Their dedicated plodding bore no fruit for several hours.

Covenhaven was in Julian District, well over a day’s march away from Gavleni, and they had already risen from their single mandatory camp. But the final stretch of the journey seemed to only lengthen as time went on, as every landmark seemed to be further and further apart. The village was not near their cabin, but it was not far either, and they should have arrived by now. But Lunar knew why they were taking so long, as she, again, offered Michael a reprieve from the sack of weapons he carried, and was once again turned down even as he lowered the bag and breathed his exhaustion.

“Michael,” she declared, and his weary gaze lifted to her as she faced him with her hands on her hips. “I appreciate you doing your best here, but you’re tired. You can’t keep pouring from an empty cup!”

“It’s not empty,” he protested, heaving a breath as he balefully stared at the bag. “Not yet, at least. And it’s just a little further. What’s the harm?”

“The harm is that I doubt you can keep your raksteel forever,” she scolded him. “I might not know much about magic, but even I know that you’ll run out of energy soon. And I don’t think carrying all of our stuff, and you, will be a winning combination. I can take the bag from here.”

“It’s my job!” he protested, a light of defiance in his gaze, though she would not back down. She saw his body, how it slumped and gave in upon itself in its exhaustion, how his feet dragged when he walked, how his shoulders sagged, and his vision stuck to the ground. “This is my part of the journey!”

“We share our duties, Michael,” she decided, picking up the bag and throwing it over her shoulder, wincing as she felt the weight of the weapons. The four longswords were heavy, as were most steel weapons, but she did not let that deter her. He had hauled these for multiple days. She could handle a couple of hours. “You need a break. I can take care of this bag of heavy sticks.”

She saw him breathe a heavy sigh of relief, his eyes filled with a gratitude she knew he could rarely express. But he didn’t need to say anything for her to know he appreciated the gesture, his smile speaking for him as he hauled himself to his feet. Their break was cut short, but they could manage without one for the rest of the walk. Covenhaven couldn’t have been far, and she steeled herself for the rest of the walk as she hauled the swords along.

To her surprise, as some time went on, the baggage, again, did not weigh her down. While she was quickly tiring, just as she did the raxten, she did not find the bag growing weightier, and she took a moment to consider the phenomenon. She was not a large woman or weighty in muscle or heft. But she, with some internal strength, was able to continue the walk, even if time crawled. And she found the energy to talk to Michael in the process, brushing off his teasing as he pointed out she was making good time despite having such small legs. While she was a foot shorter than he, she was determined not to allow this to slow her down, as she hauled the bag and took her short legs on a fierce march along the path.

“You have to work twice as hard,” he teased. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take the bag?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she grumbled, glaring at him. He might have meant well, but it would be a lie if she said that she wasn’t tempted to grab a sword from the bag and smack him with the pommel. “I made my bed, so I’m going to lay in it. Or, in this case, I grabbed the bag, so I’m going to walk with it. Besides. You’re the precious royal guard who needs to keep his special self safe from harm!”

“That’s a lot of talk from a princess,” he laughed, and she rolled his eyes with a good-natured grin as she arched a brow.

“This princess has legs and arms that work!” she declared confidently, defiantly shaking the bag. “I might not have much ruling experience, but I have limbs! And I’m going to use them!”

As their banter went on, Lunar felt a weight, unrelated to the swords, slowly lifting from her. There was the dull throb of pain, but Amelia would have never wanted either of them to complain or gripe or grieve for days over her. She would have wanted them to fight their way out from this mayhem. And it was as if the spirit of the cheerful brunette filled the air as they walked. It was the first leg of the journey, so there was, of course, energy. But Amelia’s go-lucky attitude would carry on for as long as Lunar could manage. There was a Kingdom at stake here.

But the pair came across a bastion of the Kingdom as they walked, the largely unpaved paths leading to the village of Covenhaven. The path was a bad enough indication of its status, the undergrowth crawling across the earth and preventing easy movement, but the walls only solidified its worn state. And it confirmed Lunar’s worst fears for what a village on the outer edges of a fief would look like, drawing no income for the baron or the earl and acting only as a stronghold for those near the Forgotten Forest. And here, she saw the slack of the Kingdom at work.

The palisade that protected the village — far too small to be declared a town — was a collection of rotting planks hastily nailed against several logs of gavlik timber. Gavlik, easily the weakest timber of the Kingdom and quick to rot and die, was the only wood this area could afford. Upturned dirt shrouded the bases of the poorly sharpened pillars, clumsily thrown about the base of the wall and occasionally littered with the roots of uprooted trees. Even as she watched, one of the logs threatened to split beneath the weight of a passing guard, who was in a no better state than the wall.

There was no place to put a proper allure. Only a few watchtowers were visible from through the cracks in the barricade, and the guards stood upon them. Weak, bloodstained leather armour, stitched together with cord and barely fitting the soldiers who wore them, was worn alongside makeshift weapons. Big, weighty clubs, long poles with blunt, curved blades hammered into the shafts, and clumsy hammers summarised the armament of the soldiers. The village could rely on one or two stone spears for any real defence, their wielders dressed in thin chains of iron as they feverishly clutched their weapons.

The village’s survival was solely due to luck and its undesirable state. It wouldn’t even take a large group of bandits to tear the settlement down.

It only got worse as they entered through the gates, which were left ajar throughout the day. There were pitifully few houses, a few dozen at best, with only a handful of the significant amenities most villages required. There was no soup kitchen, no public housing, and no marketplace. There was a tavern, a blacksmith, and stables, alongside a few residences, with a couple of patrols of poorly armed men, emblazoned with the national emblazon of a village Watch, guarding the streets. Gundar, or even untreated yarik hides, shrouded the men that walked through the village, though she could count on one hand how many soldiers guarded the town.

The headman was no better. It was natural that the best armed of the village would guard the headsman’s home, but it took her some time to find the building amongst the rest. The symbol of Covenhaven was branded across the entrance of a building only a floor taller than the rest, guarded by a young man with frail chainmail and a battered old sword. The only steel she had seen so far, clearly repaired many times by the state of the handle. And when she gazed upon the blacksmith, she could see the man was old, and, while experienced, was in no state to continue his work. He was frail, thin, and malnourished. The weapons and armour he produced were of poor quality, even considering his haggard state, but it wasn’t as if his tools permitted any better.

“No wonder we were told there would be good prices for weapons here. There’s none!” Michael whispered fiercely, and Lunar nodded ruefully.

“I doubt we’ll get a good price. I don’t think they could afford one of these swords at full price. What has Earl Ferrel done to this place?”

“Left it to die,” Michael said grimly, and Lunar shook her head as she gave the town a frank appraisal. But she was surprised by what she saw on her second pass.

The atmosphere of the village was not the gloomy, dreary, fearful space one could expect of such a place. There were no hushed mutters, no angry grumbles, or tired complaints. The village had a generally warm atmosphere, almost as if none of them noticed the danger they were in. The people greeted one another with merry cheer and great delight, welcoming their neighbours to conversations and enthusiastically conversing. The few travellers’ stalls within the town were home to the largest groups, who spoke and traded with smiles and laughs. When a baby’s shrill cry filled the air, there was a surge of movement from the village folk to encourage and assure, or otherwise assist, the exhausted mother, and Lunar couldn’t help but smile at what she saw.

They were doing the best with what they had, she realised. That was why they were still standing. They didn’t let their predicament hold them back. The guards, who must have been well aware of their less-than-ideal state, were also jovial in their interactions with the locals, and she smiled. Even as she turned a critical stare at the vendors, where the prices were rather steep for the quality of the product, it was only to be expected.

She didn’t notice Michael moving away until the jingle of weapons alerted her to his retreating figure. He was making haste for the crumbling stone blacksmith, and she hurried to follow him as the frail, old man from before greeted him with a cheery smile. A craggy gray beard protruded from the tip of his pointed chin, a few last strands of white hair desperately clinging to an otherwise bald head. Every bone was visible, his apron oversized and dragging against the ground as he hunched to wave at the knight. But he was smiling widely, lean muscle still stuck to his bones, allowing him to wield his clumsy hammer with great resolve. He was barely a head taller than Lunar, though she surmised that his hunch was to blame for his diminutive stature.

He was energetic, she realised, as she approached and heard his enthusiastic and passionate responses to Michael’s questions. A delight that only a master craftsman could uphold over such time, and one that she found herself sharing as he enthusiastically spoke of the weapons Michael displayed. A thick accent burred his tone, but his words were easy enough to distinguish, and Lunar smiled as she recognised a Shadic lilt in his voice.

“Yes, yes, it is good!” he was exclaiming, examining the weapons with a great smile. His voice was faint but, like the rest of him, filled with life as he unsheathed one. “Very good! How much for all of the swords?”

Lunar hurried to respond as she saw Michael consider a price, interjecting with a lowballed figure.

“Three javen,” she assured the blacksmith, who turned with an unmistakable tone of surprise.

“Only three? That is not much!” he exclaimed. “But javen, too, is not much! Why not gold? These are good swords.”

But Lunar knew better than to take the chance for a more significant sum. He was in no place to afford anything more, and she could see that he was already struggling as it was. Once he sold the swords for a rightful price, he could begin repairing and reconstructing his shop, but it would take time for them to sell. And while she could have demanded gold, and he still would have turned a profit, she doubted he had the funds to survive that waiting period. She wondered if he would even have enough to purchase such an expensive collection. So she shook her head.

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“We have more than enough,” she assured him. “You work hard, and I know these will go to good use.”

The blacksmith hesitated, but she could see the glee taking his gaze. These would, for any blacksmith, take at least a day to create, and for an older man such as himself, it would take even longer. He was not in the fit state that most smiths had to be to force metal into desirable shapes. This would not only save him time but offer other opportunities, and he smiled widely as he reached into his purse and withdrew the money. He was careless, and Lunar caught a glance into the sack, breathing a quick, near-silent sigh of relief as she saw its contents. There were only a few pieces of javen, dozens of silver pieces, and a vast collection of balen and bronze. He had nowhere near enough for the typical gold piece per weapon, and she slid the weapons across the counter before accepting the brilliant crimson medallions.

He practically danced away as Lunar and Michael made for the tavern, and Lunar couldn’t hide her smile as the blacksmith snatched his wares for display around his forge. The childish zeal lit in his gaze was visible from far away, and she breathed a sigh of thanks that she had not requested more. However, Michael seemed annoyed, and she gave him a questioning look.

“What’s up?” she asked, and he grimaced.

“We need money for the journey, Lunar,” he said. “I don’t think three javen will do us any good.”

“Did you see the state of his shop, or even him?” she demanded, arching a brow as confusion crossed his gaze. “Four gold would leave him starving until he could sell them, which could take cycles or years given how poor this town is.”

“We need money for the journey!” he repeatedly stubbornly. “How are we going to buy horses, food, and rooms on our way to get a bunch of rebels, and how are we supposed to pay them when we do?”

“If the only loyalty anyone has to us is through coins, we’re toast,” she snapped. “If anyone worthwhile joins us, it’ll be for the cause and to rally behind the earl, not for a profit. I don’t think a mage, a dragon, or an entire craybegotten nation care about gold.”

“Language!” he growled, and she shrugged idly. Crays may have been simple, carnivorous scavaging fowl, but they were a useful curse in times like this.

“Gratsinmornian,” she scoffed, meeting his gaze frankly. “Doesn’t change my point. He needs it more than we do. You should know better than just thinking about the money, Michael.”

“Well,” he began, a note of challenge in his voice. “Why didn’t you just give them to him for free?”

“He would’ve never taken them,” she replied. “He’s Shadic. He doesn’t take handouts, and he doesn’t accept gifts. He will always look to do his due diligence, so at least we can help make a fair trade for him.”

“That-” Michael began before he cut himself off. He glanced back before nodding reluctantly. “I guess so. He had passion, at least. Could barely understand what he said, but I could tell he was passionate.”

“He was pretty understandable to me, at least,” she remarked. “But then again, I had to hear a bunch of Shadic ambassadors try to communicate through broken Gratsinmornian in the royal court.”

“Probably,” Michael agreed before he entered the tavern. He stooped beneath the battered and beaten frame, and the beaten door cried a protest as its hinges were forced to move. But it opened nonetheless, while Lunar read the name aloud as she followed the knight.

“The Coven Haven,” she murmured. “Clever.”

Michael rolled his eyes, though he immediately regretted the decision as a loud crunch rang through the tavern, cutting through the chatter of patrons as he drove his head into a low-hanging beam. He cursed, stumbling away from the errant piece he had so rudely struck in his ignorance. The strong stench of ale cut across the rich aroma of food, though he only smelt disdain from the blonde woman as she snickered her way into the building.

The tavern was the centrepiece of any village. Locals would flock from all corners of a fief to find a decent room and meal for the night, and it was rare to find one that was unsatisfactory. Each had their own unique specialty, and the Coven Haven was no different. The fifteen or so tables that littered the room were occupied by ravenous patrons, and over half the seats at the bar were taken. A respectable showing for such a quaint population.

Platters of food emerged from the kitchen, accompanied by respectably sized kegs of ale brought to the thirsty or starving patrons. Cheers erupted from the tables as their meals arrived, and the renewed scent of delicious grilled meat filled the air. She couldn’t hide her smile as she saw the taverngoers dig into their meals and felt her stomach rumble with great passion at the sight. The mood in the tavern was one of great cheer, and to solidify the warm environment, there was pleasant music flowing through the room.

Her eyes lit upon its source, whose bright green invik cloak swathed his relatively diminutive figure as he masterfully played his fiddle. The melody of the minstrel’s song was enchanting and rich, and his instrument was fine and sharp in sound, with a great depth to every note. His bow effortlessly glided across the strings, the foreign notes of his music unique yet in perfect synchrony with the atmosphere of the tavern. Even as she fell, mesmerised by the tune of his song, she noted that others did the same, and she was entranced until he finally ceased the music.

Thunderous clapping greeted his swift bow, the occupants surging forward to lay various coins in his hat. The greenish glint of balen shone beside its lesser bronze, and even a silver coin or two were dropped before him. As Lunar stood up to offer her own tip, deciding the music was well worth the price, she noted one of the serving boys rushing over to offer the man a bowl of rich stew, which the minstrel accepted gratefully. The musician offered her the same thankful smile as she dropped a pair of silver coins into the hat, nodding her thanks for the music as she made her way back to Michael, who was speaking with the barkeep. But she frowned at what she saw.

The knight was haggling for a room and a meal, but the redheaded innkeeper did not seem pleased with him. And from his tone of disapproval, Lunar understood why. He was disdainful of the fine attire of the knight, the well-kept clothing indicative of higher status and greater wealth, and the well-crafted weapon at his hip marked him as a soldier.

Soldiers, Lunar realised, were probably not welcome in this town. Without anyone to stand against them or to deny their will, they could do as they pleased. The single guard outside of the headman’s house was not quite a deterrent for any of the Kingdom’s wealthier knights.

“Hello!” she exclaimed, and the innkeeper’s irritated brown eyes flicked over to her. He paused, his hand moving away from something beneath the counter that she could almost guarantee was a weapon, and she met him with a winning smile. “I’m with the gentleman here. Can we please get a room and a meal for a night?”

Michael watched as the barkeep froze, and he could see the cogs turning in his mind. The knight shook his head in utter disbelief at his friend’s swift repair of an ugly situation. Lunar was much friendlier than he, and it helped that she was not an unattractive person. She was sweet, gentle, and could certainly beguile when she wished, drawing clumsy and flustered responses when needed. But he wondered if she even knew of this subtle ability.

“Certainly,” the barkeep decided after a moment, having found his tongue. “Four silver for the night?”

Michael’s brow arched as Lunar lifted her shoulders with a winning smile, faintly tilting her head and fixing him with an honest stare.

“S’long as there’s a couple of bowls of rayum stew, sounds like a deal!” she exclaimed, and the barkeep hurried to agree as she renewed her cheery smile as he offered her a key.

“Room four, just off to the side,” he murmured, gesturing to a surprisingly solid door to his left, and she offered him a smile before finding a seat near the minstrel, gesturing for Michael to follow suit. The barkeep made a quick scratch in a thick leather-bound book before turning and shouting their order to the kitchen as she sat in the corner with Michael. But the moment they were out of earshot, Michael offered a hushed complaint.

“Why rayum? It barely comes off the wool and skin of the animal’s hide!” he grumbled. “It’s tough and chewy!”

Lunar arched a brow.

“You should know why by now, Michael,” she warned him. “They use gavlik timber. The smith, despite a demand for good weapons, can’t make anything other than stone weapons and leather armour. Most of the houses are rotting, and the town is cheerful but poor. They can’t afford basic supplies, and I doubt they have much. And even if we pay for it, wouldn’t it be a little suspicious for a knight to randomly be wandering around with a random woman, both of whom happen to be well off, when we’ve just learned that my sister fled the capital? It’ll be a dead giveaway.”

Michael’s grumbling died away as he accepted her words, and his frustrated breath broke through the gentle melody of the minstrel.

“How long’s gavlik last, anyways?” he wondered, and Lunar hid a smile as Michael changed the subject. But she humoured him.

“Four years at best,” she replied. “They replanted some smaller to extend their lives, but that’ll only buy them a year. It’s not a good resource.”

“I just didn’t like how the barkeep talked to me,” Michael mumbled, ignoring Lunar’s answer as he glared at the table. “Treated me like scum.”

“People like us probably are scum to him,” she reminded him gently, resting a hand on his arm. “Thavin forbid they recognise me. They won’t, but people like you and I are what put them here.”

She sighed, shaking her head as she leaned back in her seat.

“Just makes me glad we’re going to try and do something about it,” she murmured. “Hopefully it works out.”

Michael’s response was cut short by the appearance of another serving boy, who presented them with two large bowls of steaming rayum stew. The rich contents, large hunks of delicious meat, sat within a rich broth of vegetables, were served alongside a large platter of bread and a crock of pickles and butter. He paused, staring into the bowl before taking an experimental bite, and his eyes widened at the taste. The meat was tender, juicy, and a delicious contrast to what he was used to from the meat. Rayum were practically larger, stronger, and more capable sheep with thicker wool and muscle, but the tavern’s cooks had rendered the meat so tender that it fell from the bone. The broth was richly seasoned, each spoonful exploding with luscious flavours, and the pair swiftly dug into their meal, finishing it in moments.

Michael could barely withhold a belch as he leant back, while Lunar hummed along to the melody of the minstrel’s song as her head swam with delight. It was natural for a pleasant mood to follow a pleasant meal, and it made life manageable for some time. A hot, delicious meal wouldn’t solve the world forever, nor would it make everything right, but it made it all a little easier for a while. And she was content with that solution as she basked in the music and fire with a bloated tummy.

“What was that about rayum, again?” she managed to tease, and Michael glanced away.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, and Lunar snickered as she let her stomach digest the food.

It was a few minutes of idle small talk before they could stagger out of their seats, grip their packs, and make a beeline for their assigned room. Lunar strode to the door and unlatched it, marching in and waddling to the comfort of the homey area. It was a lovely little nook with an open shutter to give them a view of the town square just above a pair of large beds. Rayum coverings shrouded mattresses, likely made of straw, and Lunar fell upon one as she gazed around the room. The paint was slowly eroding and chipping away from the walls, and the roof’s timbers were dusty, but there were no signs of rot or corrosion. A roaring fire lit the room in flickers of red and orange, warming the little space and confined to their stone prison, upon which a vase of green flowers was set. A chimney set free the fumes of burning logs, and Lunar smiled as she laid her pack aside the bed before her eyes lit upon a privy.

She leapt up, wandering into the adjacent room and shutting the door as she looked around at the amenities offered. Three buckets of clean water were laid beside a basin with a drain that likely led the residue outside, and her eyes lit with amusement as she saw a small bar of sticky magenta material. Ilini, she realised.

“Good news! They have ilini! We’ll be clean!” she exclaimed, poking her head out the door.

“La-dee-dah. Gavlik and lavender, whoopty doo!” he remarked dryly, and she scoffed before preparing to wash. The same properties that made gavlik a useless wood made it a perfect wash, as the rough surface proved perfect for scrubbing away the wear of her travel as she stripped, grabbed a bucket, and began to wash herself down.

And while he waited for his turn, Michael glanced out the window and toward the dying activity of the town square. Night was falling upon the Kingdom, the village residents stumbling to their homes in an exhausted, or drunken, stupor as guards took their posts. The gates were shut, and while the gavlik palisade was not the sturdiest affair, it was at least peace of mind to those who lived within it. And its diminutive stature had an advantage, Michael noted, as he glanced beyond it to the sunset behind. The falling sun lit the navy sky in a fiery red, blue and orange glow as if a fire blazed across an ocean’s dull surface. A few clouds littered the sky, painting a canvas of a world aflame. Yet there was a beauty to the raging blaze, and he smiled as he gazed upon his homeland. As Lunar eventually emerged from the privy, he closed the shutter and turned to wash, stretching as he made his way over.

He never noticed a piece of the night flicking across the town.