As for dinner...

“Awe they pewhaps twying to poison me? Be honest.” My voice echoed faintly into the quiet night, my frustration barely masked.

Several meters away, the real campsite was set up—a bustling little world of light compared to the sad cloth I sat on, cross-legged, staring out at the endless, colorless horizon. The large bonfire at the center of their camp made it look like a city of light. Around it, the knights and maids were clearly enjoying themselves, filling the air with booming laughter and lively chatter.

To my far left, Fars—the toothless knight—hummed an obnoxiously loud tune, as if to remind me that someone was always watching. If I squinted hard enough to my right, I could make out Truman’s shadow standing guard beside a large boulder, quite a distance away. His stance made him look like a tree without a crown.

“Alice,” I called, rolling my eyes as I spotted her head poking out from behind a boulder a few steps ahead.

She straightened up, slightly startled, her shoulder-length hair falling into place as she stepped into view. “You knew I was here,” she stated, sounding somewhat surprised.

“Yes. I’m not blind,” I replied dryly. I had seen her hiding while Fars escorted me here.

I gave Alice a long look, waiting for some explanation for her unnecessary presence. But she merely dusted her black dress and kept her gaze away, her pale pink eyes betraying her lack of desire to even talk to me.

“I asked you a question,” I repeated, turning my attention to my ‘dinner’—a half-cooked lizard on a stick.

“It is edible and carries no toxins, my lady. I made sure of it,” she nodded, her tone flat.

“I saw the maids plucking tthickens earlier…” I mumbled, turning the stick in my hand as I scrunched up my nose at the sight of the crimson creature’s bloated belly. “Can’t you, like…” I leaned in, lowering my voice, “steal some tthicken for me? I’ve been thinking about it all nuun…”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Lady Penelope. The commander’s orders are absolute.”

She didn’t even hesitate. What an a—wait, Blert?

“Blewt? Vat does he have to do with this?”

“Sir Blert spoke passionately to the cook about how you reminded him of a snake... And so the cook had the bright idea to prepare you... Well, a dinner fit for a snake."

I shot Alice a disgusted look, my eyebrows knitting together. 

“I… Two gwown men," I began, but words failed me. “You can go.” I waved a dismissive hand at her.

She nodded and turned away.

“Why awe you here?” I remembered to ask, tossing the lizard aside.

Alice turned to face me, her expression as monotone as ever. “Orders.”

Right, orders.

I nodded shallowly, watching her hop back behind her rock.

I turned to Truman, who still stood like a stiff sentry in the night.

His posture was rigid, but I noticed how his head occasionally bobbed as if he were daydreaming.

“Twuman,” I pronounced. His name felt unusual on my tongue.

“Yes!?” The knight turned to me suddenly, all the way from where he stood.

My eyes widened. How did he hear me whisper from all the way over there?!

“Lady Penelope,” Truman closed the distance between us, blinking as though he’d just woken from a pleasant nap. “You called for me?”

I stood up from the grass, meeting his golden gaze with an uneasy grin.

“Uh…” My eyes drifted to the glass dagger strapped to his waist, and I pursed my lips. “Yes… I cawed you because of, uh…”

Might as well put my plan into action already. Here’s to hoping I won’t get murdered or something.

“I wequire a favor,” I whispered, my hand brushing against the bandages that wrapped my neck. The injury throbbed, a constant reminder of the danger I'm in.

Truman’s gaze was steady, his face showing little emotion, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“I’ve heard that—”

GROWL.

I froze.

GROWWWWL.

Truman blinked, then let out a chuckle, scratching his forehead.

I clenched my fists, forcing a smile. “Well… it seemth my body is betwaying me.” My voice came out tight, almost strained. Totally because of my jaw...

“I know,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, “Me too.”

I held myself back not to ask what he meant.

“Be that as it may, Sir Truman," Such big woman words.

Disregarding the pain, I pulled my speech pattern together. I needed to play the respectable noblewoman. Very much so.

"My need for your assistance is... quite urgent.” I watched him carefully, noting the almost indifferent set of his features under the moonlight—relaxed, perhaps even a bit bored.

The guy had the air of someone who never quite paid attention to anything serious.

“I was hoping you might… procure something edible from the camp’s kitchen,” I said, letting a touch of exasperation seep into my voice. “The lizard they served earlier… There." I pointed to the stick on the ground. "It won’t do.”

Truman tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in thought, though it seemed more like a purposeful delay than genuine consideration.

“… I could do that, I suppose,” he said slowly, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. Then, with a sudden, unnatural brightness, he added, “For a small fee, of course.”

I feigned shock, letting my gaze drop to the ground.

“Is it truly chivalrous to charge a prisoner for a morsel of food, Sir?” I asked, my voice tinged with subtle, uncontrolled mockery.

He seemed to think on it for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Well, you are a noblewoman,” he finally said, though his tone wavered with uncertainty, as if he were reassuring himself. 

“A noblewoman without means,” I countered.

"Then I am not sure I-"

“But my father." I interrupted casually. "He is a man of great wealth and influence. He would surely reward the man who showed kindness to his daughter in her time of need.”

In both of our dreams. That man would write a gold mine in Blert's name if only he knew.

Truman's eyes gleamed at the mention of wealth. He crossed his arms over his chest, considering this new angle.

“And what would this great man of wealth think if I were to offer assistance… at a price?” He insisted, making me want to roll my eyes.

I leaned in conspiratorially.

“It is universally known, Sir, that Marquis Ashdown values loyalty above all else. A favor to his daughter could secure you a friend in high places—perhaps even a handsome reward.”

Truman shifted his weight, clearly tempted, but he hesitated. He looked up, as though searching the skies for an answer.

“No gold on you now?” Truman asked, his tonne chillingly suggestive and his golden eyes coldly searching mine.

A chill coursed through my spine at the realization that Truman must possess very developed hearing capabilities, to have heard my whisper from all that way earlier.

The jewels adorning my body felt suffocating as I broke into a cold sweat, thinking he might have heard them clanking at some point.

“No,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze with pointed insistence. “But my father—”

“You said that already,” he interrupted, though not unkindly. He was more like a child trying to piece together a puzzle. 

I sighed inwardly.

"And you might be the kind knight in question, Sir Truman. Imagine your name spoken with gratitude in the halls of my father… such a gesture could be most rewarding. Any kindness you extend to me will be repaid, sooner or later, either by myself or by the Marquis himself."

At the mention of the Marquis, a flicker of excitement crossed his face but quickly vanished. His suspicions seemed to dissolve.

“Well…” he began, but his words trailed off as he noticed Fars approaching from behind him, several meters away.

I hadn't even seen him coming yet.

“I suppose I could be of service,” he finally said.

“What are you doing, Truman?” Fars’s voice was as unpleasant as his aura—rusty, grating, and altogether uninviting. “Why are you talking to this wench?”

“She… uh…” Truman looked at me, his eyes pleading for assistance, as though the simple task of lying was beyond him.

“There was a large spider,” I offered smoothly, a new realization unlocked. “Sir Truman was kind enough to help me dispatch it.”

Truman nodded, his expression blank but agreeable.

It was becoming clear that Truman lacked quick thinking, that or he was a terrible liar and knew so.

“Is that so?” Fars said, giving me a mocking look before sharply turning to Truman.

"Yes, Sir."

"Yes, Sir." Fars repeated, mocking. “Years among us, and you still can’t string together a proper sentence. Back to your post, Truman." He shooed the man with his hand and his eyes flicked to the boulder where Alice sat hidden, a sly grin creeping across his face.

Truman remained unfazed, his hands resting lightly on his belt as he gave Fars a respectful nod and left.

“Were you mocking Sir Truman's accent?” I asked, only now realizing that Truman's speech did sound ever so slightly different from the rest of these dogs.

“Accent?” Fars barked a laugh. “Ya deaf, woman? Even someone who doesn’t speak the language could hear that obnoxious drawl of his.” He clicked his tongue, eyes going back to looking at the boulder.

Clearing his throat, Fars straightened his collar. “Sit down. If you see something that frightens you, call for me. That foreigner is useless in a real crisis,” he declared loudly, though his words seemed more for Alice’s benefit than mine.

I complied. Fars, meanwhile, sauntered over to Alice’s rock, his greasy grin widening as he adjusted his collar yet again.

Truman felt just the tiniest bit proud of himself as he discreetly marched towards the prisoners' quarters—well, the tent, really. 

The campsite was a modest affair, something Commander Blert was never too keen on admitting. 

With scattered canvas tents, a few flickering oil lamps casting a warm glow over the otherwise dim surroundings, and the occasional sound of a guard shifting in his sleep.

The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp ground and grass mixed with the lingering smoke from earlier cooking fires.

But there was another scent, one that stood out against the backdrop of the campsite—the unmistakable lavender fragrance that only a noblewoman like Lady Penelope could maintain, no matter where she slept or how unkempt her hair had become. Truman followed the scent to a black tent, guarded—if you could call it that—by two knights cozied up on either side of the entrance, deeply asleep, their snores merging with the night’s sounds.

In his palms, Truman held his treasure: Two chickens.

Each one was meticulously wrapped in a dozen pieces of cloth—just to be safe. Truman figured that if anyone happened to interrupt his secret mission, he could always claim they were rocks. Not the most convincing cover story, but he hadn't exactly been caught yet, so there was no need to worry.

"Thankfully," he murmured to himself as he circled around to the back of the tent.

Once there, he could make out two shadows inside, cast by the glow of an oil lamp that the ever-practical maid, Alice, seemed to carry with her everywhere at night.

"My lady," Truman whispered, just loud enough to make the two shadows flinch.

Silence followed, with one shadow still and lying down, seemingly trying to sleep, while the other hovered over something—a piece of parchment, perhaps?

“You were awake!?” The one with the parchment hissed at her companion, hastily shoving the parchment into her chest as if it were the most natural hiding spot in the world.

Truman swiftly looked away, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Must I announce my state of consciousness at all times, my lady?" The emotionlessness of Alice's character was lsurprising given her agressjve tone. If you so wish—though it may be a challenge—I shall endeavor to declare it from now on,” Lady Alice's voice dripped with dry humor.

“... Smawtass” Penelope simply mumbled, stepping closer to the tent wall where Truman stood, her shadow looming larger.

Truman's senses were sharp, to an excrutiating degree.

And so he could hear it; the clattering, ever so faint, of jewels on Lady Penelope's body. He knew about it from the moment they met.

At first, he thought she might have stolen them from other maids. But asking around the caravan proved his suspicions wrong.

Her response earlier meant she did not want to share. And as desperate for gold as he was, Truman was no thief. He would earn that gold (or whatever it was), and not the other way around. That was his plan.

“I’ve brought it,” Truman whispered, holding up the bundled chickens as if they were the crown jewels.

“Ekthellent,” Penelope’s voice barely contained a childlike glee.

It was a stark contrast to the dry, cold demeanor she maintained around the campsite. Though Truman was not typically observant of such subtleties, the knights had drilled it into his ears during their gossip sessions.

Truman smiled, feeling a warm swell of pride at having completed his task.

But then a small hiccup of realization hit him.

“Wait, how do I get 'em in?” Penelope’s question mirrored his thoughts.

~

The lad's breath came in ragged gasps, each strained with the weight of his unspoken feelings.

The wind played with his hair, and his large green eyes scanned the horizon.

He saw her. Distant and ethereal.

She was clad in a flowing dress of deep violet, the fabric billowed gracefully in the breeze, its rich color a striking contrast against the verdant fields.

The scent of lavender seemed to follow her, wrapping around him in a comforting embrace.

Driven by an overwhelming yearning, he quickened his pace. Two powerful steps, and he was upon her, pulling her into his arms with a fervent longing. 

In those precious moments, he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, letting the familiar scent fill his senses. But as he clung to her, she slowly turned to face him.

His heart froze at the sight. Her eyes were hollow, void of the warmth and life he remembered. Only tears stained her precious face.

"You..." Her voice softly brushed against his ear. "Killed me."

Thus, Penelope turned into dust in Trevor's embrace.

The world around him fractured, the vibrant fields dissolving into a nightmarish blur.

Trevor woke with a jolt, his chest heaving as if he had been fighting for breath. His surroundings were now those of his opulent bedroom, yet the comfort of the luxury did nothing to soothe his racing heart. 

He looked down at his hand, where the ring—symbol of his eternal, unspoken love—glinted mockingly.

Trevor’s dark circles and gaunt features were a testament to his unrest.

"I..." He heaved.

Trevor, only son to Count Vielle, had made up his mind.

"I will save her."