By the third day, I have developed a profound hatred for sleeping on the ground.
This isn't a casual dislike or a minor inconvenience; it is hatred.
It is a hatred that deserves documentation followed by peer review. The forest floor is awful. It bulges and dips randomly, pinning every twig, stone, insect and damp patch beneath the most delicate parts of my body.
The palace, for all its sins — and there were many, preferably arranged alphabetically for easier prosecution — had at least understood the purpose of bedding. It had also understood how hot water is a necessity. And clean towels. And soap. And mirrors, even though I detested looking at myself in one.
And of course, a breakfast served fresh without one needing to hunt, gather, beg, or listen to Juria say, "If you're hungry, chew a leaf."
I stopped that thought at once.
No.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing that Claudemund.
I miss the comfort of civilisation.
Not Halleya, obviously. I was very committed to not missing Halleya. Missing that gilded shitehole felt morally unsound and personally humiliating. But I missed the parts of it that involved servants who knew that if I looked too focused for longer than four hours, they were meant to place food near me and then flee before I noticed.
Out here, nobody does that. One has to remember hunger independently. Pair that with Juria, who has threatened to make me sleep in a tree if I complain again.
"Stop glaring at the road," Juria said.
"I am not!"
She walks several paces ahead, her broad shoulders rolling beneath her cloak and her horns cutting a sharp silhouette against the grey morning. The weather is indecisive, refusing to settle on rain, freezing or simply being unpleasant. A low mist clings to the fields, a constant reminder of the absence of heating and my impending frostbite. I may be a bit dramatic, but I truly miss the comfort.
No, Claudemund. Snap out. This is better than Halleya.
Luna walks beside her with the serenity of someone who had achieved spiritual enlightenment.
I, meanwhile, push Spitfire.
Spitfire's wheels crunched softly over the packed dirt road. My aching palms reminded me of palace life where machines were moved by pulley lifts, service tracks, junior engineers, or at least someone who could be politely instructed.
I missed workshops, specifically my room. I missed proper tool racks arranged by size and function. I missed—
No.
I do not miss anything!
I am free.
And free women push their own half-broken mechanical llamas down the roads while hungry, bruised, cold, and verbally harassed by a dragon-blooded stranger.
Juria glances over her shoulder as her gaze fell to my hands on Spitfire's frame and then to the machine itself. "You sure you don't want help?"
I stop walking and slowly look up at her.
"What?" She squinted.
"Did you just offer to help me?"
"No. That was your imagination." Juria bared her teeth, took control and effortlessly pushed my machine up the hill until the road levelled and she could let go again. Over the past three days, I have realised this is our primary mode of communication.
"You are limping less today," Luna said.
"I am not limping."
"You were favouring your left side."
I frowned at Luna. The three of us moved between low hedges and fields, their gold-green hues softened by the morning haze. In the distance, hills rose gently in uneven layers. I studied them intently, trying to decipher their shapes and the pattern of the road.
I had spent most of my life inside the capital but I knew enough of the outer districts from maps, travel reports, and the occasional travel outside for bureaucratic purposes. However this knowledge does not always translate to pinpoint accuracy. Frankly, I am completely lost and have no idea whether I am still in Halleya. I fancied myself clever enough to reach the nearest town within a few days after my escape but, as fate would have it, the gods have a knack for humbling me as soon as I get too full of myself. I feel my dignity crumbling because of my current situation, though that had been unstable long before the impact of my mechanical llama.
Obviously, I have not told them yet. One does not simply turn to two strangers after crash-landing into their dinner and say: "Terribly sorry about the fire and the beans but I am Princess Claudemund Meridian von Halleya, second heir to the throne, current national embarrassment, wanted by several people in power that is the King and Queen of Halleya which unfortunately are my parents."
I assume friendships do not start like that. I don't know. I have very limited data and experience.
"So," Juria said. I immediately disliked her tone. I just kept my hands on Spitfire's neck frame and pushed.
"So," I replied, mimicking her.
"You never did answer me properly."
"I answer everyone properly. It is one of my most famous qualities."
Luna let out a soft cough, seemingly at the most suspiciously timed moment.
Juria ignored her. "Where are you from?"
"Many places."
"That is not an answer."
"It is if one has travelled a lot."
"Have you?"
"In theory."
Juria stopped walking. I nearly rolled Spitfire into the back of her. She turns and crosses her arms over her chest. Well, that was rude.
"Try again."
"Pardon?"
"Where are you from?"
"Why?"
"Because normal people don't just crash on a strange metal livestock."
"Llama."
"Normal people," she continued, louder, "do not just crash a strange metal livestock, speak like some drunk noble pretending badly to be poor, and then refuse to explain themselves for three fucking days."
I gasped, mostly because I was flabbergasted. I think I speak just fine! "I do not speak like a drunk noble!"
"You absolutely do, my lady."
"I am an educated woman!"
"You literally said 'pardon' after I asked you to try again."
"That was because I did not hear you properly! I have manners."
"It's suspicious."
"Everything is suspicious to you."
"You are suspicious."
Juria and I locked eyes. Luna sighed but not unhappily. "Perhaps we should ask this more gently."
"I was asking gently," Juria said.
"That is NOT gentle for me!" I hissed back.
I resumed pushing Spitfire around Juria because if I stopped moving, I might have to answer. "I am from a merchant family," I said. There. A lie. Simple. Plausible. Serviceable. Hideous. Juria's brows rise as Luna turned her head, quietly attentive.
"A merchant family," Juria repeated.
"Yes."
"What kind of merchant?"
"The usual kind."
Juria's smile grew slow and mean. "You have no idea what merchants sell, do you?"
"Merchants sell many things."
"Name one."
"Goods."
Luna coughed softly again and I gave her a stabbing look. She tried to apologise however, her apology was entirely unhelpful because it seems to contain amusement.
Juria stepped closer. "Goods."
"Yes."
"What goods?"
"Merchant goods."
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
"I fail to see the issue!"
"The issue is you're a terrible liar."
I drew myself up, a mistake. Unfortunately, drawing up was one of my body's involuntary responses especially when cornered. My spine is straight, my chin slightly angled, and my shoulders open despite the bruising. My hands were relaxed with my fingers poised as if I were addressing a council chamber. I immediately tried to ruin it by leaning against Spitfire and scratching my nose with no dignity whatsoever.
"My father trades in mechanical parts," I said quickly. "Small components like springs, hinges, brass fittings, you name it. Quite tedious things. Very dull. Awfully boring. I was not interested in the business bullshit except in the parts where I borrowed stock for educational purposes." Well, that sounded better. A little bit too specific but perhaps enough to shut Juria up.
"Your father let you build that thing?" Juria asked as her eyes narrowed.
"Let is a very strong word."
"So, you stole from him?"
"Borrowed."
"Did your family know you left?" Luna asked.
My grip tightens on Spitfire's frame as my mind drifts somewhere else. Suddenly, I am not on the road anymore. I am in one of the palace's long hallways. Alarms ring through brass tubes and my satchel cut into my shoulder. My hands were shaking so badly I had to use my teeth to tighten a strap. It was one of my attempts to hide after an accident I'd caused. I was running past portraits larger than doors: cold-eyed grandparents, men in ceremonial armour, my mother in pearl-white silk and my father in gold. Beside them stood Anya, perfect and still, and then there was me.
Younger by two years in the latest official portrait, seated half a step behind my sister, face screaming I'm absolutely dead inside.
Princess Claudemund Meridian von Halleya.
My skin is painted to perfection, free from blemishes. My eyes are no longer sunken from late-night shenanigans. Even my freckles are completely gone. It looks so refined that it no longer resembles my face. Even in portraits they seem determined to control me.
I blinked and the road reappeared. Spitfire in my hands.
"I left a note," I replied.
"Hmmm… A merchant's daughter," Juria said again.
"Yes."
"With hands looking soft as cream but grip strong enough to push this machinery for hours."
"My hands are not soft."
Juria extended her hand and I instinctively slapped it away. However, she simply grinned and said, "Soft."
"Touch me again and I shall make your tail into a curtain tie."
"There she is," Juria exclaimed and barked a laugh.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You get mean when you're scared."
"I'm not scared!" I frowned and turned back to Spitfire, pushing harder. "I am hungry," I announced.
"You just ate an hour ago," Juria sighed.
"I am hungry. I can smell bread."
"No, Claudemund. You're just bored."
"No, truly, I can smell bread!" I exclaimed as I twitched my nose towards the direction of where I think it came from. My stomach clenched a little bit too much. "There!" I said, pointing down the road. "Ahead. Slightly left!"
Juria's expression shifted from disbelief to reluctant interest. Luna glanced in the same direction. The mist eased as the road curved between two old elms. Beyond them a faint grey smoke ribbon curled upwards, barely discernible against the sky.
"Claudemund may be right," Luna said.
"I see smoke," Juria said. "Not bread."
Luna then stepped forward shading her eyes with one hand and said, "It could be a small tavern. Some waystations bake in the morning to attract travellers."
"A tavern," I said.
The word should comfort me, but my hunger remains – loud, theatrical, and a little too committed to its own suffering. However…
A tavern meant people.
People meant eyes.
Eyes meant recognition.
And if we are now outside Halleya, I may look like a filthy, exhausted, underfed woman pushing a broken contraption beside an elf and a draconic woman who had still not decided to throw me into a ditch. We are a strange group but this part is manageable.
If we are still inside Halleya, I am a filthy, exhausted, underfed runaway princess with pockets full of stolen coins from the treasury pushing a machine with definitely-not-so-stolen materials along a public road with my face potentially hanging in every tavern, government office, post house, merchant hall, and shrine to propaganda within a day's radius. This is not manageable at all.
"Ah gods," I whispered.
Juria's head snapped toward me. "What?"
"Nothing," I said. "My stomach is staging a rebellion." Juria did not look convinced. Luna looked… less convinced. "I'm just hungry!"
Luna glances down at me for the third time in as many minutes, her brows drawn with the concern of someone trying hard not to fuss. "Claudemund, perhaps something warm will indeed settle your stomach," she said gently.
I followed with all the grace of a condemned woman approaching the gallows, one hand still resting on Spitfire's neck.
Ah, shit.
Whatever.
If there is a portrait, then there is a portrait. If someone recognises me then I'd explain or lie or faint strategically. Surely the news hasn't travelled this far yet.
Surely.
My escape had been loud, yes. Explosive, yes. Involving several shattered masonry, tax payer's money, destruction of Halleya's "indestructible" wall, and several more fun activities. But even then, Halleya's officials needed time to panic efficiently.
My God, I have no idea where the fuck I am.
Nestled low beside the road, the tavern's dark roof gleams with old rain. Amber-glowing windows peek through the morning mist, and smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the enticing aroma of yeast, pepper, and something savoury enough to make my dignity question its priorities.
Before we reached the door, Luna paused. "Claudemund," she said, "you should leave your machine outside."
"Absolutely not!" I frowned, tightening my grip to Spitfire. "And risk being stolen?"
"No one's stealing that thing," Juria laughed. "Anyone trying to run off with that thing would get ten paces before dying of shame."
I looked at Spitfire. Spitfire is perfect. What in gods name is she talking about?!
"Fine," I grunted, though it physically pained me. From my satchel, I pulled a small brass lock and clipped it through the front wheel's spoke-ring. Then, for good measure, I twisted the secondary pin until it clicked into place.
"You carry wheel locks?" Juria stared.
"I carry many things."
"That's concerning."
"I hope you explode on anyone suspicious," I whispered as I patted Spitfire. "That would be hilarious."
Juria scoffed and pushed open the tavern door. A warm, smoky, and wood-smelling breeze enveloped her. She stepped inside without hesitation, followed by Luna who entered gracefully and calmly, her cloak brushing the threshold. Luna drifts toward the hearth. I do not see where Juria goes, which should concern me more than it does.
I step in last.
Slowly.
The tavern is small but clean. A stone fireplace on the left holds a low flame and an iron pot hang above it. The bar counter, scarred by years of elbows and tankards, faces the entrance. Above the shelves, bundles of dried herbs and a few hunting trophies line the walls. Cheap landscape paintings adorn the walls and two faded banners I couldn't recognise hang nearby.
No gilded frame above the hearth.
No royal crest.
No painted von Halleya family portrait watching from the wall with disappointment.
My shoulders loosen so suddenly I nearly swayed.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The tavern keeper is behind the bar, broad-faced and half-bald, wiping a cup with the weary commitment of a man who had wiped cups through wars, weddings, funerals, and drunkards.
I approach him with what I considered an excellent attempt at casualness though I felt like this was immediately undermined by my posture. I loosen my shoulders, then over-loosen them, then realised I probably looked stupid. The tavern keeper stared at me.
I smiled at him. A normal smile. Most likely.
"Good morning," I said.
Shit. The bloody hells is wrong with me. Claudemund stop that!
"Mornin'," I quickly corrected myself.
The tavern keeper glances from me to the room behind me, then back again. Whatever he sees there does not reassure him."Morning."
"Splendid. Excellent. Very… morning!" I leaned on the bar, having observed men doing so in the palace servants' quarters when they thought no one important was watching. Unfortunately, I misjudged the height and slipped slightly but managed to recover.
In an attempt to ignore the blunder, I cleared my throat. "My companions and I are travelling," I said.
"That so?"
"It is! Therefore, I was wondering whether you might be able to provide some ordinary local information. Nothing official nor alarming. Merely the common geographical facts one gives to passing persons of no consequence."
The tavern keeper looks at me for a long moment with confusion until he finally asked, "you want directions?"
I pointed at him and for some reason I couldn't think of the word I was looking for. I was glad he finally said it. "Precisely. Yes. Directions! Quite the rustic term!"
Do not say rustic, you absolute palace-bred idiot.
"Where you headed?"
"Ah." I smiled again. "That remains under discussion."
"Right…"
I glanced briefly over one shoulder, mostly to confirm that Juria is still elsewhere and not looming nearby with her dreadful talent for hearing things I absolutely do not want her to hear. I saw only the tavern room: rough tables, a few travellers bent over bowls, Luna's pale hair near the fire as she spoke to someone seated there. I turned back to the keeper to continue the conversation.
"I should like to know what this place is called," I said, lowering my voice into what I hoped sounded like harmless curiosity and not fugitive desperation, "where the nearest town might be, and how far one would have to travel before reaching Halleya."
At the mention of Halleya, I studied his face. The tavern keeper scratched his jaw. "You're in Renuir's Crossing. Brackenford's fifteen days east along the south road, if the weather holds. Smaller settlements between here and there, roadside taverns too. Signs should tell you enough."
"And Halleya?" I asked.
"Halleya's border is twenty days west on foot. Another five to the capital, give or take."
Twenty days. Twenty whole fucking days! Holy shite.
Spitfire had carried me that far before giving up and launching me towards Juria and Luna's camp. I should have been proud. Instead, I found myself staring at nothing with a dawning horror of an engineer realising she had accidentally built something much faster than intended.
My God.
We were going that fast?!
I nodded and noted the distance. Relief struck me so hard I nearly forgot how lungs worked.
"And news?" I asked. "Any word from Halleya? Notices? Patrol movements? Royal nonsense? Missing persons? Public concern regarding, ah… disturbances?"
Just as relief arrives, a voice whispers—
"Why, Claudemund?"
I spun around so quickly my coat hem scraped against the bar. Juria stood behind me far too close, her arms crossed and a grin spreading across her face.
"What's interesting in Halleya?"
I clutch at my chest. "Damn it — do you shed sound when you walk? Are you acoustically defective?"
"I asked you something," she grinned even more.
"I was merely gathering geographical context," I said. "Halleya appears to be the destination for everyone with a functioning brain who wishes to trade. It is reasonable, in my opinion, to ask about our distance to the capital of all capitals. Knowing if we were closer would make it more convenient to head just there instead of a random hamlet."
"Mm-hm," Juria leaned closer.
"My father would usually head there for big trades! Normal merchants do that."
"Do they?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"No," I snapped. "Juria, I've been travelling for gods know how many days and I have hated most of it." I turned back to the tavern keeper with what remained of my patience, which was not much. "Breakfast," I said. "Please. Before she interrogates me into early death."
Juria lifts both hands in surrender, though her grin remained thoroughly unrepentant. "Okay, okay, feisty pants, calm down." She then nodded toward the bar. "Go pay, then sit next to Luna. Or do you want me to do that for you too?"
"No," I said sharply. My pride rose before my intelligence could stop it. "I am perfectly capable of paying. Do not patronise me."
Then, with the full confidence of a woman who had never once purchased breakfast in a public establishment with her own hands, I reached into my satchel, drew out a coin, and slapped it on the counter. That's how it's done, right? I've seen people do it in palace theatre!
The problem however is not how I slapped the goddamn coin. Unbeknownst to my ignorant royal arse, a gold coin apparently is not something a commoner would see everyday based on the looks of these two in front of me. Let alone a very clean, very bright, newly minted Halleyan gold coin.
The tavern keeper looks at it. Juria looks at it. I look at it.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH
"Miss," the tavern keeper said carefully with concern, "do you just have one copper?"
I felt heat climb up my neck. A sensible person would have apologised, taken the gold back, and searched for smaller currency. Unfortunately, I was not feeling sensible. I was feeling observed.
"That will be for the three of us then," I said, with what I hoped was the confidence of a normal travelling woman and not the cornered panic of a fugitive princess who had just tried to buy something with dynastic gold. The tavern keeper's expression turns into something close to pity.
"Three coppers, miss."
I fix him with my gaze then move my attention to the coin. Then, slowly, I turned towards Juria. I did not say anything— well, I tried but the expression on my face was louder than my mouth that hit me with dreadful clarity: I do not know what the fuck do I do now. Juria seems too stunned to mock me and then she reached across the bar.
"You idiot, hand me that."
"I had it under control."
Juria groans as I surrender the coin with as much dignity as a person could maintain while trying to get rescued. She tucked the gold into my palm, closed my fingers over it with unnecessary firmness, then dropped three dull copper coins onto the counter as the tavern keeper swept them up.
"Thank you," he said. "Sorry, miss. We've only just opened. I wouldn't have the change for gold this early, even if I saw that much in a month."
A month!
My hand tightened around my gold coin.
"Oh," I said. "My apologies, I did not intend to cause inconvenience!" Gods. I found myself dipping my head with far too much grace for a roadside tavern. I corrected myself immediately. "I mean—sorry. That was… inconvenient of me."
I feel like I just make the situation far worse by opening this bloody mouth though the tavern keeper nodded in response. I think he's vaguely unsure what category of person I belong to.
"Food'll be out shortly."
"Thank you," I said. I shut my mouth before I could make it worse.
Juria walked me back to the table in silence which is a bit concerning. Luna sat near the hearth, her expression calm until she saw Juria's face.
"What happened?" Luna asked.
Juria sat down slowly, still staring at me as though I had grown a second head. I sat beside Luna with my hands folded tightly in my lap. The gold coin feels like evidence burning inside my fist.
"Claudemund," Juria leaned across the table and said softly. I braced myself. "What the fuck?"
"Merchant's daughter," I replied proudly with a lifted chin. Holy shit. The words came out with such misplaced confidence that even I almost believed it. Juria and I began to have yet another stare down.
"Merchant's daughter," she repeated.
"Yes."
"No one carries that much coin out in the open."
"It was not out in the open. It was in my satchel."
Juria leaned back in her chair with a huge sigh. She seems to be contemplating giving up on what to do with me mixed with some concerns upon noticing what I have in my satchel.
"That coin could get your throat cut," she said. "You understand that, right? Bandits. Thieves. Desperate folk. Anyone who sees a small woman carrying gold and thinks, 'well, that'll do.'"
"I am not helpless," I protested.
"I didn't say you're helpless. I said carrying enough money to make yourself a walking invitation."
"I know how to defend myself. You've seen the rapier under my cloak. I also have small explosives in my satchel." I thought this would reassure her. Unfortunately, it did not.
"Claudemund," Juria said, slowly, as if addressing a child, "most people avoid being robbed by not showing the robber gold."
"That seems overly dependent on the robber's honesty," I frowned. Juria looked at me with absolute concern in her face before turning to Luna.
Ugh, what did I do this time?!
"Now, now," Luna said, settling beside me. "Just because Claudemund comes from a different walk of life does not mean we must judge her for not knowing ours."
"A different walk of life? Luna, she tried to pay for breakfast with a coin worth more than the tavern's roof," Juria argued in disbelief.
My stomach churned. I glanced down at the table and said, "It was an error."
Before Juria could argue more, the tavern keeper arrived with breakfast. Three wooden plates were placed before us with indifference that suggested no interest in our secrets beyond the cost. One copper buys a hunk of dark bread, a spoonful of barley mash, a ladle of onion gravy, half a boiled egg, a strip of fried ham no wider than two fingers, and a scattering of stewed greens that had been placed with no regard whatsoever for borders.
Everything touched.
Everything.
Gods, this is truly the punishment I deserve for running away in my wonderful and comfortable palace lifestyle.
The gravy had already invaded the bread. The greens leaned against the egg in a way I found uncomfortable. Even the plate itself was wrong: too shallow, too rough, with a chip along the edge that my eyes kept returning to despite my sincere wish to be normal for once in my life. Then there's the bloody fork. Too large. Too… I cannot exactly describe it but I know it's in a wrong shape. I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.
This fork is pretty damn heavy. Why is this too heavy? Am I meant to eat with it or fend off wildlife?
Juria had already torn into her bread. Luna began more gently, breaking hers apart with her fingers and dipping it into the gravy. I just stared at my plate with a high level of unease I have never felt in a long time that my chest began to tighten.
The food smelled good, though.
"Are you gonna eat or what?" Juria asked around a mouthful. "I thought you were hungry."
"I am hungry. I'm just assessing it."
"What is wrong, dear?" Luna asked gently. The word dear nearly ruined me. I looked at the plate again and felt ridiculous to be furious with myself. I can still feel my chest tighten.
"I don't like when my food is touching each other," I said. There. Wonderful. Excellent. I had survived a massive escape plan only to be defeated by onion gravy. Luna, bless her, did not laugh.
"That is all right. I imagine this is not what you are used to," Luna rests her hand lightly near my wrist without touching, near enough to feel the calm without trapping. "We have a long road ahead. Try what you can. Separate it if that helps."
That is the permission I need. I took the dreadful fork and began reconstructing the plate into something less hostile though unfortunately, the barley mash was beyond saving.
After breakfast, I left the tavern with three useful things: a direction, a distance, and the humiliating knowledge that one copper was enough to purchase a meal. I tried not to think about how many breakfasts I had nearly bought with one gold coin. The number became upsettingly large the moment I attempted arithmetic, so I stopped at once.
By the tavern keeper's words, Brackenford lay fifteen days east if the weather is alright and none of us died of stupidity along the way. Given my current company, I considered all conditions optimistic.
And lo and behold, Brackenford became the plan.
Not my plan, technically. I do not like plans that involved sleeping on the ground and pushing Spitfire while pretending my shoulders did not ache whenever I move in a certain way. But it was the only place large enough to be habitable and a possible good cup of coffee. Now that I am free, I am no longer banned in consuming them therefore I don't have to keep it in secret!
Anyway, Luna suggested Brackenford. Juria agreed because the alternative was wandering alone. I agreed because Spitfire needed to get fixed, I needed a bed, and going back to Halleya is absolutely not an option. The town seems far enough from Halleya that it should be a safe place for me to hide without prying eyes. So east we went.
The road unfurled before us like long brown ribbons, weaving through fields, stone walls, and cosy hamlets. Sometimes morning mist clung to the ground. Mist would lay thick over the ground that made the world look unfinished. Other days, rain turned the road into a fucking mess that clung to our boots and Spitfire's wheels. I hate those days. Don't get me wrong, I adore rainy days, so long as I am not out and about.
We met other travellers sometimes.
Most of them would take one look at Juria's horns, then Luna's ears, then my damaged machine, and immediately found great spiritual interest in the opposite side of the road. This happened often. In fact, it happened almost always! Initially, I thought it was because of Spitfire. This would have been understandable given Halleya's relentless pursuit of the latest technology, pushing engineers to their limits. Spitfire presents a certain visual argument.
But nope.
It was Juria and Luna.
Juria's horns were the first thing people noticed. Then her height, shoulders and the heavy shape of her tail beneath her cloak. Finally, they saw Luna: an elf, pale and composed, far too graceful for a roadside ditch. Their faces would start to tense up. Then they would move away. I should have been angry on their behalf. After all, as much as I hate to admit, the outside world hasn't devoured me yet thanks to them.
I am. A little.
Mostly, however, I am relieved.
No traveler lingered near us long enough to ask questions. No one wanted our names. No one wanted to share gossip, compare destinations, discuss weather, ask why I spoke like this, or wonder why a supposedly humble merchant's daughter is out without protection. Their prejudice, while disgusting, was practical. I'm hoping it kept the news of me thin. If anyone had heard of a runaway Halleyan princess, they did not connect her to the mud-stained woman pushing a ridiculous machine beside an elf healer and a draconic brute.
I have no patience for small talk anyway. Strangers were unpredictable. Worse, they were curious. I was already strange enough for one travelling party, and frankly, there ought to be a legal limit. Two strange people in a group might be charming. Three became folklore. Four attracted bards. I refuse to be sung about by some fuckwit with a lute.
At night, we camped. I do not look forward to this.
Every evening repeated the same indignity in a slightly different landscape. Juria would scout for a defensible location while Luna gathered whatever herbs she could find. I would secure Spitfire, inspect the damage just to keep myself out from doing chores, pretend I was not exhausted, fail to pretend convincingly, and then sit by the fire while my body complained about every choice I had ever made.
My injuries did improve though slowly. The limp I do not have became less obvious. But for goodness sake, being alive for three decades is a testament to my left shoulder's condition. It hasn't been better since I threw myself into that column in Halleya and the crash just made it worse. The bright little bolts of hatred down my arm whenever I lifted anything did ease though. Luna would check my injury and made tea each night in a blackened little pot.
Tea is not coffee. Tea donot have coffee's dark and holy promise of continued existence despite fatigue but Luna makes it with such patience, and the steam warmed my face while the cup gave my hands something to hold when the nights grew cold.
On the eighth day, Juria and I had the sort of argument that began over nothing and nearly became a war.
The nothing, in this case, is whether I had tied Spitfire's securely. I had not yet. Juria insisted I have so she could boss me around with chores.
By the end, both of us were standing on opposite sides of the campfire, breathing hard.
"Well, I don't fucking like you!" Juria snapped.
Before I could stop myself, I laughed. "Well," I said, "it seems there is one thing we can agree on, because I don't like myself either."
The fire cracked as Juria's face changed. I turned away first.
For two days, Juria and I did not speak. This was difficult as we were travelling together, sharing a fire, and occasionally needing to stop Spitfire from rolling downhill. We communicated through Luna.
Luna endured this with saintly patience until the second evening when she handed me a small twist of paper filled with dried berries.
"For Juria," she said.
"I am not giving her a present," I frowned while staring at the berries.
"It is not a present. It is a peace offering."
"I'd rather have Spitfire run over me."
"That would be less productive, Claudemund." Luna gave me a look similar to Anya's when she wanted to ask a favour. She reminds me of her. I often wonder how she's coping now that she's the only heir to the throne. No pressure, sis.
Anyway, I can't resist it so I took the berries. I found Juria near Spitfire, sharpening a knife with unnecessary aggression.
"For you," I said, holding out the little paper twist. At the same moment, Juria shoved a strip of dried meat. We both froze. Slowly, we both turned our heads toward Luna, who sat by the fire with her tea, looking entirely too proud of herself.
"You planned this," Juria said.
Luna sipped her tea. "Did I?"
"No shit," I said.
"Oh dear. How cunning of me," Luna replied.
Then Juria broke in a rough and reluctant laugh while I found myself smiling despite every intention not to. We exchanged offerings like rival nations signing a treaty neither trusted.
The next morning, Juria called me a rat because I was too small and fast for her liking. I called her fuckface. It came out alarmingly easy these days that it made Juria looked proud having my spoken vocabulary infiltrated by her vulgarity.
Peace had finally returned.
During this trip, I had learned three things.
First, tea was not coffee and never would be, no matter how kindly Luna brewed it.
Second, sleeping on the ground did not become easier with practice. It merely became familiar, which was worse, because familiarity implied a relationship.
Third, Juria had an astonishing vocabulary for displeasure.
I admit I have used vulgar language before, but in Halleya I had to practise self-control. Most of it remained internal until that day I finally snapped and yelled during my escape. I treat Juria's swearing as a linguistic curiosity. My dictionary of swear words started growing as I began using a few of them out in the open.
Anyway, a few days later, we met bandits… or rather, men who were trying very hard to be one while lacking the theatrical commitment required of the profession. There were four of them, all disgusting, bad teeth, and knives held with a lot of enthusiasm. They emerged from the trees near a narrow bend in the road, where the ditch ran deep on one side and the hedgerow pressed close on the other.
Halleya had very few problems with roadside robbery. Anyone foolish enough to attempt it usually discovered that the kingdom employed professionals whose entire purpose in life was making examples of such people.
Normally, Royal Guards would have been travelling with us during any excursion beyond the palace grounds. Anything that required the royal family to be seen by the common folk came with an entourage large enough to discourage both assassins and inconvenience.
As a child, I had found it excessive. As an adult standing on a muddy road with these four armed idiots blocking my path, I am forced to admit they may have had a point. Not that I missed being surrounded by armed escorts. I missed having someone else deal with this nonsense.
That did not mean I am helpless. Gods, no. People back in Halleya would look at me and see a rich, sheltered idiot who would faint at the sight of a drawn blade. Admittedly, I had spent most of my life surrounded by servants, tutors, and luxury, so I understood how they reached that conclusion. They were still wrong.
Royal children received lessons for many things. Etiquette. Diplomacy. History. Economics. The proper way to smile at people you disliked. And in the event that every Royal Guard assigned to keep you alive somehow failed simultaneously, self-defence.
I spent years learning how to fight. It's one of the few classes I enjoyed. I was not a star student, though I was the only one so it doesn't matter, my fencing instructor would have described me as fast, unpredictable, and far too enthusiastic about turning every spar into an experiment. He also spent a great deal of time informing me that my defence was terrible and that one day my refusal to block properly would become the death of me.
Still, I knew which end of a rapier belonged in the other person. That was why I carry one. And they look absolutely stunning, too.
A rapier suited me perfectly: quick, precise and elegant, it demands considerably less brute strength than the axe Juria uses in almost everything. I could manage unarmed combat in the event I get disarmed though getting punched is unpleasant, and I see no reason to encourage it. More importantly, fighting is too much work. I simply prefer not to engage unless circumstances became truly unreasonable. Unfortunately, four men with knives blocking the road qualified.
"Coin," one of them said.
I sighed. It escaped me before fear did. I am tired. My feet hurt. Spitfire had begun clicking strangely again. I had not had coffee in a long time. And now some roadside fucks want to interrupt my day. A familiar grip met my palm as I reached for my rapier at my hip.
Everything in me narrowed. My mind mapped distance, wrists, knees, throats, the angle of the ditch, the loose stone near the leader's shoes. Then Juria stood in front of me. Her cloak fell back enough for the men to see the breadth of her shoulders and the heavy line of her tail. Her smile lacked any friendly undertone. Smoke curled between her teeth. The leader's knife dipped as Juria inhaled.
"If you run now," she warned, "I won't remember your faces."
All four bandits ran. My hand loosens around the rapier, and I sigh before realising Juria is looking at me.
"You were going to fight."
"I was just going to discourage them a little," I hissed.
She locked eyes with me for a moment. A fleeting expression crossed her face before disappearing beneath a grunt.
"Next time," she said, "let me scare them before you start whipping out whatever adorable thing you've got there on your machine."
"Fine. Next time, kindly announce your pompous intimidation before I commit to stabbing."
"Deal."
On the seventeenth day after leaving Renuir's Crossing — two days later than the tavern keeper's cheerful estimate — we finally saw Brackenford. It emerged slowly beyond a line of low hills neither grand enough for an announcement nor small enough to dismiss. The town looks muddy and more dreadful than Halleya, yet somehow alive. It had roofs that did not belong to trees. I nearly wept upon seeing salvation as I was cold, underfed, sleep-deprived, and emotionally vulnerable to the concept of indoor plumbing after all the suffering in the wilderness and occasional road-side tavern.
We entered through the main gates though a few people already started their staring. Most stared at Juria. Some stared at Luna. A boy stared at Spitfire with open-mouthed wonder until his mother yanked him behind her skirt.
"Nearly there," I whispered as I patted Spitfire's side.
"You talk to it too much," Juria commented.
"Would you perhaps like me to talk to you then, Juria?"
"No."
"Coward."
We walked onwards until we reached a tavern. Its sign hung from a black iron bracket above the door: a painted boar with a spear through its side, mouth open in permanent outrage. The lettering beneath it read:
THE GORED BOAR TAVERN
"There," I pointed. "We rest there."
"Only for a short rest?" Luna asked while adjusting the strap of her satchel.
"Yes," I said. Whoops. The answer came too quickly. I had to correct myself. "I mean—yes. We should eat and recover before you two continue wherever you were headed before I became your problem."
The words were meant to be light but I don't think they landed as I had hoped. I felt the mood change quite a bit. The truth was simple: Brackenford was the destination because I needed it. Not them.
Luna had her own path, or so I thought. Juria seems to just be following Luna. They had been kind enough… or foolish enough to see me this far but kindness was not a contract. They did not owe me another distance.
I had things to do with my newfound freedom. I could manage. Perhaps.
Luna looked toward the tavern door, then back at me. "I would like to remain in Brackenford for a little while," she said.
"You would?" I asked.
"There will be travellers in need of healing. And I think, Juria and I do miss sleeping on a proper bed," Luna replied.
Juria scratched the back of her neck, looking anywhere but at me. "And someone needs to make sure you don't pay for shit with a brick of gold." Then with a sigh, she added, "we'll stay until your goat's fixed."
"Llama."
"Until the llama's fixed," she said, clearly struggling. "And until Luna decides the road needs us somewhere else."
Luna's faint smile suggested this had been decided long before we'd admitted it. I glanced between them and felt a strange, unpleasant warmth rise in my chest, dangerously close to hope.
So I ruined it at once.
"Hmph, fine," I said. "A temporary arrangement, then."
"Temporary," Luna agreed.
"Temporary until you do something stupid," Juria scoffed then pushed the tavern door open.
"That gives us plenty of time," I followed them inside before my face betrayed me with a smile. Then, a whisper to myself, "temporary."
I am looking forward sleeping on a wonderful bed tonight.