I quietly smirked, sitting cross-legged and picking at the greasy remnants of my prize, my chicken. The cramped tent held just enough room for the two of us, illuminated by the flicker of a low-burning oil lamp. The rich scent of smoke and faint traces of damp earth lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of oil.

"Gueth the commander's orders aren't tho absolute, huh, Alith?" I muttered, biting into the juicy, tender piece of meat.

No response came from Alice.

She was lying still on her deep green coverlet, hands folded over her stomach like a corpse. Her clothes for the next day sat folded just above her head, perfectly aligned. No wrinkle in sight. Funerary neatness.

My gaze drifted to the shoes beside me, new and absurdly clean. A grin tugged at my lips.

“Wife is goot...” I whispered, and felt a warm flutter in my chest.

"Is it?" Alice’s voice cut through the quiet, flat, as if reading off a ledger. "You are a prisoner of the empire. Nothing better than a slave. Despised by the kingdom for something as petty as slapping a woman. Your parents condemned you to rot. Your fiancé has likely dissolved your engagement..." She trailed off, thinking of more things to list.

And I'll be dead in days, I nearly added.

My hands lowered as I contemplated absorbing the negativity of her words... I grimaced.

I am eating a whole chicken for myself, I am loaded with gold, I have a second chance to correct that incident... This isn't half bad, really.

"I know," I chewed, dropping a bone to the ground beside the chicken’s picked-over carcass. "That doesn't stop me from appweciating this woment."

Alice opened her mouth to speak, then let it fall shut. She shook her head, passing careful palms over her blanket and straightening it.

The tent's light flickered with the dancing of the flames in the lamp.

"Alice," I called, feeling courageous enough to ask. "... What appens to you if I were to die?"

Alice was quiet for a moment, though she didn't flinch.

Given the fact that she wasn't in the main story, not even as a background character, I had no way of knowing what kind of fate she and her caravan suffered. 

Did they survive the attack? Was the death in the book really caused by a monster attack? Or was the article a disguise to cover Blert's murder of Penelope when Melissa's oath came loose?

"In the case in which you were to disappear, whatever way that may happen, I would be disposed of. For my existence would then be deemed meaningless."

I frowned. "And why is that?"

Alice turned her head to meet my gaze.

"A lady-in-waiting's soul is bound to her lady's. My duty is to share your pains and joys, to think of your life more than my own, and to put your best interests at value every moment that I live. If you die, I share your pain through death. If we are separated, I would be executed for not accomplishing my duties.”

I blinked, somewhat impressed by her ability to explain something so grotesque with such composure. Her jaw clenched a little, and she turned away.

"And... if you were to run away?" I asked.

"It would cost me a life of luxury I was not born into," She said, sarcasm barely laced onto the words. "And I would be cursed by Korpa. A lightning strike is not uncommon as punishment in such cases. That or a korpian worshiper coming for my throat at night. They have a talent for finding Record breakers."

The Korpian Records of Yilderen... what a book.

A truly impressive piece of scripture that decrees most of the rules the people of this kingdom follow.

It's also the source of holy powers, which fuels the clergy, who then use it to heal people and perform other holy tasks.

Breaking the rules of the Korpian faith meant death in the eyes of Korpa, which entailed one of two things. Getting hunted the fuck down by a devout korpian worshipper. That, or less scary, a heavenly punishment that would find you, no matter how hidden or powerful you are. 

"... Wait, Alith is a commoner?" The words slipped from my hold.

Aren't ladies-in-waiting supposed to be of lower noble positions?

Alice blinked, this time looking slightly offended.

"Yes. Have you forgotten?" She asked, her disbelief morphing into suspicion. Then, something darker flickered in her eyes.

I gave a sheepish smile. "Of course not..." I muttered, chuckling. "I jest..." It hurt to smile.

For some reason, I forgot there was a class system in this world that actually named people as poor and not poor.

The book itself was too busy describing Estelle's waist-to-hip ratio to focus on the war that nearly ended the world, the class system instilled, etc...

So, even as I can unfortunately recite most passages in it, I have but a faint idea of what the backdrop of the story really was. 

Yilderen, the Kingdom of the Lasting, was where it took place. 

Power belonged to the king, but only on paper. In practice, he answered to one thing: the Korpian faith and the leaders who upheld it.

When the kingdom faced peril—something about dragons, curses, deities, and other typical world exposition stuff—it was the Korpians, inspired by Korpa himself, who found a worthy champion to defeat the impending evil and establish new rule. Their call to glory was answered by the Braveheart bloodline. 

They defeated evil, saved the world, and got handed the throne. 

So now they're royal, and the Korpians basically rule on equal footing, but act as advisors in the eyes of the public.

All I know is that Magic people are bad, except rich and hot ones.

Temple people are also bad, but most people are religious because it's compulsory, so no one actually cares.

Also, the king is a wuss who remained neutral too long, letting a war break out between the mages and the korpians in like a bit from now.

The war was the most horrible thing the book referenced. Though the hopelessness of it was only relevant to highlight how grand a feat Estelle Pureheart managed to pull off by stopping it in the end.

I can't wait to witness our heroine single-handedly stop a full-fledged war using the power of love and a speech about her mixed heritage..

I clicked my tongue, a smile tugging at my lips at the memories.

The sound of Alice's breathing filled the tent, making me realize she had fallen asleep while I was lost in thought.

Good. Time to get my ducks in a row.

I wiped the mess I made from eating, grabbed my hair, which had tried to get eaten at multiple takes earlier, into a bun using some excess fabric lying around. 

I don't have the qualifications to be a waist-length hair haver. Not right now. I can't wait to cut it. 

I took one last glance at her to make sure Alice wasn't paying attention, then I took out the two parchment pieces hidden in my corset. 

A stolen map. And a list of supplies, written in blood ink I stole because I couldn't ask for it.

I couldn't bring myself to ask Alice. She was, just like everyone else, not a safe bet.

After toying with the map and cutting off the pieces I didn't need, painting the 'journey path' I wanted for later, I folded both papers back into the corset.

A soft breeze tickled the tent’s outer walls while I waited. 

For sleep. For the commander to arrive. For morning. 

I stared at my left ring finger, noting the pale line where a ring once sat—a mark of Penelope Ashdown’s past. 

Her big love.

Trevor Vielle…

A shuffling noise resonated behind me, outside. I stiffened, my breath catching as I saw the silhouette crouched by the tent’s thin canvas wall.

"Quietly leave your tent," it hissed.

My eyes flicked nervously to Alice, still asleep. "I'm shackled," I whispered back, looking at the iron shackle clasped tightly around my ankle.

"... Alright, no matter. I shall cast the spell from here. Proximity suffices."

The low, rasping voice belonged to Commander Blert. 

He'd promised me this spell, a binding magic that would allow him to know my location at all times. Why it had to be done in the dead of night remained a mystery.

"Fowgive my curiosity, but why can't you do this in daylight, Sir?" I couldn't help but ask, on my knees facing his shadow on the canvas.

"You would do well not to question my choices, girl," he grumbled, voice cold and clipped. "Place your hands upon the tent wall. Close your eyes, and be quiet."

I hesitated, waiting a moment as I contemplated whether this was as good an idea as I thought it this morning.

Blert tapped the tent, making it shake. "Now!" He hissed.

I bit my tongue, begrudgingly complying.

Think positively. He means well, to free me of my shackles. This means I will be a little freer than today. I should trust him if only a grain's amount.

My hands pressed against his, separated by the tent's slippery canvas. 

A shiver raced up my spine when he spoke a language foreign to me, the words rough and repetitive.

And then, suddenly, "Swear." He demanded, his voice strained.

"Swear? On what?"

"Just fucking say it," his teeth were gritted. I could hear him shifting repeatedly, checking for any soul that could be witnessing this.

I grinned. I sensed in his trembling touch the pain he felt waiting, likely from the pain of casting the spell. So I also waited. A moment, two, three.

"What do I do? On whom do I swear?" I asked, tone just innocent enough to pain me as daft rather than sadistic.

His breath hitched. "F- Just say I swear! You...!"

I huffed, blinking innocently as though he could see it.

"I swear," I finally said.

The relief must have been instant, as his hands nearly slipped away from mine once the word was uttered. He took several heavy breaths, mumbling something under his breath.

“O Korpa..." His voice was even as he chanted, breaths forcefully controlled. "Hearst thou mine. Chain this soul to mine charge, 'til mind final breath be taketh, and mine soul resteth in the land of the perished. Curse her steps with mine shadow and shroud her with mine will, ‘til doom and flame swallow thee soul.”

I nodded, "Amen."

Blert took his hands off the tent's canvas. "What?"

I cleared my throat. "Is it done?"

"Aye. You shall feel it soon," The amusement in his voice was laughable.

"I feew nothing," I mumbled, detaching my hands from his and analyzing the skin and nails' condition—a little dirty and dehydrated, but okay.

Maybe the ritual failed and my luck struck for once...

"No one shall know of this ritual except your lady-in-waiting. Unless it is death you wish for. To every other, you've been spared from the cursed shackling by the merciful commander. Myself."

"Sure," I relaxed my shoulders. "Thankth," I remembered to add, watching Blert's silhouette disappear off the canvas.

Slowly but surely, a strange, long shiver seeped into every inch of my skin. The initial effect was a pleasant warmth, filling my comfort-deprived body with relief. 

But the heat increased with every breath I took.

I stifled my breath, hoping it would stop.

But no, the pleasant warmth slowly morphed into a fiery ache coursing through my blood, making me release my breath with a snap, leaning forward as a lump of liquid traveled up my throat.

Everything I ate was externalized, and before I could catch my breath, a cacophony of sounds resonated in my mind—words I couldn’t grasp.

All except one. It cut through the noise like a dagger: Outsider.

The tent, already too tight for two people, suddenly couldn’t hold a single breath of mine. 

My lips moved, yet no sound came out. The words looped in my mind like a chant I couldn’t silence. Your soul must perish. You do not belong. Outsider. Outsider. Outsider.

I curled onto myself, hugging my belly as the air thickened.

“There, there…” A soft voice broke through the haze, a cool hand steadying me. “You’re not going to die from Blert’s localizing spell. The magic is seeping into your body. That is all,” Alice said, though it took a moment for her words to make sense.

Even as her disturbingly calm tone pulled me back, I couldn’t stop trembling. The thought wouldn’t leave me. 

What if that fucker meant to kill me under the guise of helping?

My lips clenched, nails digging into the flesh of my skin.

“The pain will subside shortly,” Alice said calmly, her fingers firm on my shoulder.

My lips parted, and this time the words escaped before I could stop them, my voice barely audible. 

“I’m going to kill him.”

A cloaked figure trudged across the mud, the soft squelch of his boots drowned beneath the vastness of the starry night. Caesar’s gaze shifted upward occasionally, scanning the heavens with idle curiosity. 

The lands he crossed had once been a joy to traverse, but under the cold blanket of night, the world below him faded into obscurity, leaving the sky as the only point of interest.

If I don't soon relieve her of those insufferably arched eyebrows... The thought came from frustration, but once he imagined Robin with no eyebrows, a faint, amused grin spread across his face.

Caesar's mind decided that walking was nice. He had grown to like it, even after continuous days of it.

He could use Anchor to get back. But this was a nice opportunity to think.

His rest time had dwindled to a pathetic degree as of late.

As he continued his wandering, Caesar lifted his cap, letting the cool night air play with his hair, the breeze tousling it in messy waves. Black, silk like hair, short and perfectly groomed.

The man began to hum a soft melody, drifting into the stillness of the night, so casually beautiful that it seemed to hold a secret. A memory. 

The dull ache in his legs was but a fleeting annoyance; his muscles regenerating with every breath.

He scanned the horizon, his black eyes noting the blind darkness around him, with only distant shadows breaking the emptiness. 

“Release,” he muttered, his dark eyes sparkling in curiosity.

When he blinked again, his vision instantly expanded. 

The world snapped into sharper focus, each detail vivid and distinct. The distant trees, the swaying grasses, even the tiniest insects crawling along the earth.

No longer black, but instead a shade reminiscent of molten golden, shimmering brighter than the star-painted sky above him. He pierced through the darkness with a single glance. 

To his left, he saw it. 

Deep within the forest, across the meadow, a pitiful soul. A whimper arose from the creature.

There, small and trembling, hidden in the shadows, was a furry little thing. With eyes darker and nearly more bewitching than his own. So much so that even Caesar, for a brief moment, found himself caught in their pull. 

Inspecting it further, from a couple of yards' distance away, he took in its fluffy, faded grey fur. An adorable, fluffy tail. A fox's typical features. And... Delicate wings, so bright and grand that they shimmering in the moonlight.

He knew. And he smiled—eyes lifting, dimples deepening, too much joy for someone like him.

A Miracle. Winged. With a tale to tell.

His gaze settled on the injured creature, regal even in its distress.

It wasn't in his nature to divulge from his route. But this creature had chosen him. And so he stepped towards it, the pleasant reminder that a single feather from that young creature was worth enough Keps to feed a hunger-stricken village alive in his mind.