The endless fields of berries were our escort as Witschblume faded into the distance.

All around us, sugary droplets as large as pears jingled against their vines. As a warm breeze carried its way across the dirt road, I caught snatches of every season and every colour. From summer redcurrants to winter yuleberries, if it grew, it existed. And if it existed, then it did so in Coppelia’s mouth.

“Om … om … om … om …”

Skipping merrily alongside Apple as he bore me, a certain clockwork doll was flicking berries high into the air with practised motion.

They hovered for a moment, their skins still wet with dew before falling into the waiting jaws of oblivion. And so the cycle of life was repeated. Berry. Air. Mouth. An unbroken rainbow of gluttony joined occasionally by Apple as he sampled the local produce.

Indeed … it was a picturesque calm to match my gentle and demure nature.

Yet not for a single moment could I delude myself into believing that the swaying berries were as sweet as the falling apples in my orchard. Not only because I refused to forage like a wild badger. But also because I refused to do it while there were witnesses.

“Haah … haaaah … haaaah …”

“Hurry … we’re almost there … hurry!”

“Don’t slow down! We’ve almost made it!”

As my hand reached out to inspect a dangling strawberry for research purposes, I snapped back and busied myself with toying with the ends of my hair instead.

I needn’t have bothered. The chorus of breathless women had no eyes for me. A few tossed baskets and bags of produce to the wayside, abandoning even the smallest weight to hurry themselves past.

Some, however, abandoned things that were slightly larger.

“Mother, I … ahh–”

Amidst the gaggle of women rushing past with desperation upon their faces and sweat trailing from their brows, a lone girl stumbled and fell, her grasp breaking free from her mother’s.

She looked up with dirt caking her shins and tears swelling her face. The mother stepped towards her, hesitated, then turned and ran, tears flying behind her as her child was left as abandoned as the strewn potatoes.

I immediately tugged Apple to a halt, then leaned down towards the child. Hope filled her eyes as she reached up to me. I offered a nod and a smile, then reached past her and fixed her collar before tugging Apple onwards again.

A scene of panicked fleeing.

Yet as I turned to glance behind my shoulder, I saw neither a burning village nor a baron sneezing wetly into a handkerchief. Witschblume Castle’s white walls still overlooked a town filled with revelry. And yet those who hurried past did so in an unending line, chased by invisible hounds.

I looked on in puzzlement.

“Coppelia?”

“Mhhm? Whaftsit?”

I duly waited a moment as Coppelia swallowed all she’d hoarded in her mouth like a woodland squirrel, then pointed towards the fleeing commoners.

“This is the sixth group of peasants attempting to escape Witschblume … by any chance, did you leave something behind?”

Coppelia opened up her pouch. As her hand delved into the very bottom, a sinister aura of twisting darkness almost threatened to escape as she scooped something up.

“Nope,” she said, closing her pouch with a bright smile.

I nodded, all the while setting my mind to work on ignoring what I’d just seen.

One of these days, I’d know what things Coppelia kept in her pouch. And that would be when I heard about it via a brief note that a corner of the world had just mysteriously vanished into the abyss.

“How strange. I see nothing which warrants such a desperate escape. Is this a practice drill?”

“Probably not. Too much effort. Not enough screaming. During our practice drills, you either calmly make your way to the designated escape point or stand still and scream loudly. Most choose to scream.”

“Is practising screaming beneficial for navigating a crisis?”

“Sure. Escaping is tiring work. You have to climb stuff, sweat and probably still kick the bucket. But if you just stand still and scream, someone’s bound to come rescue you.”

“That hardly seems fair. If everyone is screaming, how will the princesses be rescued first?”

“They don’t. The princesses always come last.”

I gasped, my hands covering my lips and the strawberry hidden in my mouth.

“Thasch ish abominable!” I swallowed in outrage. “Why would princesses, rare enough as they are, be ever considered last?”

Coppelia giggled, arms out as she pirouetted on the spot.

“Naturally, that’s when the escape will be the most impressive!”

“Wha … that is appalling! Princesses are not show horses leaping through flames!”

“I mean, it’s not always flames. Sometimes it’s heights. In fact, definitely try not to be in a tower when a calamity occurs. You’ll probably land in a hero’s arms, but nobody talks about how many broken bones that kind of last second rescue involves.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Nobody shall talk about any last second rescue. As humorous as it is to shatter the arms of any hoodlum who dares to think they can carry me, the only escape I intend to make is from Ouzelia.”

“That’s going to be a really long jump.”

I wrinkled my nose as I looked ahead.

“Not if I begin now.”

Coppelia only wore a look of amusement, doubtless already having seen what I did.

But just in case either of us failed to see it, there was no avoiding that all too familiar noise in the distance. One I sorely hoped I was mistaken about.

The commoners, true to their diligent training in the event a princess was not here to save them, were each in the midst of their finest scream.

As Apple approached, I heard it like a gathering din in the distance, greater than any thunder. Here was a rising squall like the sound of a thousand whistling kettles out of tune.

Because whether in my kingdom or this realm of oddballs, it was a given that just like my kindness, some things remained constant.

The wild cheering of maidens being one of them.

Indeed … I knew what to expect even before I saw them.

Soon, I tugged Apple to a halt as the path before me was obstructed by every damsel to have rushed past me. Young or old, all the women of Witschblume had gathered with the single-minded efficiency of a flock of lambs as they blocked passage to a narrow bridge across a river I needed to cross.

And the reason was obvious.

Why, it was the same reason any time a town filled with maidens ventured out en masse.

“Kywaaaaaaaaah~”

“He looked at me! Get me the wedding bouquet! Get the bouquet now!”

“Even his horse is majestic! I feel so lucky!”

Yes.

A knight in shining armour.

Sat upon a white destrier as polished as marble, a knight resplendent in silver and falling petals sat absorbing the attention of all his onlookers.

Eschewing the need for a helmet, he allowed only the shearing gleam of his smile, his white teeth and the golden locks of his hair to blind his opponents instead. Likely by causing them to remove their own eyes. The very picture of a knight, his cheeks so smooth even oil was coarser.

And here he was, his very presence a public nuisance.

Readying my rolling eyes, I tugged Apple’s reins and pushed him onwards. Or I did, until a chain link of several arms fenced themselves before us.

I pulled Apple to a stop, charitably deciding not to cause a diplomatic incident … yet.

“Where are you going?” asked a maiden in a breathless tone, her look of horror as morbid as my own.

I raised my arms in exasperation.

Why, the absolute state of Ouzelia! Here it wasn’t brigands which accosted me, but senseless maidens! A foe so dauntless even I was tempted to flee at once!

“Where am I going?” I pointed ahead. “I am going about my day, which is to pass that bridge.”

“You can’t.”

“Why can I not?”

“Sir Gardrin is there.”

I looked at the mounted knight.

Still as a statue, he joyfully monopolised the wooden bridge. And though he sent no acknowledgement to the shrieking maidens forming a semi-circle before the first steps, he was content to bask in their adoration all the same.

“Yes? Is he guarding this bridge? Does his lord own it?”

“No, this bridge belongs to WItschblume.”

“Excellent. A knight loitering on public infrastructure. Just the sort of thing I will ignore. Now if you’ll please excuse me–”

I waited. The maidens chained together more.

“You cannot approach Sir Gardrin.”

“I have no intention of approaching him. I would rather melt my face in a witch’s cauldron. Be that as it may, I must pass him nevertheless.”

“Nobody is allowed near Sir Gardrin. He is like a snowflower in bloom. To even pass him will see his petals torn and spoiled.”

I let out a groan. Of all the public faux pas I could commit, ignoring the whims of these maidens wasn’t one I could even enjoy.

“Rest assured, I’ll endeavour to pass by without so much as a glance towards his petals. Now, excuse me.”

I tugged Apple onwards.

Relenting against his snort as much as his stride, the gaggle of irate women begrudgingly made way. Soon, the din of discontent at my back was joined by the sound of hooves upon a wooden bridge.

And then–

“Hold, fair maiden. For what reason do you seek to cross the Witsching River?”

I finally rolled my eyes, then added a sigh for good measure. For knights blinded by their own sense of worth, a single cue wasn’t enough.

“I have an appointment with a mad prophet. I’m told he is nearby.”

“A mad prophet or the Mad Prophet?”

I looked at Coppelia.

“The Mad Prophet. We only go for premium advice. Important business.”

“Ah, in that case, I believe the Mad Prophet is just past the hill further beyond the road. He has a cottage. You can’t miss him.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I offered a curt nod, then nudged Apple to proceed.

He did. All the way until a knight upon a white horse steered himself before me. I tugged Apple to go around. He steered before me again. The only thing that could stop Apple. Another horse.

At last, I stopped rolling my eyes long enough to offer my least impressed expression instead.

“Excuse me,” I said politely. “But your horse is obstructing passage. Please move.”

“It would be my pleasure,” replied the knight without actually moving. “However, before I do so, I would ask what purpose you claim for wishing to visit the Mad Prophet. Not idly do the people of this land seek the wisdom of those who spin madness as their profession.”

“There is not a single blemishless pore on my skin which is idling, sir. Each moment I spend beneath this sky is a moment I fear for my sanctity.”

“Then it is just as well that I am here.” He offered a bow, coming far too close to me. “Sir Gardrin Pavont, Knight of the Cresting Sun, at your service.”

“Excellent. I accept your service and dismiss you at once. I’ve no need of a stableboy. Should I do, I will call upon you from a distance.”

The knight gave a hearty chuckle.

“I am more than a stableboy. Just as you are more than a fair maiden. I see a tale spun about you as clear as that simplest of rings you wear, of which so few are seen in this land of wonders. I would ask what an adventurer from afar has cause to be in the Fabled Realm of Ouzelia.”

“My business is not your concern, Sir …”

“Sir Gardrin Pavont, Knight of the–”

“Yes, that. Know only that I go as I please, and I’ve no need of a bard to sing flattery for me when a simple reflection can do.”

The knight looked bemused.

“I sing well and flatter better, but I am no bard.”

And then he lifted by an inch the sword from his sheath. The blade was wreathed in light like a shimmering kaleidoscope.

I raised an eyebrow.

My, wasn’t I fortunate?

Not just a knight.

But a hero.

Perhaps it was true what they said. They only arrived when they were needed.

A curious thing, then.

Because far from offering me directions to the nearest dragon, he was still very much blocking my way.