The silence that followed my declaration fell like a headsman's blade. But I remained standing before the noble gathering like some primitive curiosity, the barbarian who dared speak his mind in their lifeless yard. I didn’t care.

  Their stares weighed upon me with judgment, and I felt them all. The nobles' contempt, Ragna's confusion, Borric's uncertainty.

  It was Isolde's eyes only that I refused to meet, though I felt her desperate gaze burning into the side of my neck. The hurt radiating from her was intense, pressing against my skin like the oppressive heat before a storm.

  “You’ve made a good choice,” Marius barely held back his smirk.

  He clapped his hands twice, and the sharp sound cut the tension. A servant materialized at his side, presenting a heavy leather pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of gold. The Marquis took it, lips curving into a smile that never touched his cold eyes.

  "For services rendered," he announced, his voice full of practiced dismissal.

  Then he tossed the pouch with contempt, not to my hand but at my feet. The gesture spoke volumes. This was how one paid a dog. This was how nobility disposed of inconveniences.

  The pouch was going to hit the marble with a dull thud, gold coins spilling onto the polished stone like drops of frozen sunlight.

  A hush fell over the courtyard as the pouch flew. Not the silence of shock, but the amused and expectant quiet of audience members watching a well-rehearsed play. They anticipated my part. The grateful savage, scrambling for his reward.

  Instead, my hand caught the pouch mid-air before it touched the ground, my reflexes moving faster than thought. My eyes didn’t move from Marius. The smooth leather felt cold against my palm, heavier than it should be.

  "How kind," I said, my voice carrying just enough edge to slice through his pomposity.

  I did not pocket the gold. Instead, I untied the pouch, dumping its contents into my open palm. One by one, I began transferring the coins to my other hand, the pieces making a distinct clink as metal met metal. My movements were intentionally slow, turning what should have been a swift dismissal into an excruciating wait.

  The nobles began to shift uncomfortably. Whispers rippled through their ranks.

  "No sense of decorum..."

  "Savage nature reveals itself..."

  "A barbarian counts his pay, of course..."

  I ignored them all, continuing my methodical count. This wasn't about the money. This was about a show. Marius wanted a swift, humiliating dismissal. But I was forcing everyone in this courtyard to wait on my time.

  Time stretched like pulled taffy. It felt like an eternity under the weight of noble gazes. I could see Marius's jaw tightening, the only visible crack in his perfect fa?ade. When the final coin clicked against its brothers, I looked up, meeting his gaze directly.

  A faint, unreadable smile tugged at my lips.

  "It's good payment," I said, my voice carrying across the sudden stillness. "It's more than worth a little princess' life. Generous even."

  The word "generous" carried just enough irony to be an insult. But the real barb lay in my choice of words – a little princess, not a queen.

  For the first time since my declaration, I allowed my eyes to meet Isolde's.

  This much wasn't worth a Queen's life. What is your uncle trying to state?

  Her eyes trembled with confusion, hurt, and something else – a dawning realization. Behind the pain, I could see the gears turning in that brilliant mind of hers. Good. She needed to think, not just feel.

  If she were truly to be Queen, she had to understand the language of power that men like Marius spoke. If she were to be Queen, she had to save herself. Only a Princess waited to be rescued by her knight.

  Marius stepped forward, eager to finalize this expulsion now that I'd taken his coin. "That is great to hear. I will have a servant bring your belongings to the gate," he said, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. "It is best you do not re-enter the manor. We wouldn't want any more priceless family heirlooms... or fountains... to meet an unfortunate end."

  The public jab at Ragna was clear.

  Isolde finally scowled at her uncle and opened her mouth, clearly about to protest this final insult. Before she could utter a word, I spoke over her, my voice shockingly agreeable.

  "You're right." I nodded at Marius, a gesture of concession that threw everyone off balance. "That is wise." I turned, as if to leave, before pausing. "However, before we depart the city, I have one request."

  Marius's eyes narrowed slightly, wary of this unexpected turn. "And what may that be, young barbarian?"

  I adopted the persona of the simple, earnest barbarian.

  Straightening my shoulders, I thumped my chest once – a gesture that would seem primitive to these nobles, but carried the weight of a Valtherian oath. I wasn’t born a Valtherian in the conventional sense, but I embodied one right now. My blood boiled.

  "We Valtherians left our islands for a pilgrimage," I said, voicing the weight of ancient tradition. "We seek glory, to make our names worthy of the stories sung by our elders, and our descendants," I paused, letting my gaze sweep across the assembled nobility. "Your city, Marquis, is plagued by a dark cult you said. The Black Concord."

  A murmur rippled through the crowd at the name. Fear, recognition, discomfort. Some who didn’t know that news looked confused, and the Marquis frowned at me, revealing this openly.

  "They are an enemy of the Divine Cult," I continued, then dropped my voice as if sharing a secret. "And my tribe is affiliated with the Divine Cult. The enemy of my friend is my enemy."

  My words were a subtle hint of greater powers at play. The Divine Cult was a name that carried weight even in these lands, centuries after its prime activity. The whispers grew louder.

  "Our honor as warriors will not allow us to leave while such a shadow lingers. We wish to remain in Veridian, if outside your castle walls, to hunt these dark mages before we continue our journey."

  The trap was sprung.

  Checkmate.

  I hadn't asked to stay in the manor. I had publicly offered to fight a known enemy of the city, framing it as a sacred duty. Marius was caught in a web of his own making. The nobles and guards were watching. To refuse the aid of strong warriors against a dangerous cult would make him look weak, foolish, or worse – like he had something to hide.

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  He could not force us to leave the city without appearing to be protecting the very evil he claimed to fight. The mask of the benevolent protector had become a cage.

  After a long, tense silence, Marius's lips thinned into a tight line. The mask of the gracious lord slipped back into place, but his eyes remained chips of ice.

  "Of course," he said, his voice smooth but strained. "Veridian would be honored to accept the aid of such... zealous warriors. You may do as you wish..." His voice dropped slightly, carrying an unmistakable threat. "So long as you do not disturb the peace of my city."

  The final line was a threat, a last grasp for control.

  But I had already won. I had secured my place in Veridian, not as a guest, but as an independent power. Now I just had to follow the next steps of my plan.

  I gave a simple nod, then turned to Ragna and Borric, finally allowing myself to meet Isolde's shocked, uncomprehending gaze for a single, cold moment before turning my back on her and walking toward the gate.

  "Just like that?" Ragna whispered harshly as she fell in step beside me. "You're leaving her with that creepy uncle?"

  I kept my voice low, my eyes fixed ahead. "Sometimes strength means knowing when to retreat."

  "This isn't retreat! This is running away," she hissed. “We should just bash his head and be done with it.”

  "No, Ragna. That’s not how things work. He’s a 6th Ascension fighter, and he has two 5th Ascension Knights protecting him. As well as this entire city. Mind games don’t mean running away." I slowed my pace slightly, ensuring only she could hear me. "This is war. And I am soldier."

  Borric's expression was far more measured as he joined us, his merchant's mind already piecing together my strategy. "You're staying in the city... right where she can find you when she needs to," he murmured. "Well played."

  Among other things.

  I also meant it when I promised to hunt the Black Concord. Ragna needed to reach 4th Ascension, and I must cross 5th. Be it for Marius or the inevitable battle in Solstara.

  I paused at the gate one last time, turning back to face the assembled nobility one last time.

  "Glory to the blood of Valteria," I called out, my voice carrying the ancient blessing of my tribe. "And to all true Supreme Rulers who understand the price of their crown."

  I passed through the gate without another word, the sound of my footsteps echoing against stone. Behind us, the court erupted in a flurry of whispers.

  "What kind of barbarian turns down the hospitality of a Marquis?"

  "Did you hear what he said about the Divine Cult?"

  "The Princess looks devastated..."

  ****

  The Twisted Thistle Inn couldn't have been more different from Marius's pristine manor. Instead of marble and gold, its walls were rough-hewn timber darkened by decades of hearth smoke. Honestly I loved this more.

  The floorboards creaked with honest age, and the air smelled of ale, roasted meat, and the accumulated stories of countless travelers who'd passed through before us. It smelled real.

  I'd secured us three separate rooms, though from the look on Ragna's face as she followed me upstairs, she wanted to confront me first. Behind us, the innkeeper barked orders at his staff, the clatter of the evening meal preparation providing a backdrop of normalcy I hadn't realized I'd missed.

  "Your belongings are already in your rooms," I told them as we reached the landing.

  Ragna grumbled. "Whatever, I’m gonna talk with you about something. Alone." Her eyes flicked to Borric, holding an intensity that brooked no argument.

  Borric glanced between us, reading the room. "Of course. I'll... familiarize myself with the establishment's amenities." A diplomatic retreat if I'd ever heard one.

  Once inside my room, Ragna slumped on the edge of the rough straw mattress, her club laid across her knees. Her fingers traced the familiar contours of the weapon, following paths worn smooth by years of use. The silence stretched between us, uncharacteristic for her, and somehow more concerning than any explosion of temper.

  “I thought you said you wanted to talk?” I asked.

  "What was that?" she finally asked, her voice quiet but direct as a hunter's arrow. "What's your plan? You left her there with him."

  I leaned against the wall, watching her closely. "Hmm? I thought you were mad at her."

  Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "Of course not! She didn't mean it like that, we both know. It hurt, yeah, but..." She struggled for words, her hand gripping her club tighter. "If bad feelings happen, isn't it better to talk it out? That's what mother told me once. One of few things she ever advised me."

  The lamp on the bedside table cast her face in gold and shadow, revealing vulnerabilities she rarely showed. A pang of tenderness caught me off guard.

  "Are you okay?" I asked quietly.

  She scoffed, shoulders squaring defensively. "I'm fine. Words don't break bones."

  "No," I agreed, moving to sit beside her. "But they can break trust. I know what that meant to you."

  The mattress dipped under our combined weight, forcing us closer. The scent of her, wild and honest, like pine and thunderstorms, cut through the musty inn smell.

  "In these courts," I explained when she didn’t reply, "shame is a weapon, wielded more precisely than any sword. What happened today wasn't about a broken fountain or a shattered blade. It was about power. About who controls the story that gets told."

  She listened intently, her brows drawn together in concentration. "I don't understand this fight. Back home, you challenge a man, you beat him, it's over. This..." Her hand clenched and unclenched. "This feels like fighting shadows."

  "That's exactly what it is, sweet girl," I said. "A different kind of hunt. These nobles don't meet you face to face like a worthy opponent. They circle, they set traps, they poison the watering hole. Humans pretend not to be savages by playing dirty."

  "And Isolde? We just abandon her to the poison?"

  [Level 42]

  My status flickered at the edge of my vision, reminding me of the greater game we played. We needed more power. Much more.

  "You can't break a cage from the inside, Ragna. Sometimes you have to let the person in the cage realize they're trapped first." I turned to face her fully, my voice dropping lower. "Today, you were the only one who fought with honor. The only one who was true. Next time, it might be Isolde beside you. Your savage honor is a weapon they don't understand."

  Her eyes searched mine, finding whatever truth she needed. Her hand reached up slowly. Without warning, she grabbed the side of my head, pulling me toward her with barbarian directness.

  "You understand," she whispered, and then her lips were on mine.

  The kiss wasn't gentle. Nothing about Ragna was gentle. She kissed like she fought, with her whole being, holding nothing back. Her lips were surprisingly soft against mine, but demanding, tasting faintly of metal and wild herbs.

  I had no reason to resist. She tasted delicious. My hands found her waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath rough fabric. She growled approval, deepening the kiss, fingers threading through my hair with surprising gentleness that contrasted with the fierce pressure of her mouth. Heat bloomed between us, her body arching into mine with warrior's confidence.

  My hands slid up her sides, tracing the impressive curves hidden beneath her simple clothes, finding the places where battle-hardened muscle gave way to softer flesh.

  “Mmhm…” she shuddered against me, her breathing ragged as she broke the kiss only to trail her lips along my jaw, teeth grazing my neck in a way that sent fire racing through my veins.

  "Ragna," I managed, my voice rough as I gently caught her wrists, pulling back enough to rest my forehead against hers. I was holding myself as much as I was holding her. "We can't. Not yet. Not while we're still in the lion's den. We need to stay sharp."

  Her eyes burned into mine, wild and wanting, but there was understanding there too. "Because we hunt the real monsters now? The Black Concord."

  "Yes." I couldn't help but brush my thumb across her lower lip, still swollen from our kiss. "We'll need every advantage. Every bit of focus."

  A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. "Then we get stronger. Much stronger." She rose from the bed, stretching like a lioness preparing to hunt. "When do we start?"

  I matched her smile with one of equal danger. "Tonight. I hadn’t been quiet these past two days, there’s a reason why Borric and I didn’t join your training this morning. We’ve been gathering information. There are reports of cult activity in the eastern quarter. Tonight, we’ll see what Black Concord mages are made of."

  "Blood and bone, like everything else," she replied, hefting her club. "Just waiting to be broken."

  “Yes.”

  She fell quiet, staring at me. Then she grumbled. “Anyways, fine!! We won’t cross the line, I promise. B-but I need more of that!” she said suddenly, kissing me once again as we rolled on the bed for the next half an hour.

  It was then that I realized that this barbaric body might be affecting me too much. I, who was praying to leave the island to see the civilized world, found this cheap inn to be much more comfortable than a castle. The constraints of court, of politics, of waiting were not Thorvyn Valteria.

  Tonight, we were free to hunt once again.

  Free to become what barbarians do best. Destroyers of monsters and makers of legends.

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