanquin came in slow. White lacquer, gold trim, embroidered curtains with phoenixes and cloud patterns, the works. Carried by four poor bastards who probably hadn't eaten breakfast yet. It stopped across the square, near the governor's gate.
The curtain parted.
I saw silk first. Then polished toenails. Then about two armfuls of jeweled anklets, toe rings, wrist chains, bells. A hand, all bangles and grace, reached out. A figure stepped down like the street owed her a throne.
That dress. That updo. That swish.
My mouth dropped open. Soup dribbled out.
Loma.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
She looked… divine. Regal. Like she hadn't spent a single night curled up in a freezing tower with me, half-naked and whining about how her tea was cold. Like she hadn't begged me to warm her up with my body, or let me corrupt her until her morals bled glitter.
No. This Loma wasn't my snuggle-princess. This Loma swept past the morning crowd like perfume on the wind and walked straight into the palace courtyard like she had appointments with power.
I just stood there, squid halfway to my mouth, staring.
The Dwarf groaned again.
"Shut up," I muttered. "This is… this is important."
He dry-heaved into his own beard.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, still staring like a stunned fishwife. The squid dangled off my chopsticks, forgotten.
The stallkeeper — big guy, sweaty apron, smelled like old broth and bad decisions — noticed me gawking. He didn't even look up from stirring his vat of fish guts and chili oil.
"That's her," he said, voice low, reverent. "Princess Loma of Tanagra."
I blinked. "The fuck it is."
He nodded, slow, dreamy. "On her way to Lerida. Joining the harem of Archduke Severin the Pale. Whole damn city's been talking about it."
"Severin the what now?"
"Archduke. Real posh type. Keeps seven wives, four concubines, and a pet tiger. They say she's the crown jewel. Stoppin' here for the week. Her retinue took up half the western quarter. Soldiers, maids, cooks, priests. Even got a blind lute player that sings her to sleep."
I turned back to the palace gates she'd disappeared through.
Princess of Tanagra. Harem jewel. Traveling with a pet bard and too many guards.
And here I was. In sandals held together by spite, with soup on my chin and a hungover Dwarf burping beside me.
Oh Loma, you lying little silk-wrapped bitch.
This just got interesting.
The stallkeeper glanced up, finally catching the way I was muttering to myself — something between "that smug cow" and "I swear if she still has my hairpin…"
"You know her?" he asked, brow raised, ladle paused mid-stir.
I blinked. Thought fast.
"Know her?" I scoffed, straightening up with what dignity I could muster while reeking of squid. "I'm her personal bed warmer."
He blinked. "Her what now?"
"Bed warmer," I said again, louder, like it was a formal title. "Trusted companion of nightly comfort and moral hygiene. It's a very elite position. Palace girls fight duels over it."
His mouth hung open slightly.
I leaned in, lowered my voice conspiratorially. "Princess gets cold at night. Needs soft hands. Gentle snuggles. Whispered lullabies. I'm trained in all three. Also in defensive spooning. I once bit a scorpion that tried crawling up her thigh."
The man stared like I'd just told him I wrestle manticores for pocket change.
"She—uh. She doesn't look like she'd need warming," he muttered, glancing toward the palace.
"She doesn't look like she snores either," I said. "But gods help you if you share a bed with her and don't plug your ears."
The Dwarf groaned again beside me, face still mashed to the table. The stallkeeper just nodded slowly, clearly not sure if I was mad or noble. Probably both.
I wiped the last of the chili oil from my lips and smirked.
"Now if you'll excuse me," I said, tossing a coin onto the counter, "her highness will be wondering where her snuggle technician has gone."
***
Back at camp, I practically somersaulted off the mule. My sandals flew one way, my soup-stained scarf another. The Dragon was lounging like an oversized lizard on a sun-baked rock, tail twitching, wings half-draped like some tragic opera widow.
I sprinted straight up to him, full of manic glee, flung my arms wide and shouted, "You will never guess who I just saw sashaying into a palace like she owns the moon!"
He blinked one eye open. "Someone who owes you money, underwear, or both?"
"Loma!" I beamed. "Princess Loma. Of Tanagra. Hair all done up, drowning in silk and gold and smugness. Just stepped out of a palanquin like a sunrise wrapped in perfume."
The Dragon sat up, slow, wary. "Didn't she get hauled off by orcs last time? Something about tower debt and unpaid unicorn tapestries?"
"She got promoted, apparently," I said. "She's on her way to Lerida to join the Archduke's harem. Whole palace quarter in town's been taken over by her entourage. And guess what?"
He narrowed his eyes. "You tried to rob her, got chased, and now we need to move camp before nightfall?"
I slapped his claw. "No! Better! I told a soup vendor I'm her personal bed warmer."
He stared.
I grinned wider. "It's fine. It's a position. Probably."
He buried his face in both claws. "No. No, no, no, no—"
"Listen!" I danced around the campfire, nearly tripping over his tail. "If Loma's getting the royal treatment — cushions, snacks, foot rubs, gilded dildos, whatever they hand out in the Archduke's concubine palace — then I'm not letting her hog it all. I want in."
He finally looked up. "You… want to join a royal harem?"
"Maybe not join join. More like… infiltrate. Or… sidle in. Or just visit long enough to steal something shiny and bang someone rich."
He squinted. "This is your plan?"
"It's not a plan plan," I admitted. "More like… the sexy, deranged seed of a plan. But I'm going back into town tonight."
"You're going to sneak into a fortified palace."
"Yes."
"To get closer to a girl you once shared a bed with for warmth and corrupted into a panting mess under a bearskin rug."
"Exactly."
"And who now lives in a guarded, silk-lined fishbowl filled with eunuchs and knives."
"Also yes."
"And your working disguise is 'bed warmer.'"
"Technically, senior bed warmer," I said. "I made that part up just now."
He stared at me like I'd sprouted horns. Then let out a long, world-weary sigh that probably killed birds mid-flight.
"I hate when you get like this."
"I love when I get like this."
He rolled his eyes and muttered something about hiding the valuables.
I was already digging through my stolen jewelry pile for something harem-appropriate. Something shiny. Something scandalous. Something that says I, too, deserve grapes peeled by slaves and toe rings forged in moonlight.
Tonight was going to be fun.