The town bustled with activity as the sun hung high in the sky. Merchants peddled their wares, children played in the cobblestone streets, and townsfolk went about their daily routines. Lady Freya, her elegant gown and regal demeanor a stark contrast to the rustic surroundings, strolled through the marketplace with an air of grace.

It had been a few months since the attempt on her life, and Lady Freya had grown accustomed to the watchful eyes that followed her every move. Lord Stormwind, ever concerned for her safety, insisted that she should be accompanied by a man whenever she ventured into the marketplace. But Lady Freya, with a steely resolve that matched her elegant demeanor, "politely" reminded him that she was no ordinary Lady of Artur.

Lord Stormwind, though reluctant to concede, ultimately yielded to Lady Freya's insistence. After all, her prowess on the battlefield was well-known, and her determination was not to be underestimated.

As she perused a vendor's stall, a hushed murmur swept through the crowd. A group of rugged and weathered barbarians had entered the town, their presence commanding attention. Lady Freya recognized them as members of a rival tribe.

The barbarians, unaware of her true identity, passed by Lady Freya without a second glance. They were formidable in appearance, their weapons strapped to their backs, and their eyes scanning the town with arrogance.

Lady Freya knew this was her chance to uncover the truth about her father death, a truth that had eluded her for so long. She had learned the art of diplomacy and conversation during her training, and now she would put those skills to the test.

She watched as they made their way towards a nearby tavern, their laughter echoing through the streets. With determination in her heart, she followed after them, her steps purposeful and her mind racing with anticipation.

As she entered the tavern, Lady Freya took a moment to compose herself, her elegant demeanor a stark contrast to the rough surroundings. She approached the barbarians with a confident stride, her blue eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"Good day, gentlemen," she greeted them with a polite nod, her voice soft but steady. "I couldn't help but notice your arrival in town. It's not often we have visitors from the wilderness."

The barbarians turned to look at her, their expressions guarded but curious. One of them, a brawny man with a scar across his eye, grunted in acknowledgment. "And what business would a lady of your stature have with the likes of us?" he asked, his tone gruff.

Lady Freya smiled politely, though inwardly she bristled at his dismissive attitude. "I must confess, I am fascinated by the customs and traditions of your people," she replied, her words carefully chosen. "I have heard tales of the bravery and strength of the barbarian tribes, and I wished to learn more firsthand."

The barbarians exchanged wary glances, their suspicion evident in their eyes. But Lady Freya pressed on, determined to gain their trust and uncover the truth she sought.

"I am a Lady of Artur, as you can see," she continued, gesturing to her gown and the emblem of Artur that adorned it. "But I believe that knowledge and understanding can be found in the most unexpected places. Perhaps you would be willing to share some of your stories with me?"

The barbarians remained silent for a moment, weighing her words with careful consideration. Finally, the scar-faced man spoke up, his voice gruff but not unkind. "We are not ones for fancy words and polite conversation, lady," he said. "But if you truly seek to learn about our ways, then perhaps we can oblige."

Lady Freya nodded eagerly. She had gained their interest, and now she would do whatever it took to uncover the truth about her father's death.

And so, over tankards of ale and the warmth of the tavern fire, Lady Freya listened intently as the barbarians regaled her with tales of their homeland and their way of life. She asked questions and listened attentively, all the while searching for any hint or clue that might lead her closer to the truth.

As they talked, Lady Freya remained alert, her keen eyes scanning the group of barbarians. She searched for any subtle signs or vulnerabilities that might reveal which among them was the weakest link, the one most likely to yield valuable information.

Her gaze lingered on each of them in turn, assessing their demeanor, their body language, and the way they interacted with one another. She observed the scar-faced man, noting the way he held himself with an air of authority, his eyes sharp and calculating. Beside him sat a younger barbarian, his expression more open and his mannerisms less guarded. Lady Freya sensed an opportunity there, a chance to exploit his naivety and curiosity.

But it was the barbarian at the corner of the table who caught Lady Freya's attention the most. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his eyes weary but watchful. There was a sadness in his gaze, a heaviness that spoke of burdens carried and secrets kept.

Lady Freya knew that this was the one she needed to focus on, the one who held the key to unlocking the truth about her father's death. With a subtle nod to herself, she shifted her attention towards him, determined to gain his trust and uncover the answers she sought.

Before Lady Freya could talk to him, another member of the group arrived and took a seat at the table. Lady Freya's heart skipped a beat as she recognized him immediately—it was Ragnor, a fierce warrior whom she had encountered on the battlefield years ago. His presence sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of worry that he might recognize her.

Ragnor, with his imposing stature and steely gaze, cast a quick glance around the tavern before settling his gaze on Lady Freya. For a moment, their eyes met, and Lady Freya held her breath, praying that he wouldn't remember her from their previous encounter.

Deciding to be cautious, Lady Freya excused herself from the table under the guise of needing some fresh air. As she walked out of the tavern, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the pit of her stomach. She cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Ragnor and the other barbarians emerging from the tavern behind her, their expressions unreadable but their intentions clear.

Lady Freya quickened her pace, her heart pounding in her chest as she navigated the crowded streets. She knew that she was being followed, and she needed to find a way to shake off her pursuers before it was too late.

With a quick glance around her, Lady Freya spotted a narrow alleyway branching off from the main street. Without hesitation, she darted into the alley. Behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps, growing closer with each passing moment. Lady Freya's breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself to run faster, her muscles burning with exertion.

As she reached the end of the alley, Lady Freya emerged onto a deserted street, her chest heaving as she scanned her surroundings for any sign of her pursuers. Then she heard the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Lady Freya's heart raced as she turned to face the approaching footsteps. To her surprise, she saw a woman in a plain dress, her hands clutching a mop and a bucket. Her red hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her weary eyes held a hint of exhaustion.

Looking at the woman an idea began to form in Lady Freya's mind.

Lady Freya approached the woman with purposeful strides. "Excuse me, miss," she said. "I need your help."

Fearing that they had lost her, Ragnor and the other barbarians searched the street with growing frustration. The tension in the air was palpable as they scoured every corner and alley, their eyes scanning for any sign of Lady Freya.

Just as Ragnor began to feel a sense of defeat creeping in, his sharp gaze caught sight of something unexpected. Down the street, amidst the crowd, he spotted Lady Freya in her elegant gown.

The barbarians followed her down the street and into the alleyway. They were so focused on her that they barely noticed the woman mopping whom they walked past. Their eyes were fixed on Lady Freya's elegant figure.

As the last barbarian passed by, the woman struck him in the face with her mop, seized his sword, and ran it through him. The other barbarians turned in surprise as their companion's lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Ragnor looked at the woman and realized that it was Lady Freya in disguise. In that fleeting moment of realization, Lady Freya seized the opportunity and lunged forward. Ragnor barely had time to react as Lady Freya's blade met his with a resounding clash.

The other barbarians, caught off guard by the sudden attack, hesitated for a moment before rallying to their comrade's aid. They drew their weapons and advanced on Lady Freya.

But Lady Freya was undeterred. With a fierce determination burning in her eyes, she fought with all the skill and ferocity of a seasoned warrior. She parried their blows with precision and countered with swift, calculated strikes of her own.

The narrow confines of the alley echoed with the clash of steel and the grunts of exertion as Lady Freya battled against her foes. Despite being outnumbered, she held her own with unwavering resolve, her every movement a testament to her courage and skill.

As the fight raged on, Lady Freya's determination never wavered. With each opponent she defeated, she drew closer to uncovering the truth about her father's death and avenging his betrayal.

In the end, it was Lady Freya who emerged victorious, standing amidst the fallen barbarians with her sword held high. She was breathless and bruised, her borrowed dress torn and stained with blood, but her spirit remained unbroken.

All the barbarians had fallen except one—the weathered-faced man with sadness etched on his features. Lady Freya approached him cautiously, her sword held at the ready but not raised in aggression.

With a steady hand, Lady Freya pressed the tip of her blade against the man's chest, the cold steel barely grazing his tunic. She looked into his weary eyes, searching for any sign of recognition or remorse.

"What is your name?" she asked, her voice firm but tinged with a hint of curiosity.

The barbarian regarded her with a mixture of resignation and defiance, his gaze meeting hers without flinching. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before finally speaking, his voice rough and hoarse from years of hardship.

"I am called Kael," he replied, his tone subdued but unwavering.

"What do you know about my father’s death?" she pressed, her grip tightening on her sword.

Kael's eyes flickered with a mixture of emotions—regret, sorrow, perhaps even a hint of longing. He seemed to wrestle with his inner turmoil before finally speaking, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It was the warlocks," he admitted, his words heavy with the weight of truth. "They were able to enchant most chiefs and bribe others. But they knew they could do neither to your father. So, with Durak's aide, they killed him."

"What do the warlocks want with the tribes?" she demanded,

Kael hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground as if unable to meet Lady Freya's stare. There was a vulnerability in his demeanor, a crack in the façade of stoicism he had erected around himself.

"They want the tribes to attack the Disciples of Artur," he replied evasively, his words laden with unspoken regret.

Lady Freya's heart sank as she listened to Kael's confession, her mind reeling with disbelief.

"Go to the southern tribes," she commands. "Tell them what you told me, and that Freya daughter of Chief Draga wants to meet with them?"

Kael remained silent, his expression unreadable as he absorbed Lady Freya's words.

Lady Freya's voice was firm, her gaze unwavering as she stood before Kael, her sword still pointed at his chest. "If you do not deliver my message," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument, "I will hunt you down myself."

Kael's eyes widened in surprise at the intensity of Lady Freya's threat. He could see the determination etched in her features, a fierce resolve that brooked no defiance.

"You have my word, Freya," Kael replied, his voice tinged with resignation.

Lady Freya nodded, satisfied that Kael understood the gravity of the situation. She knew that time was of the essence, and she could ill afford to waste any more of it.

"Go," she said, lowering her sword and stepping back to give him space to move. With a nod of understanding, Kael turned and hurried away, disappearing into the shadows of the alleyway.

Sometime past as Lady Freya waited in the shadows, her torn and bloody dress a stark contrast to the elegant gown she had worn earlier. Her sword remained clutched tightly in her hand, her senses on high alert as she scanned the deserted alleyway for any sign of movement.

Then, finally, she heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. It was the woman wearing Lady Freya's gown.

Lady Freya stepped forward from the shadows, her expression softened with gratitude and concern. "I apologize for involving you in this, and for ruining your dress," she said, her voice filled with genuine regret.

The woman shook her head with a smile. "It is no matter, my lady," she replied, her voice filled with sincerity. "It was an honor to aide a Lady of Artur, and to play a part in your courageous pursuit."

With a faint smile, Lady Freya gestured towards the gown and the jewels that adorned it. "Please," she said, "keep the attire. You can sell the dress and jewels for a good price, and I want you to have something to show for your efforts."

The woman's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you sure, my lady?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

 With a nod, Lady Freya's resolve remained unwavering. "I'm sure," she replied. "But before you sell it, wear it around town for a bit."

 "I'm afraid I wouldn't do well pretending to be a lady," the woman admitted, sincerity coloring her voice.

 Lady Freya began to walk away, turning back briefly. "Trust me," she said. "If I can, anyone can."