The fire cracked as the herbs softened in the pot, their scent rising with the steam. Fredric tossed another stick into the flames, a crooked smirk playing at his lips. He didn't say it aloud—but it was all over his face. Steven shouldn't have been trusted with the hunt.
Draco, on the other hand, looked completely unbothered. Reclined near the fire, he unfurled a worn map across his knee, reading its creases under the makeshift torchlight—a cloth soaked in resinous oil and tied around a stick, now burning steadily at his side.
Three hours had passed. Fredric's patience had run thin. He finally stood, brushing the dust from his trousers.
"Your Highness, allow me to fetch something myself. A quick catch."
Draco didn't even glance up. "What's the rush?" he replied calmly, eyes still tracing the inked river path. "Steven will be returning any moment."
And as if summoned, a figure emerged from the treeline—tall, solid, and limping slightly. Steven.
Fredric turned first, eyes narrowing. The royal knight looked like hell. His shirt was torn, blood caked down his arm, and the hare in his hand didn't explain the state he was in. Definitely not a simple hunting injury.
"Well now," Fredric drawled, tone sharp with mockery. "Did the hare fight back?"
Draco lifted his gaze at that, noting the dried blood immediately.
Steven dropped the hare near the fire and straightened his posture despite the ache in his limbs. "I was ambushed. Bandits. Took a blade to the side, nothing deep."
"Bandits?" Draco rose to his feet at once, all traces of nonchalance vanishing. "How many?"
Steven exhaled. "Didn't stop to count, but… around ten. Give or take."
Fredric grunted and gripped the wooden skewer in his hand tighter. "So you're telling us you fought off ten bandits. Alone. In complete darkness. And just strolled back here after?"
Without replying, Steven nudged the hare closer to Fredric's boots. Draco snapped his fingers at Fredric in a dismissive gesture. "Clean it."
Annoyed, but without protest, Fredric grabbed the game and stalked off to the river, muttering curses under his breath.
Draco turned back to Steven, brows drawn in curiosity. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Steven shifted his weight, then spoke in a flatter tone. "I stumbled upon a lady. In the woods. She helped spot the bandits; she could see in the dark, so she assisted me with the aims, More or less"
"More or less?"
Steven didn't answer that part directly. As if thinking if he should tell Draco about the lack of sense of direction the woman had. "She tried. I would say-but she helped bandage me after the fight. They had a camp nearby."
"A lady. In the woods," Draco repeated, clearly skeptical. "Not just a woman—a helpful one?"
"She wasn't alone," Steven clarified. "There was an attendant. And a carriage of sorts, or maybe a supply wagon. Definitely noble folk, or close to it."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "And where are they now?"
"They left just before I came back. In a rush, it seemed."
"At night?" Draco frowned. "That's dangerous, even for nobility."
Steven shrugged. "Didn't seem like they planned on staying."
Draco's interest deepened. "A noble group, in a hurry, hiding in the woods? That's not something I hear every day. I hope you got her name, or how she looked perhaps.."
Steven gave a slow shake of his head. "Didn't see her face. It was too dark. But her attendant was named Lola if I recall it correctly."
Draco blinked at him. "You fought beside her, got bandaged by her, and you didn't even look at her face?"
"She had a unique voice," Steven muttered, almost defensively. "I'd recognize it if I heard it again."
Draco rubbed a hand over his temple and groaned, "You've always been thick-headed, but really? A noblewoman helps save your life, and you don't even look at her?"
Steven shifted uncomfortably. "I'll know her again, I promise."
"No need," Draco said with a dry chuckle, turning back to his map. "Let's just pretend that's a mystery left to the stars. I'm sure fate has a better plan than your memory."
He shook his head, half in disbelief, half amusement, still muttering as he returned to his torchlit map.
Mae sat upright this time, no longer tied up on a rough sack but nestled inside the carriage on a folded woolen cloth that passed as a cushion. Morning light crept in slowly through the trees, brushing her face with gentle warmth. Her fingers toyed with the berry pouch Lora had handed her earlier—dark purple and red fruit gathered from the forest the day before. They were a bit squished now, but sweet enough to hold her over.
Across from her, Lora was fast asleep, her head tilted to the side, faintly bobbing with the movement of the carriage. Mae let her eyes drift outside. The world around them was changing—villages replaced by low hills, forest thickets giving way to small clearings. Occasionally, stone homes peeked from behind heavy trees, smoke curling from chimneys, early risers tending to cattle or stretching grain sacks under their porches. These weren't grand palaces, but the land still looked like it had stories to tell.
The wheels began to slow with a creak. They were approaching a stone bridge, the arch narrow and old, weathered from years of travel. Beyond it, a sleepy town came into view—Tirak, as the driver announced with a tap of the reins.
One of the men leaned back and gave Lora a nudge. She flinched awake, eyes snapping open as she pulled away instinctively.
"We're here," the man said, stepping down from the carriage.
Lora blinked rapidly, taking in her surroundings. "Okay," she muttered, then turned to Mae. "We have to take a boat from here. That'll get us to Characot quicker."
Mae raised a brow. "Where is Characot exactly?"
Lora didn't answer that part directly. "Just across the water. We won't be long," she said instead, already stepping off the carriage.
Mae followed her, still unsure but with no better option. She trusted Lora—not because she had earned it, but because there wasn't anyone else to trust right now.
Once they were both on the ground, Lora reached into the inside pocket of her worn jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch. She handed it to one of the men, who peeked inside and nodded in approval. The faint clink of coins was unmistakable.
Mae's jaw dropped. "That's a lot of money. Where did you get that?"
"It's not mine," Lora said simply. "My master gave it to me. Enough to hire transport when needed."
Mae swallowed hard. Whoever this master is, he must have serious pockets. She nodded slowly, clutching the berry pouch tighter.
Tirak spread out ahead of them in uneven cobbled lines and wooden walkways, buildings clustered along the riverbank like children huddled for warmth. It was a modest town—nothing regal or grand—but alive in its own way.
As they walked deeper in, Mae's eyes danced from one corner to another. Some stands were built from rough, mismatched wood, displaying woven baskets filled with dried herbs, or—surprisingly—colorful fruits she hadn't seen before. Not in her previous lifeatleast.
Lora noticed her interest and pointed discreetly. "Those aren't from Elareth," she said. "That fruit's from Wisterland."
Mae furrowed her brow. "Isn't that the kingdom Elareth has… not-so-friendly relations with?"
"True," Lora said, lowering her voice slightly. "But smugglers still bring goods across the borders. People pay a lot for fruits from other lands. It's strange, isn't it? Even with war, people still crave sweetness."
Mae thought about that. Wisterland. Lora spoke of it too fondly.
"Do they really risk crossing the border just for this?" Mae asked.
Lora nodded. "Some do. Trade like this… it keeps towns like Tirak breathing. The smuggle theme and sell them to the nobles who can afford the luxury."
As they neared the port, the scent of the river grew stronger—freshwater and damp wood. A few rowboats bobbed lazily by the docks, tethered with thick rope. People carried crates, yelled prices, haggled in thick accents. It wasn't glamorous, but it worked.
Mae glanced around, her brows tightening. Not all parts of Tirak had charm.
Children ran barefoot through puddles, their clothes patched and thin. A woman sat by a post with a broken sandal and bruises on her arms.
"Do people really… live like this here?" she asked quietly. "In rags? Without shoes?"
Lora sighed, her steps slowing. "Yes. The wars hit harder than they admit. The nobles still throw banquets and games, but the rest—" she gestured around them, "this is what's left."
Mae looked away, her thoughts heavy.
It wasn't what she had expected—not at all. Her world back home may have been filled with deadlines and dull meetings, but here… this was real. Raw. And maybe for the first time, she was beginning to understand what kind of place she had landed in.
They stepped onto the wooden platform where the boats were tied, and Lora handed a few more coins to a man with a thick beard and weathered hands. He motioned for them to board.
As Mae stepped in, feeling the wobble of the wooden floor beneath her boots, she took one last glance at Tirak. "There is so much to this world."