After that initial, unsettling interaction, all the way to their current destination, Blayden truly treated Leni like baggage.
There was no pretense of consideration or care.
He’d put her on his horse with a brisk, almost impersonal movement, ride for hours, and then, when it was time to dismount, he’d simply lift her by the waist and just drop her, a soft thud on the ground the only indication of her landing.
When she had to get back on the horse, the process was repeated in the same unceremonious manner.
He wouldn’t say a single word to her, his silence a wall of indifference, and he would completely ignore anything she asked or murmured, his gaze always fixed on the horizon or simply sweeping their surroundings.
It wasn’t so much that he was angry or annoyed; rather, he seemed to dismiss her as someone not even worth a response, her presence a mere logistical detail.
It was Lenz who, on occasion, broke through this stark indifference, offering a fleeting moment of human connection.
When the troop left Klaville and entered the vast, open plains, they stopped for a brief rest, the horses snorting and stamping their hooves in the cool air.
As Blayden dismounted and disappeared behind some convenient bushes, seeking a moment of privacy, Leni was left alone, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
It was then that Lenz, a solid and comforting presence, approached her with a quiet concern that pierced through her growing isolation.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“Yes.”
Leni’s eyes welled up at the unexpected kindness, a simple question that felt like a lifeline in a sea of neglect.
It was as if Lenz’s actions were a signal, a brief flicker of hope that she wasn’t entirely alone.
But the moment was fleeting.
When Blayden returned to the horse, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere, everyone, as if on cue, clamped their mouths shut and turned their backs on her again, resuming their silent, vigilant roles.
Her fate on this arduous journey truly rested on Blayden’s arbitrary whim, a precarious existence dependent on his unpredictable moods.
Now, in the bustling tavern, Lenz was sitting at the same table as Sharino, his usual calm demeanor evident as they waited for their order.
When Sharino said something, perhaps a joke or a comment on their surroundings, Lenz listened attentively, his posture straight and respectful, meeting Sharino’s eyes with a dignified gaze.
His composed and honorable presence shone calmly amidst the tavern’s raw, unrefined energy.
A brown-haired woman, one of the tavern’s serving staff, brought food to their table, her movements practiced and efficient.
She gave Lenz a syrupy smile, lingering a moment too long, her eyes filled with obvious admiration.
Lenz responded with a stiff but polite expression, a barely perceptible nod, and the woman, with a disappointed half-smile that spoke volumes, retreated back into the crowd.
While Sharino glared openly at the woman’s swaying hips, a hint of jealousy or annoyance in his eyes, Lenz simply tore at the meat with a dagger, his focus unwavering.
He methodically cut pieces of meat into suitable sizes and pushed them towards Sharino, demonstrating a quiet, almost domestic consideration for his comrade.
“Wow, they’re both knights, but so different. Sharino must be lucky,” Leni murmured to herself, a quiet observation that escaped her lips.
She straightened her slumped shoulders, a small effort to regain some dignity, and looked up.
Her eyes met Blayden’s across the table, and almost instantly, a harsh, dismissive remark flew her way.
“Eat, even if you’re not hungry.”
“Yes. A slave never knows when they’ll get food,” Leni replied, the bitterness in her voice barely concealed.
“If I had to marry a man like this, I’d rather live alone forever,” Leni grumbled to herself as she bit into a piece of the lamb meat.
It was surprisingly tender and moderately fatty, savory and satisfying.
Perhaps her life didn’t seem to be at its absolute worst yet, a small comfort.
“Just eat for now. You can’t do anything unless you’re alive.”
The pragmatic thought solidified her resolve.
Leni savored the rich juice and thoroughly chewed the meat, then reached for her ale glass, eager to wash it down.
However, Blayden was swifter.
He moved with unexpected speed, swiftly taking her glass before her fingers could even brush against it.
Leni scrunched her nose in annoyance and glared at Blayden, her eyes narrowed.
Blayden unfastened a worn leather waterskin from his waist, its surface supple from use, and held it out to her, his arm extended.
“You’ll drink this.”
His tone was definitive, leaving no room for argument.
He’s discriminating because I’m a slave.
The thought flared in Leni’s mind, a fresh wave of indignation.
She was about to retort, to verbally protest his blatant control, but then she caught herself, her mouth closing silently.
It seemed futile to resist, a pointless expenditure of energy against his unyielding will.
She silently took the waterskin, her fingers brushing against the cool leather.
She opened the lid of the waterskin, a small pop of displaced air, and put it to her mouth, and lukewarm, somewhat stale water flowed out.
“It’s better than being starved and abused,” Leni consoled herself about her grim situation, forcing down the liquid.
She gulped down the water, the familiar taste doing little to soothe her resentment.
As her thirst was quenched, her mind, surprisingly, started to clear, the physical discomfort giving way to a sharper mental focus.
“Why would Blayden Rehart take me to Shadow Land? He calls me baggage, an unnecessary burden, but he’s not foolish enough to add unnecessary burdens to his dangerous journey.”
The logic was undeniable.
Therefore, the true meaning of this bewildering journey was clear: Blayden Rehart needed Solenia, the hidden oracle.
“Why? How?”
The questions buzzed in her mind, demanding answers.
Leni drank a little more water, the cool liquid helping to sharpen her thoughts, to bring a crispness to her reasoning.
“I helped Princess Kiabel. I believed saving the princess would benefit the troupe, secure our future.”
Blayden had promised to free her father once they returned to Klaville, a promise that now seemed pivotal.
“That means my father’s freedom benefits him, but why? How?”
She couldn’t find the answers, the missing pieces of the puzzle, but Leni reached one solid conclusion, her father could only be saved if Blayden Rehart was safe, if he succeeded in whatever mysterious mission he was on.
Whether Blayden used his influence upon their return, or the prince made a decision based on her eventual report, her father would be freed.
So, it would be best to cooperate for a smooth journey, to ensure his success and her father’s liberty.
“Of course, I mustn’t let him discover that I’m the prince’s spy,” she reminded herself, the secret a vital shield.
“And I will absolutely not call him ‘master.’ I’m not a slave.”
This defiant inner vow brought a small measure of strength.
It was then that her complicated feelings, which had been in complete disarray since leaving Klaville, a tangled mess of fear, hope, and resentment, finally began to settle into a cohesive, if still anxious, strategy.
A conversation from the next table, carried on the tavern’s noisy currents, caught her ear, pulling her attention outwards.
“They say a famous troupe is staying at the White Crow. Should we go?”
It was the same group of wool merchants who had been talking about the candle shop earlier, their voices now a little louder with more ale.
“The White Crow?” one of them asked, intrigued.
“Yeah. It’s the inn you reach if you leave here and turn the corner of the footpath. They say it’s a troupe sponsored by King Tigrinus.”
Leni froze, her hand still holding the waterskin, her thoughts suddenly shifting, a desperate hope blossoming in her chest.
“What kind of performance are they doing?”
“They’re not performing. They went to Klaville to put on a play at the palace, but something happened, so they couldn’t, and now they’re traveling.”
“What’s the point of going if they’re not performing?”
“You can see pretty dancers,” the merchant chuckled suggestively.
“Is that so?”
The men’s laughter faded, becoming a low rumble, and in Leni’s mind, familiar faces floated before her eyes, vivid and dear. Uncle Thomas.
Aunt Nancy.
Peter.
Her family.
Were they all safe?
Were they truly at the White Crow?
“It’s the inn you reach if you leave here and turn the corner of the footpath.” \
Leni’s grip tightened on the waterskin, her knuckles white.
A desperate plan began to form.
***
Meanwhile, the bald man, Paishan, having successfully exited the noisy hall, headed towards the stables in the tavern’s backyard, his heavy footsteps echoing on the packed earth.
Passing the horses tethered and snorting softly in their stalls, their breath misting in the cool evening air, his thick lips twitched repeatedly, a sign of nervous anticipation.
“To use a woman for contact… Perhaps he’s found some peace of mind now that the war is over. He’s using a new tactic.”
He muttered to himself, a wry, knowing comment on Blayden’s methods.
Reaching a dark corner of the stable, away from any prying eyes, the man looked around, ensuring he was unobserved.
Then, with careful movements, he unfolded a small piece of paper he held in his hand.
The thin, long paper, tightly rolled up, was a message secretly passed to him when Blayden had briefly held and then abruptly released his wrist, a painful but effective method of communication.
“The wagon is passing through Narphen Forest.”
The message, written in dark blue ink, was concise and clear.
The man confirmed the words, his eyes scanning them quickly, then rolled up the paper, tucking it away.
After looking around one last time, his gaze sharp and experienced, he let out a sharp, almost bird-like whistle.
A moment later, a young woman with flowing black hair, her movements lithe and silent, entered the stable.
The several brightly colored bangles on her dark, sturdy wrist clattered against each other with her every step, a soft, rhythmic sound.
The man whispered something to the woman, his voice low and urgent, and handed her the rolled-up paper.
The woman, without a word, took one of the bangles from her wrist, snapped it in half with surprising force, and expertly pushed the paper inside the hollowed bangle, reassembling it seamlessly.
The woman, having securely reattached the bangle to her wrist, walked to a reddish-brown horse tethered in the corner of the stable.
With practiced hands, she untied its reins, her movements efficient.
A moment later, the woman rode the horse down the footpath, disappearing into the gathering dusk, heading west, towards Klaville Castle, the vital message held secretly upon her wrist.
After the woman had left, disappearing into the deepening twilight, the bald man, Paishan, who had been diligently keeping watch around the stable, abruptly pulled open the front door and walked back into the hall of the tavern, the loud sound momentarily silencing the room.
A few drunken patrons turned their heads at the noise, looked on with indifference, their minds too clouded by drink to care, and then quickly became busy raising their drinks to their mouths, resuming their revelry.
A red-faced, heavily bearded merchant, sitting at a large central table, his voice booming slightly, called out to the bald man, “Hey, Paishan! Another large mug of ale here!”
“Drink less,” Paishan grunted, a familiar retort.
“What’s wrong with you? I made a good fortune selling shoes during the war. You’d have to knock me flat to snatch my money pouch,” the shoe merchant boasted, thumping his chest.
Paishan let out a hearty laugh at the shoe merchant’s bluster and walked towards the kitchen, a casual air about him.
As he passed, Blayden and Leni, who were still dining at their dim corner table, caught his eye.
Blayden, raising his head, made eye contact with Paishan, pretending to look around the busy tavern, a subtle signal exchanged between them.
Paishan gave a subtle nod, acknowledging the unspoken message, and then, as if an afterthought, raised his stiff wrist to rub it, a silent protest at the earlier pain.
“Just deliver the goods. What about the organization’s work if you get hurt?”
Blayden ignored Paishan’s silent protest, his expression unwavering, and tore off a large piece of lamb, resuming his meal.
“You’ve always told me to make contact in the least ‘contact-like’ way, and now you’re acting sly. Your skills are really improving,”
Paishan thought to himself, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Paishan shifted his gaze to Leni across the table.
Her huddled shoulders and anxious glances at Blayden made her look even more like a squirrel, small and timid.
The leather waterskin she clutched in both hands almost looked like a large acorn, a fitting comparison.
“Ha! He’s showing off his strength because there’s a cute girl in front of him. I’ll get them a fancy room tonight. The contact is done; I should add some romance to their evening,”
Paishan mused, a mischievous glint in his eye, already plotting a more comfortable arrangement for the enigmatic warrior and his “baggage.”
By the time Leni and Blayden finished their meal, the last rays of sunlight had faded, and twilight had fully settled outside “The Paradise of the Nameless,” painting the sky in deep blues and purples.
Paishan, who came to clear the empty dishes, his movements heavy but efficient, handed Blayden a large copper key, its surface dulled with age.
“This is where you’ll be staying tonight,” he announced, his voice gruff but with a hint of satisfaction.
Blayden silently took the key, the metal cold in his palm, placed a silver coin on the table as payment, stood up, and motioned for Leni to follow him, his movement terse.
Blayden exited the still-bustling hall, leaving the noise and revelry behind, and entered a small brick building located directly behind the main tavern.
This two-story annex, as unsightly and dilapidated as the main tavern, was nestled against a gentle slope, its rough-hewn stones almost blending into the earth.
It looked more like a pile of rocks than a house, its crude construction evident.
As they entered the small, dark entrance where the door had fallen off its hinges, a strong, musty smell, damp and earthy, assaulted their noses, a stark reminder of the building’s age and neglect.
Blayden expertly navigated the dim corridor, his steps confident and precise, and ascended a creaking wooden staircase in the corner.
Blayden moved as if he had eyes all over his body, navigating the darkness with an uncanny ease, and Leni followed closely behind him, tracing the crumbling walls with her hand, relying on touch in the gloom.
Just as a shiver ran down her spine, a prickle of unease, feeling as though something sinister might leap out of the oppressive darkness at any moment, there was a loud creak.
It was the groan of the old stairs, protesting loudly under the unexpected weight of Blayden’s mass.
Judging by the consistent sound, Blayden ascended the stairs with a steady, consistent stride and a regular pace, his heavy boots making a clear, rhythmic thud.
Leni estimated there were about two steps between them and carefully matched his preceding footsteps, trying to emulate his silent ascent.
Creak.
Creak.
There were two people climbing, yet only the sound of one resonated in the enclosed space.
Blayden’s heavy, deliberate footsteps completely swallowed her lighter, more tentative ones, a silent absorption of her presence.
Leni remembered the night training her father had given her, his voice echoing in her memory.
“Everything is relative,” he had taught her, a fundamental principle of stealth.
Her leather shoes, bearing her weight, must have made a sound, a subtle scuff or whisper, but it was completely buried by the overwhelming noise of Blayden’s heavy boots.
“The important thing is footwork.”
The moment Leni’s lips curled up in a faint, knowing smile, recalling her father’s practical teaching, the sound of only her footsteps, a lone creak, suddenly disturbed the darkness, betraying her.
Creak!
The sound was sharp, distinct, and unmistakably hers.
Suddenly, a dark cloak swirled in front of her, a sudden, intimidating movement, and a strong hand cut through the darkness, unexpected and swift, wrapping firmly around her waist.
Leni gasped, a small, choked sound of surprise and alarm.
Blayden instantly closed the gap between them, his movements shockingly fast, lifting her effortlessly and holding her firmly in his arms.
His voice, low and laced with a hint of something unreadable, a blend of amusement and something darker, broke the silence.
“Am I entertaining you?”
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