Part 2, the Impending Storm



 @FloatingAroundSpace


Warren took a shaky breath and forced his hand to uncurl from the hilt of his sword. One finger, then the other, he slowly let go of the weapon that he wished ended up in the other rider. He’d have thrown the sword like a javelin if there was no other option. These horrible thoughts clouded his mind and Warren stared at the door now not in anger, but in shock. Shock at what his mind was capable of imagining when driven by rage.


The rage was justified, though not allowed. He was a guard, sworn to protect the Passi homestead, and he’d be expected to come to aid to any dragon rider. How could he even consider cutting down someone who wore dragon rider’s armour and flew a mighty beast in the skies?


Hardeep’s voice snapped the guard from shock. A small nod was given to his master as Warren mouthed, “Yes.”


It was not in his power to stop Mus’ad. That man, albeit drunk, held more power than Warren could ever dream of having. Even if he stood guard at the door, he did not doubt his presence would not stop Mus’ad from barging into the cabin as he had done so earlier.


Warren forced himself to push the thoughts of the drunken rider from his mind and he cast his eyes down only to look up again, wincing in disgust. Mus’ad had marked their floors with his alcohol reeking spit.


Everyone appeared to have calmed down, or on the path to it. Anger still buzzed through Warren’s veins, though less now and he could lift both hands to run through his hair without having his fingers tremble. Ammon looked calm, though his cold eyes gave away the disgust that he felt towards Mus’ad.


Ammon gave Kydoimos a slight pat on the shoulder, as if congratulating them on a job well done in not succumbing to anger and murdering the dragon rider. Then, he looked up at Hardeep and shook his head slightly as his eyes followed Kydoimos’ gaze towards the closed doors of other rooms.


“No,” Ammon said as he headed for Hardeep’s room. “Not me personally. Neither are our families connected in any way. We know of one another through mutual acquaintances and rumours, nothing more. Hated or not, his family has amassed enough power to know a great many secrets. Such as my family’s connection to assassins.”


His hand pressed against the door leading into Hardeep’s room and he looked over his shoulder at its owner. “May I?” He asked and, without waiting for an answer, pushed the door inwards. Hardeep’s room was empty; no assassin in a dark cloak armed with poisoned daggers waited there.


“Worry not, there are no assassins lurking in the shadows,” Ammon said and offered Kydoimos a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Not anyone I hired, at least. Mus’ad would not have left, had his own imagination not given him an image of what was to come had he not departed. It was a bluff on my part, one that drunk believed easily.”


Ammon’s shoulders moved in a slight shrug and hummed in response to Uneek’s statement. “Perhaps. He is the only heir to his family name. A hated one, no less. Two birds with one stone, I suppose.”


Stepping away from the room, Ammon closed the door carefully and headed for the main exit where Warren stood guard.


“There is much to be done before the day’s end. I must depart.” He stopped by the door and turned to look at the other riders. “Care of your servants, especially women. There is talk that Mus’ad gets forceful with acquiring new slaves for his house. No uncles and aunts are on this mountain to restrain him, and alcohol is either going to run out, or kill him.”


That said, Ammon opened the door, nodded a respectful farewell to the riders, and left.





***





Scrape, scrape, scrape.









The little strips of wood were blown off gently and then a calloused hand slid over the surface.


Scrape. Scrape.









It was turning out to be a good spear point. No blade, of course, for there was none that she could use. The knife would have proven to be a perfect spear tip, with its sharp straight steel. It would have been engraved with a dragon rider’s house crest, but it mattered little. A knife was a knife. Did it matter what marks it bore? There was enough twine left from building the snares, and it would have held over for a while until some better rope was found.


Scrape.


No. As much as she wished for a weapon, stealing this knife would not be tolerated. Galene knew it was with Irene. She’d recognize the blade anywhere, even if it was lacking a hilt or was hidden by the coiled twine.


Sitting on a protruding root, Irene braced her forearms on her knees and bent over as she concentrated on holding the long branch pressed to her side while her hands worked on its end. The knife’s blade slid over it quickly, with an experienced touch that Irene thought she had long lost, and carved the branch’s end into a pointy tip. It was still somewhat blunt and small, but she had begun not even half an hour ago.


A bundle of twine was wrapped up in the folds of her jacket which now hung over the lowest branch of the oak. Sweat glistened on her skin and kept her warm for now. A pleasant cooling feeling brushed over her skin with each gust of chilling wind.


Above Irene, the tree loomed with its dead branches. The oak was old and tall, though in a state of decay. Its trunk was black, its branches low and vast but long stripped of any leaves. Large roots protruded from the ground and beneath them, close to the trunk, was an abandoned animal den of some small creature. It was as empty, save for some old moulding leaves and little twigs.


Hidden from the outside world, this little area offered privacy that Irene had not experienced in years. No one was around, not even some hunter or another from the village. The running water kept most creatures at bay, and the dense shrubbery beneath a natural wall of trees protected her from any predator. Even so, Irene scanned the shadows more often than not; partly for her sake, and also to spot a dark skinned young girl with a bow.


Setting the knife’s blade against the branch, Irene looked up. Through the dense canopy of evergreens and oak’s branches, she could see the sky. It was still the same grey colour as it had been when they had just entered the forest. The sun’s bleak disk could be seen beyond the cover of the clouds. It was nearing midday. She looked up at the sky more than once during the hours spent in the forest. Each glance at the grey clouds pregnant with a light rain told Irene that very soon she’d have to return. And she wished that moment never to arrive.


The hours spent in this area of the woods made her feel like herself again. Free. Only the collar on her neck that tugged and pulled, caught on the low branches of the surrounding trees, reminded her of both her past and present life.


Reaching up, Irene hooked her fingers into the collar and pulled against the leather. It felt uncomfortable. Heavy. Foreign on her body. The knife’s blade gleamed in the morning light and she even lifted it half an inch, fighting the urge to cut the collar off her neck.


Instead, she sunk the blade back into the branch.


Scrape, scrape, scrape. Blade gleamed like lightning strikes as Irene’s hand moved back and forth, back and forth, cutting off more and more strips of the wood. The point of her makeshift spear was becoming longer, sharper.


What a sorry excuse for a weapon in comparison to the beautiful gift given to her by Leon years ago.


Lifting her eyes from the branch as her hand continued the task of cutting a spear tip on a long oak branch that she’d snapped off some short while ago, Irene looked at the ground.


The area around the oak was covered by a thin layer of fresh snow. Was. The snow remained only near the edge of the small glade and closer to the oak. Everywhere else, the ground was dotted with footprints that went around in circles and curves, upturning the snow and the dampened ground.


After setting the snares around the stream – which took most of the time given to her, for she wished to put up as many traps as it was possible with the little amount of twine she had – Irene retreated back to the oak, shrugged off her jacket, and begun to train. It was the basics at first; movements that she learnt long ago and never had troubles with. Footwork, guard, dodging. Not only did this stain her clothing with dirt and had leaves and needles stick to her shoes and clothes, but also made her break out in sweat far faster than she anticipated. She also refused to look at her braid, which had a fair share of mud on it. Breathing unevenly and cursing under her breath, she continued the training session and accepted the throbbing pain in her arms and abdomen from having decided to go up a notch and do some advanced movements.


Breathing heavily and disappointed in how weak she had gotten, Irene sat down on the oak’s roots and scanned its branches as she struggled to regain her breath. Any branch would do. A long one, six feet at least, one that has not yet fully decayed from autumn’s rains and winter’s frost. It took some time sawing the branch off and cleaning it from the twigs, time that could have been used on fixing her stance and strengthening her core, but it allowed her mind and body to relax.


Cold seeped into her skin now, brushing over her exposed collarbone and sent chills down her back and arms. Maybe it was time to go back to training, while she still could. Another glance was thrown up towards the sun. It was nearing midday and Galene had not yet arrived. It both did and did not worry Irene. The longer Galene hunted, the longer they stayed in the forest; as simple as that. And Irene dreaded going back to the cabin, where Warren stared daggers into her back and Hardeep…


She did not hate him. Neither did she like him. Common sense told her to fear him, or at least his sword and his words, his actions, his opinions. He was a master. She was a slave. Their relationship should be as simple as that. Hardeep’s status alone was supposed to make her hate him, despise his presence for it was he who owned her just as any farmer owned cattle. Instead, she felt nothing.


Perhaps their talk the other night was a mistake, after all, for it showed her Hardeep, a man behind the mask of a dragon rider. Or maybe, he had never taken off that mask and continued being a master who just happened to be tolerant of his slave’s wish to speak her mind.


Maybe it made her approve of him, of the way he treated those beneath him. Though whatever approval disappeared the moment she noticed hatred in his eyes after he found out of the Mark, of what it meant.


It felt as if her opinion of the man was being pulled back and forward, akin to a game of tug of war where the centre of the rope was her level of affection for her master.


Their relationship should have been simple. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. That would have made her wish to escape and leave him, and the others, to fend for themselves on this mountain much easier. He appeared to be a good man, a strong man. Not many such men were left on this world, she would know; she searched for kindness throughout her journeys. Galene seemed like a girl pulled into the world of darkness far too early.


So what? Do you remember how they treated you? How they continue treating you? Galene will betray you when it’s comfortable for her. Hardeep will execute you. No one will stop either of them. Not Orien. Not Kydoimos. Warren will dance on your grave, if you ever get one.









A frown crinkled her brow as Irene rubbed a hand over her face. Paranoia ate at her mind, whispering to her like some foul demon. It was hard to ignore, not when she was sitting down and carving out the branch’s tip to be sharper.


Movement helped, it always had. Just move, travel, train, fight. It always eased her mind, allowed her to run away from the problems before she was forced to face them.


So, Irene set the knife onto the wide root, pressed the spear’s blunt end against the ground and stood up.


And moved, trained.


The makeshift spear swung through the air in wide circles above her head, flowing into an attack or a parry or a block. Each movement was fluid, focused on conservation of energy. Each movement practiced so many times that her mind and body moved in unison, flowing like water in the stream. Sometimes fast, sometimes slower, dodging and evading invisible opponents that stood in her way. The spear’s tip would mostly face down, instead allowing the blunt end to attack at the non-existent enemy; each move directed to incapacitate the opponent rather than kill them.


Another step, another turn and—


The spear flew too far out, her feet missing a crucial side-step, and what could have been a parry turned into an awkward flailing of Irene’s arms as she regained her balance. She cursed under her breath and stopped, stabbing the ground with the spear’s tip and leaning heavily against the blunt end, hunched forward. Breathing heavily, Irene ran a hand over her face to brush off the beads of sweat coating her forehead.
 
@Lenaara


The forest was cold. Or perhaps Galene was. She couldn't quite tell anymore, the bear pelt far too thin for the weather and far too cumbersome for what she needed to do. She had given up and tied it around herself lengthwise, giving herself some strange shawl. Briefly, she wondered if she should return it to the woman who had gave it to her earlier. Briefly, she remembered that the guide she had was as thick as the stones of castle towers and as dead as the night sky when the stars went out and the moon lost. She sighed as she twisted around to glance back at her kills. She had decided to look for something larger, something more filling as Irene would get the smaller piece of prey. A deer had been spotted, wandering about, picking its way through the grass. She had strung an arrow, let it fly and sink in its leg, hindering its ability to move first before thrusting another one into its chest. Her aim had gotten poorer the less she used it and the poor thing had kicked as it went down, wheezing as it died. If she had her knife, she would have slit its throat then and there, made a cleaner death. As it was, she simply had to wait before dragging it back to the oak, which took most of her time and energy.


It was heavy and she had not pulled heavy loads back at the Makhai house. Yulink gave her tasks indoors, to clean the floor, to wash the dishes, to dust the tables. The traits that had been vital for survival were not tested and used during her three years serving the Makhais, even when it morphed into three years of simply being Kydoimos' companion. They had no say over what happened in the household, after all, and it was only the crest on their chest that kept them from being tossed out. To Galene, it seemed as though after a certain point, Yulink simply couldn't reject the notion that Kydoimos was not a rider. It seemed that before then, there was the very real possibility that they would have been tossed back as a slave, if it were not for the... kindness of the other riders.


Resentment. Hatred. Wish to see Yulink fall.


An existence that should not have been, a testimony to his failings being present in every aspect of their lives.


Galene had thought that if Kydoimos was back in Vanguard, they would have been happier. Bastard born or no, they could find a place there. Maybe she would have hired them instead, as a swordhand or guard. They were well built for it, broad-shouldered and large, with hands that wrapped around hilts and arms that swung true. They had swift fingers to throw sharp daggers and rage to motivate them.


A side motivator, but one that Galene could not ultimately hate.


The large deer behind her bumped over tree roots and caught onto stumps, causing her to stop and pull it free every now and then, grunting and groaning and completely frustrated by the time the old oak came into view. She spotted Irene doing something with...


Was that a spear?


Well, it would have been impressive if she hadn't gone pinwheeling away. At least Galene knew that the woman wasn't quite capable of what she might have been doing in the past, an empty reassurance but one nonetheless.


"Help me," she demanded, coming into view, the deer behind her. "It is heavy and I am afraid I am not what I used to be capable of."
 
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@FloatingAroundSpace


“That is exactly how I feel right now,” Irene grunted.


An uncomfortable ache in her arms made her movements sluggish. Footwork was fine, mostly. Steps were missed or done too soon or too late. Slowly but surely her body remembered the years of training drilled into her mind, her muscles. The more she moved, performing a movement that should have been fluid and elegant, the more she cursed her own body. It was slow.


Running a hand over her face and hair, she took a deep breath and plunged the spear deeper into the ground to let it stand on its own. What a crude weapon. She’d have to polish it and sharpen the tip, and fireharden it, before it could be of use. At least, it was an oak’s branch. It would serve her well yet.


Turning, Irene pushed the stray strands of hair from her face and headed over to Galene. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she eyed the deer.


“This should last about a week,” Irene said lightly, happy with how the situation had turned out. They could cure half of the venison and maybe even trade it in for some better pelts and furs. If they ration, then—


Would they ration? Hardeep and Kydoimos grew up in wealth, where meals consisted of large tables holding a great many dishes. Hunger was foreign to them. Not the kind of hunger that Irene had experienced, that Galene and Orien and maybe even Warren might have felt at least once in their lives. The status of a dragon rider was nothing short of nobility. In a time of need even royalty ate less. Though those were usually the times when their servants had long died of hunger.


Ming Xia could advise them, guide them. That was her job; why she was hired in the first place. She’d understand the need to preserve sustenance for they have lost some oats earlier that day. Even if they had not, she knew what cold winters were capable of.


Better put, Ming Xia could advise them and probably would not. The best words of wisdom they’d get would be, “Don’t eat it all at once”, or something as prosaic.


You could guide them.


Irene ignored the thought and the urge to fill in a position that was critical to their survival. It was Ming Xia’s task to accomplish. All Irene had to focus on was escape. Snow would fall soon; she’d have to escape before then. There was still much to be done, and she felt impatient but happy, too. Soon. Freedom never felt closer.


“Set it down,” she said. “Take a break. If I recall right, you wanted a wash. We still have some time before we have to return.” Crouching down, Irene grabbed the deer by its hind legs and began to drag it over to the oak. Muscles in her arms protested in pain, but she endured. It was somehow easier to think of this as part of getting back in shape.


Standing up straight, Irene eyed the animal. It was too large to carry on their shoulders for either of them; dragging it over the ground would take too long and slow them down, alerting the predators that still lurked in the shadows.


“I am going to make something like a sledge,” Irene decided. “There is enough twine, and branches here are strong.” She looked at Galene and jerked her chin at the stream. “Go ahead. This is going to take some time, anyway.”


The deer was left by the oak’s roots, hidden from the predators and other hunters by the tree. Branches hung low enough for Irene to pick up the knife and saw them off. Just two larger branches would do; with a piece of large cloth tied in between. It would be a crude contraption (more of a stretcher than a sledge), but neither of them had the strength to carry a fully grown deer back towards the village.


Circling the tree, Irene stopped by one of the branches that hovered a few feet above the ground, and begun sawing at it until it was easy enough to break.


“Wrap your pelt around the deer,” Irene said over her shoulder to Galene. “To keep it warm. Its hide will be useful.” She kicked at the branch and it rustled, not quite yet ready to break from brute force alone. Sawing continued. “You are proving to be a good hunter. Maybe you could teach me to shoot a bow and arrows.” It was a joke rather than a serious request. Though the failure in gaining Ming Xia’s approval – if it could be called as such – made Irene reconsider her stance on the weapon.
 
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@Lenaara


"A week?" Galene said, staring at the other slave woman. "Do you know how hard it will be to convince them that this will last a week?" She folded her arms over her chest. "Best to tell them that hunting will have to be a daily occurrence if they wish to have their food steady. Not that I doubt that our permission to hunt will be halted at this point in time, but it is always important to have leverage when a situation arises.


"Either way, I am sorry to say that rations have been lost to me," she said slowly. "I haven't spent much time up in the mountains, as I'm sure you can guess."


The last time she went, it was with a girl with skin that was as dark as Hardeep's, her hair pulled back and tight in a ponytail, stringing a bow and staring down a beast with far too many eyes and jaws dripping with blood. Galene herself had been busy pressing pale white gauze to a wound in the other's side, the red spreading far too fast and her own breathing and heartbeat far too loud to not give them away. The memory had ended well, however. The two arrows, pulled one after the other, felled the foul beast and Galene remembered that flint against metal would create a spark and that smoke was easy to spot. They had been found what felt like mere moments later and she had been hauled back down to the fields to be reprimanded by her parents and have a sour week of avoiding them before she was allowed to go back, albeit with one of the guards as her guide.


The time for that had never come and she allowed the memory to fade and dance away, as all the others had. She kept them close to herself, pulling them out when she wished for some light in the darkness of what she had been forced to deal with.


Nothing as dark as some. But far too dark for the promise of anything but the end to mean anything without her own small flames of hope.


"I would suggest that we ask someone more knowledgeable. I... am assuming that that person is not Ming Xia in any way at this point in time." It made her sad, partially to see someone so close to her age fall so far in so little time. Perhaps it was the cold, the beasts, the isolation that had turned her dull, whittled her down like a piece of metal.


Galene grumbled as she let her pelt go before wrapping it around the deer, standing up and glancing at the stream, wandering over to begin washing her bare skin off, picking the dirt that was beginning to accumulate underneath her nails.


"A decent hunter," Galene called over as she shivered as the water slid down her arms. "And teaching requires time and patience, both of which are in serious short supply. Maybe I could teach you, if you needed more debt or perhaps a trade-off for your own skills."
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


“Now or later, we will have to ration.” A sharp crack and the branch fell down, ripping from the oak loudly. Irene breathed heavily, dragging the back of her hand across her forehead to wipe the beads of sweat. She’d been interchanging between kicking and sawing at the branch while Galene wrapped her pelt around the deer’s cooling body.


Rustling, the branch fell onto the ground and its ends vibrated from the fall. This branch has not quite decayed yet. Maybe she could break it in two, instead of breaking off another. Noon was nearing and Ming Xia demanded her bow back. They’d be fools not to return by the time their guide expected her weapon back. So Irene began working quickly, ignoring the ache in her muscles.


“Winter is close,” she continued as she began snapping off the shorter twigs off the branch. She pressed her foot against it and pulled at the branches, wincing slightly as the cold damp wood bit at her palm. “Hunting daily is expected to prepare for the months to come. You were lucky to down a deer; they’re going to be a rare sight in a few weeks when snow storms begin. Food will be in short supply then. It is best we prepare for winter now.”


Irene had already decided that some of the animals caught in her snares will be kept for herself. As long as Galene lent her the knife – or maybe even Hardeep, if he allowed her to have one – then skinning the animal will be an easy task. The stream would wash off the blood, the animal den beneath the oak would prove useful as a hiding place for the pelts and meat that she’d prepare for the journey.  


It remained to be seen just how much she’d keep for herself.


A glance was thrown at Galene, an assessing one. Irene suspected Galene to be of a wealthy status in her past life. The way the girl spoke and carried herself proved as much. Noble or royal birth was hard to hide, unless one spent many years amongst the commoners.


So when Galene spoke of not having have spent much time up in the mountains, and not rationing before, Irene’s suspicions were partly confirmed. Not a commoner then; farmers and merchants of low repute rationed as much as the mountain folk did during harsh times.


A woman of a high status, then. Not that Irene would ever dare ask what Galene used to be in her past life. It did not matter, did it? It may have once, when Galene wore finery and travelled around in gilded carriages. Not anymore; not when the two of them wore matching leather collars around their necks, the only difference being the crest engraved on it.


“It is not for us to decide,” Irene said and focused her attention at the branch once more. “It is for Hardeep and Kydoimos to choose whom to ask for advice. Our task is to serve and follow orders. Your rider might listen to you.” She sighed through her nose and stepped back, letting the smaller twigs fall onto the ground by her feet. The branch was stripped bare now, remaining just a long pole that Irene had to break in half. “Mine will not, even if I tell him that I’ve lived here once before and know the ways.”


The branch was picked up and roughly broken under her foot. Her leg and arms protested in pain, but it didn’t matter. With the two branches of the same length held in both hands, Irene carried them over to the root where she hung her jacket on. They didn’t have any cloth other than what they were wearing, and she couldn’t ask Galene for her clothing, either. The girl shivered as she washed her arms at the stream, and she’d have to leave the pelt around the deer until they brought it back towards the cabin.


“Ming Xia is not fit for the role of a guide. She is a lone wolf.” Irene sat down onto the root, placed the branches on the ground, and reached for the jacket. “There is nothing wrong with being one. Though she should not have taken the role of caring for others. It is not for her.”


The jacket was straightened over her lap and Irene unbundled the remaining twine. With the knife, she began poking holes in the sides of the jacket. Small ones, easy to fix later.


“This doesn’t have to be a trade,” Irene said, her eyes still focused on her hands that worked the twine through the holes in the fabric and tied it to one of the branches. “Some things don’t have to be. Though do not think we’d have to start from the very basics. I can hold a bow; I know how to. It is the…aiming, that is the problem. I’d be lucky to hit a target half the time.”


Silence fell over the glade, interrupted only by the occasional creaking of the oak above Irene and the canopy of evergreens high up; stream splashed and glistened.


Irene’s fingers worked the twine into the fabric and wrapped it around the branch, building the contraption quickly and as efficiently as she could, given the materials. It was as crude as she imagined it to be, though it’d do. They’d have to hunch down while carrying the ends, with the deer resting on the fabric, and it’d take them some time to return to the village as the snow cover was too thin to allow smooth sliding for a sledge, but it’d work. Hopefully. They didn’t have any other choice.


The stretcher (or sledge, if one was optimistic) done, Irene set it down onto the ground, got up, and headed for the stream.


“You’ve never bathed in a stream before either, I take it?” She asked lightly, snorting at the girl who had been washing her arms. Crouching down, Irene dipped her hands into the water and began washing off the dirt and mud that clung to her skin.


“You’ve said you might take up my offer on lessons of strength,” she said, not looking up at Galene as she spoke. “I am not going to teach you how to fight, with a weapon or without. Only self-defence, nothing more. Something a woman can do.” With the dirt washed off, Irene raised her hands out of the water and let the droplets slide down her fingers as she propped her elbows on her knees, and looked up. “Show me your hands.”
 
@Lenaara


"Now is better than later, no?" Galene said to the woman. "Might be good to start now anyways, in case things go south quicker than expected and to get the riders used to it. Gods know that they will be the most annoying when they find that not enough food will be lining their bellies, more annoying than they are now, anyways. Especially on Hardeep's end."


The older rider seemed on edge, swaying from emotion to emotion, hopping from one to the other delicately. Angry and vengeful, quiet and contemplative, cool and uncaring. He had not swung back to happiness or lightness in a very long time and Galene suspected that Balin's death had only aggravated the man's tendencies to be inconsistent in his own silent misery or apathy, or whatever it was that anguished the rich and powerful but never quite satisfied. It amused Galene, to a degree, that Hardeep acted like a brooding teenager, like the brothers she once had (or perhaps still had; she did not know what condition her home had been left in, who had escaped alive) when they read poems soaked in some false-philosophical deepness motivated by whatever man's repressed desires that could not be acted upon. Most of the time, it had to do with love. Most of the time, Galene wrinkled her nose about it, sticking out her tongue and muttering about the pointlessness of it all.


"If we wanted bigger prey," Galene said, "we will eventually need to resort to more... aggressive creatures."


Bears and wolves proved hard to fell but they were also larger and their pelts garnered a lot more attention than that of a deer.


"I would say that perhaps we should ask for help, though I doubt anyone in our group can string a bow if I am the only one who has volunteered services," she added, standing up. "Kydoimos can stick their sword into things rather well, but gods know that they haven't faced down anything with teeth and claws."


She snorted when Irene remarked about the role the riders had in picking guides, dusting off the dirt on her pants.


"Hardeep will choose who has not irked him in a while," she said, "and who he has not bedded as well. His choices will always be limited."


Galene raised an eyebrow at Irene once more, turning to look at the woman. "Aiming? You use your eyes for that," she said before frowning at her subsequent request. She knelt back down and offered her hands to the other woman, palm side up and flat.


They were smooth. She had not been forced into physical labor in her entire life and as such, there were no rough callouses. There were a few cuts and nicks in the flesh, from being scratched at by small creatures she was far too interested in as a child and by angry dragons when she had become a slave, but they were faded and pale and melting back into her dark skin.


"I don't suppose you are giving me my knife back," she mused.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


“No,” Irene answered, snorting. “But you will get it back.”


She turned to face Galene, still crouching on the ground. Through the thin layer of her pants she could feel the damp mud and the hard rocks. Splashing water of the stream sent some droplets flying her way and coated her clothing in little dots. It was much colder by the stream, but it was refreshing. With her clothes sticking to her skin uncomfortably with sweat, Irene wished nothing else but to take off the dampened clothes and wash off the dirt and the mud and the sweat that had accumulated on her body from the past two days. They still had some time, she’d wash while Galene hoisted the deer onto the stretcher.


Reaching out, Irene took Galene’s hands in her own, her palms pressing against the back of the younger girl’s hands. Irene’s hands were damp with cold water and calloused, the skin very rough to the touch. Much unlike Galene’s, whose hands appeared smooth and not at all scarred from years of physical labour of any kind.


Despite the roughness of her skin and the tense wrist and fingers, Irene’s hold was almost gentle, careful, but confident, too.


“You aren’t going to argue that women can fight?” Irene lifted her eyes to look at Galene’s, a smile tugging at her lips. “I did.”


Her thumbs slid over Galene’s palms, pressing against the skin, to then slide down slightly to press against the girl’s wrists. Irene’s expression was neutral, focused, the crinkle to her brow betraying her thoughts on the girl’s hands.


“Hands say a great deal about a person,” Irene said, still looking down and keeping her hands beneath Galene’s. “A cook’s will always be covered in a myriad of cuts, mostly on the fingers. Their skin would be rough up to the elbow, and the palms will be calloused over here.” She slid her thump over the area beneath Galene’s fingers. “A servant’s will be rough as much as the cook’s, and hard over the middle. A warrior’s,” Irene let go of Galene’s hand and held her palm side up beside Galene’s, “will be calloused across the palm; the wrist and fingers will be stiff. Any warrior will recognize it. I’ve been lucky to be given work that masked these,” her other hand moved so she could slide a finger over the wider patches of hard skin below her index and middle finger and a spot on the heel of the hand.


“One of noble birth will not have such hard skin like mine.” She looked up at Galene, their eyes locking. It could have been a sign that Irene knew, or guessed, of Galene’s background. Or it could have meant something else. Whatever it was, Irene did not let the hint hang in the air for long and looked at the girl’s hands once more. “Your hands are going to hurt if I am to teach you. They will hurt from the cold. They will hurt from using the bow. I needed to know how much poultice I am to make to speed up the healing. It helped me when I was a child.”


Reaching for her sash, Irene took out the knife. The blade hissed against the cloth and gleamed as the morning light licked the blade, momentary blinding Irene. Turning the knife in her palm, Irene held it by the blade’s tip, the handle facing Galene.


“Thank you,” she said. “Go put the deer on the…” A glance was thrown at the crude contraption of her making. She was never quite skilful in building things, be it weapons or huts or, especially, sledge like structures. “That. I am going to wash. Otherwise, Warren is going to get suspicious and ask why I’ve been rolling around in the mud.” If her clothes were not enough of an indicator, then her hair was. Needles and leaves stuck to the braid, which was dragging behind her now as she couched on the mud. Maybe it would be best to have it pinned up again, as she wore it in Hisraad’s estate.
 
@Lenaara


Galene frowned at Irene's words, offering her hands to the woman. In times gone by, her mother would gaze down upon her past her nose, standing tall and proud and sigh, shaking her head. "You trust too much," she would say and then bend down, blue dress pooling around Galene in waves before scooping her up and pressing her to her side. "You trust too much," she would say again, in a sadder tone with heavier eyes and stroke her wild curls.


Galene never quite understood. She was the child that ran with the boys in the street, chasing after dogs and cats and hogs and birds of bright colors, getting mud all over her training slacks and her nice dresses and on her elbows from the occasional tumble-turned-wrestle. She would be the one to chase after the wolves in the field with a bow and arrow, sometimes on a horse to escape, sometimes not. She would be the one that sat on the edges of the training compounds, eyes bright and silver.


"You trust too much," her mother would always tell her when she came back with dirtied clothes and a bruised ego after loosing in some form or another, after failing to do something.


The words that Irene offered Galene told her that the woman was rooting around for her own life too, trying to find leverage perhaps, leverage that Galene was not keen to give. She took her hands back carefully, eyes focused on the other slave.


"Women are strong as men are," she said, standing slowly. "We have the same limbs, the same heart. We are not all that different and to waste potential hurts us all."


Her hands folded gently in front of her being and she stared at Irene levelly for a beat more.


"And scribes sit bent over parchment until their backs ache and sailors dream of the salty sea. What one does is reflected in ones body and mind. I have been a slave for a few years. You and I are Irina and Naomi for now, at least to a few." She tilted her head. "That is what matters. Not quite the past."


She glanced down at her own hands. "I have done minimal hard work," she said, "but I have seen many more perform it. Some wrap their hands in preparation. Some add some kind of powder, to absorb sweat and grip tighter. Would any of those be of use to us?"


She walked back over to the deer, glancing down at it and nudging it with her foot at first before glancing over at the contraption offered. With a huff, she gripped the legs of the creature and began heaving it over.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


“No, women are not as strong as men,” Irene said sternly, repeating a phrase told to her many years ago when she was very young. “Do not fool yourself into believing that a healthy woman can take on a healthy man, someone like Kydoimos or Hardeep, or even Orien.”


Pulling her arms up, Irene took off her blouse and set it down onto a large rock by the stream. Dressed in her undergarments and pants now, Irene did not lift a modest hand to cover the Mark. Galene knew of it, anyway. Though her hand did jerk in an unconscious urge to cover the tattoo, even if the ink was far too spread over her chest to hide with just a thin hand. Instead, Irene let her hands dip into the stream and she began bringing water up her arms, washing off the dirt and sweat.


“Women do not have the same muscle mass as men do, irrespective of training. Women are, generally, shorter than men. Shoulders are too narrow to put force behind a swing. Only a fool believes that a woman is as strong as a man. Faster, yes. Smarter, maybe. Potential is wasted only if the woman is stubbornly trying to prove a point that has been decided long ago by Gods, nature, or fate.”


The very same words were told to her by Leon. How old was she? Ten, perhaps. Their argument was short lived, though it did leave an imprint on her. Back then she did not see the truth behind his words, the experience that allowed him to say that a weaker gender is truly not fit for combat. Leon was no fool, though back then she thought him to be one. A stubborn fool who wished to leave her under the care of governesses, locked up in a house where she was forced to wear silk finery and learn how to read, write and speak correctly.


It took years to see his point. Years of rigorous training, though she never regretted the decision of asking him to train her. No, begging would be more appropriate, for when she asked Leon ignored her.


She never proved him wrong, only gave more weight to his argument. Women were not physically strong, and that was their advantage. Leon was too stubborn to see that for a little while, maybe busy dealing with his wounded pride at the time.


Water was cold, sending shivers down her arms as the narrow rivulets of water slid down her skin. She began washing her chest and stomach, clenching her teeth at the cold that kissed her skin in icy daggers.


“I’m not interested in your past. Whoever you were, you are no more. It is for you to either accept it, or defy it.” Irene said this to herself as much as to Galene. It was a reminder if her current goals. It was a statement of her wish not to play the game that Ammon would enjoy, the game of lies and deceit, where gaining information was key.


The braid became undone as Irene spoke, her fingers running through the hair quickly. Bending low, she dipped it into the water and washed the dirt out. Mountain bury them all, it was cold. The cold made her move quickly, partly to get it over with and to keep herself warm with action. A few moments passed (moments that lasted an eternity, it seemed) and Irene sat back and wrung the water from her hair until no more droplets fell down into the stream.


“No,” she answered Galene’s question. “We do not have access to that powder here. Wrapping your hands is good, if your fight is planned. If it is not, your hands are going to get bruised. Your skin must harden, or it will always hurt. Wearing gloves is fine, I suppose. Though I found them uncomfortable. Can’t quite feel the hit in them, the strength behind it. What you feel upon impact, be it with your hand or a weapon, is going to show you what your opponent feels. It is going to show you when to stop, or not. Depending on your end goal.”


With the water wrung out, Irene loosely tied the hair into a braid once more and let it fall behind her back. The blouse was put on once more onto her shivering skin and Irene stepped away from the stream after gulping down a couple of mouthfuls of water.


“Are you worried about the pain?” Irene asked, heading over to Galene to help with the deer. “You are going to get bruised when we begin. It is going to hurt. If you are unwilling, I am not going to pressure you. There is little else with what I can repay my debt, unless you wish to hear stories or learn a language or some nomadic dance.”
 
@Lenaara


Galene said nothing at first to the other woman's comments though they made her shift as she loaded the deer onto the makeshift device. She knew, better than the slave woman (the one that had fought more than Galene, the one that should have known better than Galene) that there were women who could topple men, ones that commanded armies and road into battle on foot and on steed, screaming for glory and dying for fame. She knew that they could grow tall as any man with the right encouragement, with the right food, training, and coin. She had stared at the glittering knights that walked past her home, a home of brick and stone and gleaming marble, the sun dancing in their hair as they stood tall and proud. They sparred with the men, ate with the men, won and loss with them.


She twitched slightly when irene grouped Kydoimos in with Hardeep and Orien and said quietly, "Kydoimos is not a man, though they may appear one," knowing that they would be unhappy with the comparison. Another reason why the woman was wrong; there were more than just men and women, more than just the one who had a cock and the one who carried the babies. There were the ones in between, the ones that were neither, the ones that could also swing a sword and boast a laugh and raise a tankard in victory or to mourn the lost.


She said nothing of the woman's next comments. She was not from Vanguard, not even from Crubia, and she had been raised so different. Perhaps she had been told from the start that women were never to be what men were. Galene had troves of memories of her sisters flinging arrows over their shoulders as they rode on horses, of her sisters swinging her upwards as easily as her brothers (or rather, the two strong brothers that did not cough at the slightest of breezes), of her mother wielding a sword at what felt like the end of days, shouting at her to run and hide, to find her slightly-older brother and go to the towers. She remembered the gleam of the family scabbard, heavy above her mother's desk. She remembered the way the women stood in Vanguard, tall and proud and indistinguishable from the men.


She said none of this to Irene. It would reveal too much, even though the slave woman was fast approaching a conclusion that Galene did not appreciate. Irene's comment about not caring about the past nearly made her raise an eyebrow but she was wrestling with the deer, hefting its lower half onto the makeshift carrier and avoiding its scraping hooves.


Your mind will be as important as your strength.


She had not yet defied her upbringing. Had not yet bent or stooped or groveled at the feet of Yulink or any other rider. Had not yet been broken, had not yet let them take away all of her. They took away her silks and her pointed rapier, the one that she had just been gifted, took away even her last name. But they had not taken from her her mind, her eyes, the memories. They had not taken from her even her gods, because there was so little to take. They did not carve out from her Vanguard, not quite yet and she would bite and scratch and scream and die before they took away, truly took away, her name.


"Shouldn't we all be worried about the pain?" Galene asked in response to the woman's question. "Pain is good, yes, but it is also bad in many ways. Who knows what the pain really means until the end."


She wiped her brow and gestured to the deer. "It is ready," she said, glancing over the now-washed woman. "I must say, you do well with your hands. Learned from your time traveling? Perhaps traveling here?"


After a beat, Galene spoke again.


"Have you seen this mountain? What horrors it has?"


It was said with the same lilt as she had once spoken to Ming Xia, unendingly curious and with a thirst to know more, a thirst that refused to be tossed aside. One still of a child and not of a woman quite grown.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene hummed, the corner of her lips lifting in a half a smile. She looked amused at Galene’s question and looked at the girl as she couched down by the makeshift stretcher.


“Well?” She regarded the crude contraption. Galene’s words weren’t mocking, though calling the stretcher a job well done was a bit of an overstatement. “I suppose. This is not anything special. I’ve never had the need to haul a deer out of the woods before. Though I did learn some things during my travels. Mostly useless things, as some would call them. I’d agree with them now. Slavery demands a different set of skills.”


Wrapping her hands around the branches on one end of the stretcher, Irene waited for Galene to do the same before standing up. Slowly, to let Galene pick up her side in time, Irene got to her feet and they began walking through the forest, side by side, with the stretcher in between. They’d be able to set one of the ends down once they reached the village, where mud and snow were aplenty to repurpose the contraption into a sledge.


For now, they carried the deer above the roots and shrubbery.


A glance was thrown at the girl at her subsequent question and Irene pressed her lips together, considering her answer.


“I have seen some of them, yes,” she finally said, her voice quiet. “Nothing too dangerous, just glimpses of wisps and wolf like predators. Riverside is where I’ve seen the truly frightening horrors, where I fought or fled from them. Got a couple of scars and bad memories to show for it.”


The branches of the stretcher creaked beneath the deer’s weight and Irene cast a wary glance at it more often than not. The fabric was too thin to support the deer’s weight for long, and when they picked up the contraption it curved under the weight of the dead body. It worried her. They had little time left to return to the cabin before noon, and dragging the deer behind them earlier than expected would considerably slow them down.


To lighten their mood and distract them from the cold looming forest and the large game that could be stolen from them by hunters, villagers, riders, or the predators that lurked in the shadows, Irene chose to continue speaking. Maybe sharing a story would do them both some good.


“I used to visit one village often once, when I worked for a military group in charge of that region. Sirdca, a village like this one, just off the main road. Ah…how many years has it been? Five, maybe. During one such visits, a son of an innkeep hired me. Anya and Berwick’s son, a couple who owned a tavern where I stayed. He used all his savings to hire me, actually. He needed to go to a town south of Sirdca, on the other side of the swamps. A four-day travel on foot there and back. He only had enough for two days of my protection. So, the only way that he could hire me was to take a route straight through the swamps.”


Carefully, they stepped over some shrubbery and Irene winced as her braid caught onto a low hanging branch.


“The swamps breed creatures akin to the ones lurking in these mountains, and those are much larger and deadlier. Now that I think back on it, I am not sure why I ever took that suicidal job. And yet, I did.”


An uncomfortable ache in her arms was hard to ignore. The cool wind helped focus on the road ahead, giving urgency to their movements for they had to reach the village before the cold made their movements sluggish. Moisture patted down from the sky, not quite raining yet. It made the damp bark of the branch bite into her palms as Irene held the stretcher, finding it hard to maintain a steady hold as with each step the branch threatened to slip out of her hands.


“I dragged the boy through the swamps and back, nearly broke my spear during an encounter with a water hag. All because the boy wished to sell his family’s apples and grain to pay off the creditors that worked for the Jarl of Larton. That was his land, you see. It all belonged to the Jarl, maybe still does. Anja and Berwick’s tavern was about to be closed down, to be sold to pay off the creditors that came breathing down their necks demanding coin.”


Irene continued to speak all to distract herself from the cold that bit at her skin like icy needles (she’d sacrificed her jacket for the stretcher, much like how Galene sacrificed her pelt to keep the deer’s body warm) and from the threatening creaking of the crude contraption that could break at any moment.


Perhaps Galene did not wish to hear the story, perhaps she did not care. But it was the only thing Irene could do to pass the time, to take her mind off the fear that some enemy is going to jump at them from the shadows, wishing to either steal the deer or kill them, or both.


“When we came back, his mother, Anja, was so happy and tearful that she nearly married him off to me. Claimed the Maker matched us in the Skies above. She would have begun planning the wedding had Berwick not yelled some sense back into her.”


There was a gentle tone to her words and she dipped into the memories of her past life easily, as if used to telling stories to others. At times she’d snort, laughing inwardly at some element of the story, at others she’d look at Galene and then direct her gaze back on the road before them. With ease she spoke, though her attention was mostly focused on the forest. A patch of shadows in the distance would be watched for a long moment, then she’d check on the odd rustle to their side and lower her voice in case some enemy or another was nearby.


Dark skeletal trees surrounded them, looming above them with thin sharp branches. Damp leaves softened footfalls, making their steps light despite the heavy load that the women carried. No predator came after them, though Irene fell silent after the story was done and focused on the forest instead. They were nearing the village; she could hear the hubbub of the streets. It also meant that hunters were nearby, and within a forest they could easily steal a large deer from frail slaves who could barely carry the animal.


They reached the clearing surrounding the village without any incident, though they were faced with a problem. The villagers themselves. Hunger drove people to insane actions, horrible actions, and many in this village knew that sort of hunger. The hunger that made the world sway and broke your morals and principles and erased all hints of kindness. It was not yet the time of food shortages, though all knew that it’d come eventually. With the oats partially destroyed, the mountain folk would never let the opportunity to secure more food pass. And such an opportunity presented itself in a form of two slave women carrying a healthy fat deer, heaving under its weight.


Irene stopped and set down her side of the stretcher. The deer slid down slightly and had to be hoisted up, so it’d be resting on the crude version of a sledge when dragged towards the cabin. Irene held the end of one branch, Galene the other. It was still very heavy, though the sleek mud helped drag the deer behind them with relative ease. Both women had to hunch down to keep the sledge lower to the ground to prevent the deer from completely sliding off.


It took them some time to reach the cabin. The time during which they circled the village, as suggested by Irene who thought it best to remain out of sight. A narrow alley between two cabins was taken, one that entered into a side road that eventually rounded their hovel.


Some villagers passed by, eyeing the deer with hungry and greedy eyes, and Irene regretted giving the knife back to Galene. Several pairs of eyes watched the women from inside their cabins, pushing the hides that covered the narrow windows to spy on the road. Those dark eyes sent chills down her spine. No one said a word, however. No one stepped to block their path. And no one assisted them in dragging the deer to the safety of their home.


Just as the cabin came in sight (they were on its other side, with the door facing the main street), Irene quickened her pace, eager to step into the warm room where the hearth would warm her chilled bones. The cold became more of an issue than the deer’s weight the closer they got to the cabin. Irene could barely feel her fingers, and her nose had long turned numb from the cool winds. No doubt, Galene was as cold as her.


Shadows shifted at the sides of the road and Irene felt her heart skip a beat and her mind clear of all thoughts. Her shoulders tense and squared, Irene turned her head to examine the sudden movement. Several men – no, boys; they were no older than Galene – stood on either side of the road, wrapped in thick pelts and layered in leathers. Their faces stern and hard, they eyed the deer and the women dragging it behind them. One unfolded his arms and stepped towards Galene and Irene, his hand moving towards the belt on his hip where Irene could see a leather hilt protruding from behind a fur.


“Walk faster,” Irene quietly commanded Galene, keeping her eyes on the boy.


They were less than twenty feet from the cabin. All they had to do was circle around it, where Warren would no doubt be waiting.


Whether or not Galene heard Irene did not matter, as Irene quickened her pace anyway, gathering her remaining strength to drag the deer. The happiness at seeing the downed animal was felt no longer.


Fifteen feet.


Another glance was thrown over her shoulder, her expression neutral despite her quickened heartbeat. The boy kept his hand on the knife at his hip, his cold eyes focused on Irene and Galene.


Ten feet.


Where were the others? Irene had spotted at least two more figured along with this man. Skirting her eyes over the road, Irene looked at Galene and parted her lips to voice a warning but was too late. One of the men following them got close enough to clasp his hand around the younger girl’s arm and he yanked her back, forcing both her and Irene to stop.


<<Release her—,>> Irene began, her arm letting go of the sledge to pull Galene towards her and away from the grasp of the man, who was eyeing the girl with a different kind of greed. It made bile rise in Irene’s throat.


“Let her go,” a deep, stern voice called out. Armour clanked with each heavy footstep that even the soft muddy ground could not soften. With a soldier’s march Warren neared them, his dark eyes narrowed in anger beneath heavy brows as he stared at the man who still held Galene.


It was not his voice that caught the young men’s attention. It was the sword being drawn from its scabbard. Slowly and with a hiss, the polished steel was revealed, reflecting the light of the midday’s sky above. Warren held it with a steady hand, angling the blade down so as to not harm the two women near whom he now stood.


“Let. Her. Go.” Each word was stern and cold, each a warning as Warren lifted his sword inch by inch into the air, while his feet slid over the mud to let the man stand in a stance that’d be easily changed from a defensive to an offensive one.


Reluctantly, the young man looked to the other. They exchanged looks, though none said a word, and Galene was released. The one who held her took a step back, then another, shoving his hands into the folds of the fur pelt tied to his shoulders. He spat on the ground, a snarl twisting his features, and turned around, walking away.


“Are you alright?” Warren asked, looking at Galene, not a hint of anger left in his soft brown eyes. Once again his features were gentle, softened by the messy crown of hair and the pink tint to his cheeks from standing for several hours in the cold. “Do you need help?” He sheathed his sword, turning his body carefully so as to not to cut Galene, and pointed at the deer.
 
@Lenaara


Galene said nothing as the other woman spoke, most of her concentration focused on struggling to life the contraption across the uneven ground, her limbs unused to hard work after being deprived of training for so long and the cold was beginning to bite at her. She had strung the bow over her shoulder and the arrows were tucked into the bottom of her linen shirt, scraping against her skin. The work was tedious and little in comparison, no doubt, to what they would have to face later but it reminded her that she was no longer what she used to be. The horses of Vanguard did not live here, nor did the rules that her family played by. Here, she was simply to survive. Here, she was simply to serve.


The stories provided some distraction but the strain was beginning to take over her entire consciousness. Her arms were beginning to loose feeling and the words washed over her. She caught onto some, mentions of a boy, of marriage, of coin and travels. Galene supposed that the slave woman had stories aplenty when it came to her exploits. Perhaps they would help her gauge the abilities of the other woman, the level of training that she would be granted. Izmar would not have allowed Irene to have the trainings of her elder siblings. The woman would not have been allowed to swing a sword or fire arrows or balance spears or shields or march in formations. Because of that, it could be assumed that the woman scrapped together a fighting style, perhaps after years of observance or trial and error.


By the time they had made it to the village, Galene was thankful that they had returned to dragging the deer, though the reason why was almost lost to her. Almost.


Then she saw the hungry eyes.


Of course.


It mattered not that they had tools, that they were stronger or fitter or that they had won their meal fair and square. Food was food and in scarcity, honor was absent, turned over in favor of survival. She moved quickly when told to, her eyes wandering over the faces, somehow already pale and gaunt despite the sun still shining and the snow minimal on the ground.


Perhaps they had never truly had a full meal.


The men that walked towards her were alarming though Galene did her best to remain calm. Alarm would not aid in the situation. It would not allow her to focus on getting the deer back to their cabin which was so close, so very close. There was safety there, despite the apathy of at least one of its residents.


The sharp squeeze of the man's hand jolted her slightly and she felt her own breath pick up, staring back at bleak eyes that narrowed down at her, furs clinging to his leather and cloth. She could see dark circles underneath his eyes and smell his foul breath.


It felt a blur to her for the next second, Warren had appeared and the man had left and Galene could straighten up once more.


"Yes, please," she groaned, rubbing her arms. "It's hard dragging this thing around."


The sound of approaching footsteps made her turn to stare at potentially the men returning, but instead she found Ming Xia, her eyes dull as ever.


She stopped in front of Galene, face blank. Not even her palm moved outward to take or symbolize the willingness to take her weapons. Galene, for a moment, thought that she had simply come to look. But the moment passed and the mountain girl did not shift and Galene slid off the bow before handing back four arrows.


"One was broken," Galene explained.


The girl gave no impression that she understood or heard or cared.


"Do you want to eat some?" Galene asked, glancing back at the catch, a rather large one.


"No," Ming Xia said, before turning and walking away, fading into the crowds that were beginning to move as they probably did, ebbing and flowing without a pause.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


With a nod, Warren reached down to pick up the ends of the stretcher and heaved as he pulled it up, higher than Galene and Irene used to hold it. The deer slid down slightly, though remained in place as Irene let its front legs dangle over the top part of the cloth. Warren eyed the contraption for a moment, giving Galene and Irene a look that asked how they got a hold of this crude stretcher made sledge, and carefully began sliding it towards the cabin. He walked backwards, with Irene walking in the front.


Both of them eyed Ming Xia warily and with distrust. Warren even breathed out a sigh of relief at seeing their guide return into the crowd, and Irene pressed her lips tightly at the sight of the departing woman.


Mediocre.


It was strange that Galene tried talking to Ming Xia. Irene had noticed the younger girl’s interest in their guide, as she tried to talk to her on more than one occasion. Maybe it was the challenge that fuelled Galene’s interest. Or maybe, it was their similar age that made Galene wish to find a friend in someone on this mountain. Whatever it was, it appeared that neither Irene nor Warren approved of Galene’s attempts in speaking to the guide, who only offered short replies or, more often, nothing at all. It was apparent that Ming Xia did not wish to interact with anyone.


They neared the cabin’s door without any more villagers trying to stop them. Passersby eyed the deer, with the mountain folk respectfully looking away and the slaves and riders continuing to stare at the animal with greedy eyes. It made Warren uncomfortable, for he looked around to spot any potential threats.


He set the deer down by the cabin, where the wooden basins were propped against the wall beneath the eaves. The guard dusted his hands to get rid of the small pieces of bark and looked at Irene as she crouched by the deer and unwrapped the pelt from its body. Then, she handed Warren the pelt though he did not take it.


“I need a knife to skin it,” Irene said, lifting her hand palm side up.


The guard did not take the pelt nor given Irene what she was asking for. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and regarded the woman with a cold stare.


“Ask Sir Hardeep for one,” he said. “I cannot give you weapons.”


Sighting through her nose, Irene’s brows furrowed for a moment. “Very well. Watch the deer.”


Warren grunted a sound of approval in response and Irene circled the man. She did not wrap Galene’s pelt around herself, though she did wish for warmth. Her fingers were tense as she held the pelt and she buried them in the fur to bring some life back to her hands.


A current of warm air kissed her skin as she pushed the door of the cabin inwards and entered. The cabin was a stark contrast to the streets outside. For one, it was clean. Rugs and pelts lay on the floor, both for comfort and for warmth, and made it soft. Fire burnt in the hearth and a strange scent hung in the air, from sticks of incense, Irene guessed as she eyed the items lining the walls. There were bundles wrapped in cloth of different colours, tied together by twine, and most were marked with embroidered crests of different dragon rider houses. Some sticks of incense peeked out from beneath flaps of the bundles. Nearby stood several clay jugs and gold bowls. Cured meat wrapped in linen, folded clothing of bright and deep colours, candles. Small jars of clay and vials of brightly coloured glass attracted Irene’s attention the most, as these were the most exquisite of all the items – they were intricate in their design, decorated with small pieces of coloured glass in lieu of gemstones. She’d seen just items before, in shops that she never visited, for they usually contained scented oils and lotions.


She set down Galene’s pelt by the items and headed for the pile of clothing that was her own. She picked up a jacket from there and wrapped it around herself, tying it with a sash on her waist. It was not that warm, though it did hide the stains that marred her clothing from having spent the morning in the forest. Pulling the jacket’s collar higher, Irene crouched down by the hearth and extended her hands far enough to feel the heat of the fire, greedily drinking in the warmth and bringing life to her cold fingers.


“Galene shot a deer,” Irene said after a moment, turning her head to look at Hardeep. “I can skin it, if I am allowed a knife. Its hide is intact and large enough to make a jacket, or traded. There are merchants in this village that speak the languages I know. Bartering shouldn’t be a problem.”
 
@Lenaara


Hardeep glanced up from the fireplace he had seated himself in front of as Irene then Galene entered. They both appeared somewhat cold, Galene rubbing her arms feverishly before bending down and wrapping the pelt around herself again and plopping down in front of the fire, sticking her face as close to it as possible. It was clear that the heat was welcomed after being in the cold so long and the young girl didn't even seem to notice Hardeep's raised eyebrow or general sense of unease.


When Irene made mention that Galene shot a deer, his eyebrows raised even higher and he turned to stare at his own slave in surprise. "She did?" he said, partially shocked. "How?"


"With a bow and arrow," the young girl quipped, turning to glance at him and ask briefly, "where's Kydoimos?"


Orien shifted besides Hardeep, having busied himself with organizing the gifts received throughout the day.


"Elsewhere," Hardeep said carefully, knowing that the other rider's temper was simmering and flaring as the wind shifted, probably by the forest or other isolated region, attempting to destroy whatever it was they could get their hands on.


"Where's elsewhere?" Galene asked, forcing herself to her feet, clearly not looking forward to the idea of stepping out into the cold once more to find her master, fleeting and needy as they were.


"Probably village edge, towards where we came," Orien offered, forever helpful when Hardeep lacked in it. He watched Galene sigh and gather up her pelt before exiting the cabin, no doubt to investigate why Kydoimos wasn't in the warmth and why they were no doubt in a rotten mood.


Hardeep dug around on his own person and produced a knife, one with the family sigil carved onto the handle as well and provided it to Irene, mentioning to her not to forget to return it. Like she had a choice.


The rest of the hours passed by in some sort of languid blur, one that Hardeep did not fully participate in. One moment, he was staring at the fire and the next, he was somehow asleep on the floor, no doubt because of the lack of warmth driving him to consciousness the previous night. He groggily dragged himself over to the wall to lean on and spotted a bottle, one with a shiny symbol painted on it and lazily picked it up, turning it in his hands.


He unscrewed the lid the next second and drank from it, the burn making him wince but the warmth welcoming. He settled into the wall, pressing up against it and blinking blearily into the room before him, managing to catch Irene exiting and entering a few times alongside Orien, who appeared to be preparing dinner once more. Hardeep promised to pace himself and keep warm, nothing more, but still found himself blinking drowsily until the night had come and Galene had finally dragged a sulking Kydoimos in, her face darkened from cold and her eyebrows furrowed. The younger rider dropped themselves in front of the fire and glared at it, stewing.


Galene then disappeared elsewhere, no doubt to aid in the movement of the deer's meat and perhaps the selling of the pelt. At one point, she returned with vegetables and Orien continued his cooking before turning to Irene and speaking to the slave woman, mentioning her name and asking, "Would you like to taste this and tell me how it is? I used a few spices offered to us as gifts but am uncertain if they did well. Sir Hardeep is sort of... out," he added, no doubt glancing over at Hardeep and his lolling head.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


To her surprise, Warren did not leave to stand at his usual post after Irene returned, a knife in hand, to the deer. Instead, Warren stayed by her side, his hands clasped behind his back and his body bent over double to watch the woman crouch by the animal and begin preparing the area to skin the large game.


A trip to the well should have been short and ended up anything but. Many slaves stood there, alongside the mountain folk, trying to retrieve the water. While the villagers appeared patient with the slaves, Irene could see several younger ones tapping impatiently, while their eyes scanned the gathering crowd of slaves, all flocking to the well as their masters needed it for one reason or another.


Cold from the previous trip, and not fully warmed up by the hearth, Irene paced around the well as she waited. So when she returned, her hands numb from the cold and her shoulders aching as she carried the wooden basin, Warren glared at her suspiciously though did not demand an explanation of why she took her time in retrieving the water. Thankfully, Warren’s glare had dissipated into an expression of disgust shortly after Irene bled the deer.


Ashen faced and frowning, Warren retreated to his post after muttering that he was done. Irene only looked at the guard quizzically, though amused at his reaction. It was the same as the other day, when she prepared the rabbit to be skinned and pieced apart for meat. It was not the most pleasant of duties, though she could not remember the times when her stomach churned unpleasantly as she (or anyone else) took care of this task.


The deer was not yet scrawny from the late autumn’s frost. It took some time tending to it, taking the meat into the cabin and cleaning the hide, and Irene had forgotten about the cold as her hands worked. Warren did not say a single word to her, not even when she went around the cabin to dispose of the bloodied water and then headed for the well to refill the basin. His eyes watched her, though only when she stepped away from the deer’s carcass. That was enough to give her the hint that he wished not to help her with the task, so she had to wait for Galene to be nearby to ask the girl to help her cure the meat.


Irene entered the cabin only a few times, either to bring in a portion of the venison or to lie down the hide by the fire for it to dry. The hide was enough to make a coat for an adult, if the rest of the materials were nearby, and Irene told that to Galene. It was her kill, after all. It would be for Kydoimos to decide what to do with the hide.


Some of the meat was traded in for thicker clothing. They were just coats of thicker leather, lined at the collar with a rabbit’s fur. The leather was worn, the seams coming apart in certain areas, and the coats were large in size, but it was still a good deal. The merchant with whom Irene bartered appeared almost happy to hear a language that he understood, and Irene had to force herself to smile and look as pleased at the coincidence as he was.


Time flew by quickly. The day was filled with movement as one task changed into another. It reminded her of the older days and those memories gave her the energy to continue moving, going in and out of the cabin for some reason or another. Movement kept her warm and her mind empty of the paranoid thoughts and fears and anxieties that usually plagued her relentlessly.


What if Ammon was nearby? What if he saw her? What he if saw the collar? What if Galene suspected Irene’s true intentions of wanting to hunt? What if Hardeep, or Warren, or Kydoimos suspected something to be amiss?


No background story was even ready to be given if either of the men asked Irene of her past. What story could fit a woman who knew how to hunt and track animals, and then skin and cure the meat; who spoke many languages with ease and could guess the origins of the merchant by the little accents on their clothes; who knew how to barter; and who just happened to be Exiled.


A merchant, she supposed.


She’s never had to lie of her past before, not to this extent at least. Lying was not something she relied on often, and never thought herself to be a bad liar anyway, and instead told people half-truths. They were not lies, not in the true sense of the word, but they never quite conveyed enough truth to paint the full picture. People were given vague hints, pieces of a puzzle, the blanks of which they filled in with their own assumptions. It proved to be enough. Even Hardeep was given a half truth. “Memento from my homeland,” was not that far from the truth of the Mark, and that was not enough to satisfy Hardeep’s curiosity. She’d lied to him once, and she doubted that he would be as forgiving the next time she did. Especially if it concerned the true reason why she was covered in scars and could easily fill in Ming Xia’s role as a guide.


These thoughts were carefully pushed aside to be considered at a later time. For now, she had to work, do something she knew how to do much better than housework or tending to a dying field.


The tasks done, Irene sat as close as possible to the hearth. A comforting warmth seeped into her still cold hands and the orange firelight danced across the purple jacket that she spread over her lap. She had been broidering ever since she came back to the cabin, bringing the two coats with her.


At first the symbols on her coat made no sense. She began from the hem, weaving the deep purple thread through the cloth upwards and to the middle of the jacket’s back. There, a motif of curves formed a circle, within which a dragon’s wings were spread and curved downwards, along with its neck that pointed towards the coat’s hem.


It was elegant in its simplicity. It was also the first thing that came to her mind as she stared at the cloth, not knowing what to put onto it. It was always something from her life, a depiction of an event or some memorable person. What was more memorable than a dragon? She remembered flying on it so vividly that the feeling of being high up in the sky, free, still did not leave her mind.


When Orien spoke to her, Irene looked up from her handiwork and nodded, though reluctantly. Hiding the needle in the folds of the jacket, Irene got to her feet and approached Orien, a crinkle to her brow. She opened her mouth and closed it again, thinking it unwise to say that she knew little of cooking and when food is supposedly ready or not. Cooking rabbits over a campfire was much easier than what Orien was doing by the hearth.


She took a wooden spoon from the slave and tasted the food, chewing on it as she’d seen some housewives do when they were uncertain that the meat had cooked through correctly. It was…good, she supposed. Cooked through. Not bland. Not unhealthy. The smell delivered the promised taste. Or maybe it was supposed to taste differently? Maybe it had to be spicier? Saltier? Bland? Maybe Irene was doing the while housewife act wrong.


“Perhaps…more spices?” Irene handed Orien the spoon and followed his gaze to look at Hardeep. The man truly was out. She’d seen him doze on and off during her brief visits to the cabin, and she’d laid down his knife by him (some distance away, so he’d not cut himself on accident) unwilling to disturb his sleep.


Reaching out, Irene took a small pouch from a pack beside the hearth. Loosening the string that held it closed, she brought the pouch to her nose and sniffed at the spices within. They smelled almost sweet and tickled her nose – she even fought the urge to sneeze – and in the dim light she couldn’t see the colour of the spice. Still, it smelled…nice? Mountain bury them all, she knew herbs that eased pain and sped up healing; spices were all the same to her, no matter the colour. Cooking proved to be a skill she rarely, if ever, relied on. Lacking a home with a hearth erased the need of knowing how to make a broth.


“More spices should be there,” Irene gestured at the packs by the wall, while her other hand unceremoniously emptied the pouch over the pot. “I’ve noticed some dried herbs. A bundle of thyme, I think. A sprig of it should complement the meat.”


She’d heard Rael use such words before when he cooked for the two of them during Irene’s short stays in his hut. That man knew better than to ask Irene for help with cooking. One bad experience of eating her over salted stew was a good deterrent. So she was limited to prep duty, cutting up vegetables and meat and herbs.


“Should I,” Irene lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned closer to Orien, “take away his bottle?” She nodded at Hardeep.
 
@Lenaara


Orien watched Irene dump the packet of spices and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and then promptly bash his own skull into the side of the firepit. Instead, he simply rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.


"Moderation is much welcomed when preparing meals and consuming them," he said pointedly, glancing at the packages by the wall. "Are you suggesting that it does not have a strong enough taste for you?"


He glanced over at where Irene was gesturing, the empty bottle of datewine in Hardeep's hand, the rider curled up and half-asleep, chest rising and falling at a steady pace. Before he could offer an answer, the front door flung open and Galene reappeared, cheeks pink in color and a bundle clutched in her hand. The door was kicked shut behind her and the young girl sat herself down in front of the flames, dropping the package and sticking her hands in front of the warmth.


"It's getting very cold," she said matter-of-factly. "A few dragons appeared a while ago, with supplies. I think someone might have sent a message home, somehow, that the oats are getting low. Surprising; I didn't see many dragons outside when we came."


"Perhaps someone was smarter than us and pre-planned for a possible emergency," Orien said, stirring the pot and glancing at the package that Galene had so unceremoniously left. "What is that?"


"Dunno," Galene said, looking prepared to shove her fingers into the dancing flames. "Was for Kydoimos but they're still sulking."


Orien sighed heavily and lifted the spoon to taste, coughing a bit at the strong and overpowering flavor of spice and heat and tongue-numbing sensations. "I think this will have to do for today," he said afterwards, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Now would be a good time to simply announce a meal; get Hardeep over here and see if you can't grab Warren."


Galene gave a huffing sigh and stood once more, bustling towards the door and flinging it open before hollering, "WARREN, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE FOR DINNER."
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


Quirking a brow, Irene regarded the prepared food. She took the spoon and stirred the broth before lifting it to her lips, blowing on it gently and tasted it. “It tastes fine,” she said, giving Orien the spoon.


He tasted it moments after, coughing and wrinkling his nose. His reaction made Irene snort and smile at the other slave.


“Too spicy for you?” She mused. The spices she added into the broth looked familiar and did add a tinge of heat to the broth. Not too overpowering, though it did warm her up. Having been out in the cold all day made her crave a hot meal, no matter the flavour.


With a nod she turned, walking over to Hardeep and fell on one knee beside the man. A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, giving it a slight shake that in the end mattered little for Galene yelled her lungs out at the street in that moment. A stare was shot at the girl, one mirroring Warren’s as he braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned into the cabin.


A pained expression twisting his features, he narrowed his eyes at Galene and winced. “I am right here,” he said, tapping a foot against the doorframe. “No need to yell in my ear.”


Still wincing and rubbing his ear, Warren squeezed past Galene into the cabin and closed the door behind himself harshly. Cold had tinted his cheeks and nose a bright red colour and his lips were pale. As usual, a shawl was wrapped around his head. He promptly took the shawl off as he entered the warm room, revealing a messy crown of hair; his bangs were damp from rain. The shawl was left wrapped around his neck and Warren slumped down in front of the hearth, rubbing his hands together to bring some warmth into his numb fingers.


Irene turned her attention back to Hardeep. Surprisingly, Galene’s hollering did little to wake the rider.


“Lord Hardeep,” Irene said, exhaling with mild annoyance. Since morning she’d been waking up dragon riders. “Wake up.”


Suspiciously Irene looked at Orien, wondering if the other slave had decided to play the same joke on her as Hardeep did earlier that day.


“Dinner’s ready,” Irene continued and took the bottle from Hardeep. She expected it to be heavy and was surprised at its light weight. Holding the bottle by its neck, she brought it to her ear and gave it a shake. Liquid didn’t swish around. The bottle was empty, save for some leftover drops.


A frown was thrown at Hardeep and the bottle was placed by the wall, away from the man in case he turned it over in his attempt to get up. His knife was still on the floor, untouched since she’d given it back, and Irene took it. One of her hands hooked under Hardeep’s shoulders, slowly bringing the man into a sitting position. Leaning towards him, she reached for his belt and slid the knife into it. A strong sickly sweet scent of alcohol enveloped her and Irene winced, trying to ignore the stench that made her stomach churn.


“Come on, I will help you to the hearth,” she said, allowing the man to lean on her if he so wished, while her arm snaked around his shoulders for support. Her hold on the man was gentle, or as gentle as it could be given the awkward position, and steady.


From his spot by the hearth, Warren grumbled under his breath and glared at Irene, his lips thin and jaw set.
 
@Lenaara


"You've been standing out there for hours," Galene huffed as even Kydoimos poked their nose out from their room, frowning at the outburst before finally stepping out and finding a seat by the fire, tossing a glance and a glare at the other rider who was currently very close to being drunk. "I figured if I didn't holler, you wouldn't understand the fact that you needed to get inside." The slam of the door earned Warren a scoff and eye roll from Galene, clearly unimpressed.


"No need to be grouchy, just some yelling," she sniffed, sitting down to Orien, who leaned over and told her, "This might burn." He offered no further explanation, gaining a glance of confusion from the younger slave.


Hardeep made a noise of surprise when he was hauled upwards, leaning against Irene and nearly tipping them both over. "Hey, what now?" the man asked, blinking quickly and swiveling his head around, seemingly finally realizing where he was and drinking in the scenery before noting the hearth and Orien in front of it, already pulling out bowls and ladling the soup into them. He passed a bowl to Warren and muttered, "It is quite hot," before turning to continue serving. Hardeep, in the meantime, threw an arm around Irene's shoulders, heavy and wild and all too fast, turning to stare down at her with a sloppy half grin.


"Nice of ya," he said, putting one foot in front of the other, "nice of ya to help me over, though you're not the one I would've picked. Kinda bony." He slid onto the floor by the hearth soon after, taking the bowl offered to him from Orien.


"You're drunk," Galene said, poking at her own stew with a questioning stare, the broth redder than it was the last night.


"Tipsy," Hardeep corrected, brandishing his spoon and pointing it in Galene's general direction. "'M not drunk yet."


"Getting there," Galene offered and Orien simply sighed, seemingly resisting the urge to dunk his entire head into the remaining dinner and just wait for the others to finish or for his own life to. He simply continued passing around bowls and spoons before finally folding his legs and sitting down to being his own meal.


Kydoimos choked on the first spoonful, the clattering of their bowl hitting the ground and the sound of broth being spilled everywhere soon following. Galene lifted herself up to see them turned away from the hearth and the spilled meal, coughing wildly and clutching their throat, eyes watering.


She lowered her own bowl cautiously.


Hardeep had glanced over and was staring at the other rider with a confused stare. "Too strong for your taste? Or was it just so bad?" he asked before scooping a spoonful into his own mouth and spitting it back out, dropping the bowl as unceremoniously. "Good gods," he said, eyebrows wrinkled and eyes squinted against the burn, "what the hell did you do this time Orien?"


"I asked the wrong person for help," Orien offered lamely, though he did seem mildly amused by the rider's suffering.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


Mountain help me.


Irene sighed through her nose, regarding Hardeep with a tired look as she struggled to keep the man from toppling over. Thank the Mountain for her training, as it kicked in when the rider leaned against her with all his weight and threatened to pull them both to the floor. She regained her balance quickly, offering Hardeep support to lean on as the two of them slowly neared the fire, both holding onto each other.


At his words, Irene halted for a second and considering letting go of Hardeep to let him crumble to the floor.


“Do not worry,” she said, turning her head to look in front of her as they walked to the hearth. “You’re not my type either. I prefer clean shaven men.”


The two of them were at the hearth then and Irene’s words reached Warren, who let out a choking sound as he looked at his master and the slave by his side. The guard opened his mouth, his angry eyes speaking volumes on his opinion of Irene’s words, and closed it promptly as Galene spoke up instead. Cupping his bowl in his hands, the guard grunted a sound of disapproval at Irene and picked up his spoon to taste the food offered to him.


And choked.


Dunking the spoon into the broth, the bowl cluttered against the floorboards as Warren set it down, scrambled to his feet and neared the basins of clean water with damning speed. He fell to his knees and gulped several mouthfuls of water, his hands braced on the basin as he hovered over it, gasping for air.


“I should have stayed outside,” he breathed, heaving, and ran a hand over his face.


Irene, who took her own bowl from Orien after letting go of Hardeep and making sure that he wouldn’t topple over into the hearth, stared at the commotion blankly, absently chewing on a mouthful of broth. The taste was fine, nothing was wrong with it. It smelled of spices and rabbit’s meat and several herbs, and the broth was thick and warm. The second mouthful hinted at spiciness, though she did not run to the water as Warren did or—


The bowl falling to the floor made Irene set hers down and climb to her feet, snatching a piece of linen from beside the hearth and crouched by the spilled broth. As her hands quickly cleaned the mess – it being a habit to clean up such things from her time with Hisraad, and she hated herself for the automatic impulse to clean before being punished for her slow reaction – she looked up at Orien and pressed her lips tightly, the now stained with broth linen cloth bundled up in one hand and the other cupped the fallen bowl.


“Look,” she said, drawing small circles with the bowl in mid-air dismissively. “I am a bad cook. Why do you think I have not been married in my twenty-seven years?"


“What did you do?” Warren spat.


“Emptied a pouch of spices into the pot. It was a red pouch.”


Warren groaned, running his damp hand through his hair and remained kneeling by the basins, grumbling under his breath that he was going to be sick. Irene ignored him and got up, walking to the other basin to put the stained cloth and the bowl into the water. With the floor cleaned up (thankfully none of the broth reached the rug), she retreated to her spot between Hardeep and Galene and sat down at the same time as she picked up her bowl.


She’d stared at the meal for a moment, wondering if maybe she’d gotten the less spicy part of the broth. It was the same colour as the one that Kydoimos spilled, the same colour as was one both in Hardeep’s and Galene’s hands. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and Irene took another spoonful, enjoying the taste of the broth that warmed her chest and cheeks. Warren looked away, hiding his disgusted wince.


“There is nothing wrong with it,” Irene said.


“Sir Hardeep, I beg you not to risk your health. Do not eat it,” Warren spoke up from his spot by the basin.


“It will not kill him,” Irene said to Warren, her brows furrowing. The broth was spicy, yes, but not enough to warrant just exaggerated reactions from the rest of the group. Glancing at Galene, Irene noticed that the girl did not touch her share yet. “Taste it.”
 
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@Lenaara


Galene turned to stare at Orien in almost horror before looking down at her own bowl.


"Its all we've got," Orien said with a shrug, "and it may warm you."


"I think its burning my throat," Kydoimos wheezed.


"Eat is slower, sir," Orien advised before lifting a spoon to his own mouth, tasting it. He coughed slightly but fished out a piece of meat next, popping it into his mouth and chewing before making a noise that sounded dully impressed. "The meat tastes good at the least. It is unwise to waste food, especially if it is still edible. I highly advise you all at least eat the meat to keep up your strength."


Galene dipped her own spoon into the broth and sipped at the liquid, pressing her lips together and smacking them quietly, as if trying to decide whether or not she liked the taste. She seemed to have come to the conclusion that yes, it was palatable and picked the bowl up, drinking the broth in a few large gulps.


Kydoimos was staring at her blankly, half in awe and half in fear.


"You're all fucking pansies," Galene muttered, using her spoon to scoop a few chunks of meat and a few leaves into her mouth. "It's not too bad and besides, makes you feel warm."


"I got alcohol for that," Hardeep said loudly, pointing in Galene's direction and tipping over, his arm colliding with Irene's back. He huffed an apology and tipped backwards to put some space between them, falling completely over and laying his head onto Kydoimos' leg, earning a glare from the other rider.


"I think you've got enough alcohol," Kydoimos snapped, shoving at the other rider. Hardeep sat up with a frown before shuffling over and turning around, abandoning his meal completely and appearing behind Orien's back, pulling his legs under him and sitting on them, kneeling behind the slave. He rested his chin on Orien's shoulder, making the slave stiffen and even causing Galene to cast a wary eye at him.


"You seem to be eating it very well," Hardeep said lowly as Orien slowly swallowed another spoonful. "Not bothering you?"


"No," Orien said stiffly.


Hardeep made a hrumph sound and moved off of the slave, straightening for a moment before sitting back onto the floor and giving himself a push with his hands, sliding smoothly over to Galene like a child.


"Why are you eating it so well?" Hardeep asked, reaching a finger up and poking it at Galene's cheek while the slave chewed, earning a sharp turn of the head and a slap of the end, swatting away the finger. Hardeep made a noise of surprise, tilting his head in confusion and looking insulted. "Rude," he muttered, pulling his knees up to his chest and sulking for a brief moment as Galene ate, one eye on the other rider. Orien, who had glanced over at Hardeep's antics and turned back around to his food, took a chance glance at Kydoimos, who was slowly eating some of the meat within the stew. Their face was also turned towards Galene and the rider, though their face was pinched in what seemed like anger, their mouth a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, eyes staring daggers into Hardeep.


Hardeep took the moment, either not noticing Kydoimos' anger or choosing to ignore it, to reach up and tap a finger beneath Galene's eye, starling the slave into leaning away from the rider, giving him a look of surprise. Hardeep leaned forward as she leaned away, nearly making Orien laugh if it wasn't for the sound of Kydoimos slamming their bowl onto the floor.


"Your eyes look like Irene's," Hardeep said, Galene having glanced over at her rider who was now making moves to stand up and drag Hardeep away. "Do you two know each other?"


"We're in the same cabin and went hunting together," Galene offered the rider as Kydoimos grabbed two fistfuls of Hardeep's furs and yanked him forcibly away. Hardeep yelped slightly before laughing, head lolling back so that he could stare up at them, a sloppy grin on his face. Kydoimos only glared back down.


"Ya know," Hardeep said as Kydoimos dragged him back to his original spot, dropping the rider and allowing him to fall flat on his back onto the floor, "you're a pretty tough guy."


Kydoimos said nothing and scooped a piece of meat into their mouth.


"I mean it," Hardeep said, rolling over so that he was laying on his stomach and propping his head up with his hands. "Strong, too. Your brother was strong. Really strong. Like. Pick-me-up-and-carry-me-to-bed strong."


Galene choked into her stew and Orien shoved a spoonful into his own mouth rapidly.


"Does he do that to everyone he fucks?"


An oh my gods could be heard as Galene continued to disappear into her soup bowl.


"He's really good at that, too," Hardeep added, crawling forward so that he could lay his chin on Kydoimos' leg, earning a sharp glare and uncomfortable swallow from the other rider. "Do you want me to show you?" He tilted his head slightly. "You know, I think dick sizes are heridetary. So it'll be fairly accurate."


Kydoimos choked slightly, inhaling a mouthful too fast and bent over double, coughing up whatever it was they had swallowed by accident. Galene's face had darkened in color and she was rocking back and forth slightly, eyes watering in contained laughter. There was a sharp inhale from her end, followed by a series of coughs. Orien was simply staring slightly bug-eyed, having never seen Hardeep quite so tipsy and borderline drunk before. Usually, their moments were quiet ones, in sobriety and darkness, secret and half-forbidden for some twisted reason.


"No," Kydoimos said stiffly, shuffling slightly to the left. Hardeep sighed and sat up before twisting around and leaning his back onto Kydoimos' side.


"You're no fun," Hardeep sniffed, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the room, specifically zoning in on Orien.


Galene had stopped laughing at that point, her own face blank and eyes darting between the two. Something had occurred, that much she knew. That much, everyone knew and it was somewhat concerning to see the gaze that Hardeep had fixed on the slave, one that was probably used at Kydoimos while the rider spoke about their brother.


"You and I had some fun," he said to Orien as the world seemed to watch. "What ever happened to that? You got kinda... I dunno," Hardeep finished lamely, shrugging. "Boring? Sad? Desperate? Or was that me?" Hardeep tipped his head back, leaning against Kydoimos', who had stilled as well, their eyes traveling to the slave being questioned at the moment. "I can't even remember. Can't even tell. Suppose in the end, it was always too good or too bad."


Orien's face was still, as was the rest of the cabin, his lips pursed and eyes trained to the ground though his head was level. He turned to Irene.


"Irene," Orien said stiffly, "I think Hardeep could use some rest. Do you think you could take him to his room?"


Galene was eating silently.
 
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@FloatingAroundSpace


Hesitantly, Warren began eating his share. He picked up his bowl from where he left it, and propping his elbow on the basin, began eating slowly and carefully. An expression of disgust twisted his features with each bite and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand every so often. His lips were redder, as were his cheeks, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He even moved away from the hearth and pulled off the shawl from his neck.


After another spoonful of broth, Warren coughed and greedily drank some of the water. Irene could see firelight dance in the tears that appeared in Warren’s eyes. Maybe he did not take spices as easily as the rest of the group, because even Orien and Kydoimos continued eating.


Irene finished her bowl quickly, used to eating her share before it was taken away (a habit from her past life as well as present), and set the empty dish onto the floor. At that moment, Hardeep voiced such comments that the bowl nearly slipped from her fingers and she choked on the piece of meat that she’d been chewing.


Coughing, she tapped her chest with her fist, looking away and breathing “Excuse me,” mid-cough.


Warren choked on the water and spilled some of it over his armour. Water stained his chest and he was stuck in uncontrollable coughing fit.


Silence fell over the room when Hardeep spoke to Orien. Even Warren managed to stop coughing, though he was still wheezing and an occasional cough would make his chest jerk. Irene froze, her hand holding the empty bowls an inch over the ground as she gathered them from the group – so far she’d picked up Hardeep’s almost untouched meal, her own, and Warren’s – and glanced up, looking from Orien to Hardeep and back.


The entire conversation she tried to mute out, as much as Warren tried to do the same. She guessed, as he refused to look at his master too. The two of them knew their place, each having their own reasons to remain silent while the rest of the group did not. Warren was too loyal to his rider and probably never even considered the possibility of interrupting Hardeep, even if the other was drunk. Irene had a different reason – fear. Fear of punishment, fear of sticking her nose where it shouldn’t be; fear of invading someone’s privacy; fear of standing out too much, attracting unwanted attention that could bring many problems along with it.


Out of curiosity and to assess just how badly the situation developed, Irene glanced at the group. Everyone stiffened, silent. Warren gaped at Hardeep, his lips pursed in…was that anger? The guard’s jaw was clenched and a vein popped at his temple. Not a word was uttered, though Irene could see those unsaid words in Warren’s eyes. His lips trembled and his body moved forward towards Orien, maybe to comfort the other slave, but instead Warren looked away and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes cast down in shame.


Irene pressed her lips together tightly into a thin line, draining all colour from them. She looked at Hardeep with silent judgement in her eyes.


Hardeep’s words and actions were amusing at first. It was a good change. It brightened the mood, draining the tension and the cold. Even the rapidly worsening weather outside did not seem as menacing as it should have been. Irene snorted at the sight of Hardeep laying on his stomach in front of Kydoimos, for she’d never imagined that to ever happen.  


Then it changed, the alcohol driving the man to say words that should not be voiced in public. No wonder Orien stiffened and Warren fought his internal battles between personal feelings and his loyalty.


No one dared move. Rain continued to pat on the rooftop of their cabin. Fire crackled and the flames danced in the hearth with each gust of wind that entered the cabin through the narrow cracks in the walls. Outside, someone yelled in the street and mud sloshed beneath someone’s feet as they hurried off.


Orien’s voice cut the silence. Irene nodded to his request, getting on her feet and putting the bowls that she’d picked up by the water basin. Warren avoided her glance, hiding his eyes in the palm of his hand. Was he ashamed? Angry? Sad? She could only guess and felt a pang of pity for the guard. For all his flaws (or strengths, for he did his job as it should be done), he was still a man. A man whose feelings for the other slave were apparent to all, and still hidden. Orien was Hardeep’s lover. Warren could harbour feelings for the slave and never be allowed to act on them. He was too loyal and too scared to take a chance of a relationship with someone who was – or still is – dear to his rider. Just as any man he was angry that someone had insulted someone he loved, even if unintentionally and while under the influence of alcohol.


Irene let her hand brush over Warren’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. Beneath her palm she felt the guard tense up, his lips part in a gasp, but he did not slap her hand away. She continued to Hardeep and fell on one knee before the rider, reaching for his arm to help him up.


“Come on,” she said quietly. “I will help you to your bed.”


She took his arm and stood up, pulling the man to his feet and allowing him to lean on her if he couldn’t stand straight. This time she turned her face away from Hardeep to avoid inhaling the strong scent of datewine. It still filled her nose regardless and she winced, hiding the disgust by refusing to look at Hardeep. Like that they walked to his room, with Irene’s hand clasped around Hardeep’s arm and placed the other on his back in case he lost his balance. Switching grips on his arm, Irene spared a hand to push open the door to Hardeep’s room and entered it, pushing the door to a close behind her gently.


“You should rest,” Irene said, letting go of Hardeep’s arm.
 
@Lenaara


Hardeep made a brief noise of surprise when Irene touched him, though he obeyed and got to his feet with a grunt, unaware of the stares he was getting from Galene and Kydoimos. The rider's was blank, empty, almost in shock. Galene's was far more accusatory, with narrowed eyes and a sharp frown of thinned lips and fingers that curled around her bowl too tightly. He got to his feet easily enough, turning on one heel to face his room before leaning into Irene, his shoulder dumping into hers and his head lolling towards her, resting against her temple. "Your eyes do look like Galene's," he said, his mind switching topics though his tone of voice was soft and quiet, as if he was at least somewhat aware of the words he had spoken. "Very similar. And you speak the same language, too. Or at least, I assume so."


Once they were inside and she had let go, Hardeep flung his arm over her shoulder, his hand coming to rest by it. He blinked blearily at the bed before walking towards it, pushing Irene along with the use of his arm before twisting around and falling backwards onto it, hitting his head against the wooden wall in the process. He swore and rubbed at the back, sitting up a bit better and peering up at the slave.


"What do you think of slaves?" he asked her abruptly. "You weren't always one; very few are. What are your opinions about their lives, the way they stand?"


He wasn't sure if he was curious or if he was searching for the answer he wanted or didn't want. He wasn't sure if he expected a response that she would create to align with whatever views she perceived him to have, whatever those were. They probably had to do with some level of not-caringness, especially after the conversation beyond the doors, near the flickering flames.


The fact that Hardeep hadn't eaten flickered across his mind briefly. He did not care to dwell on it, instead tilting his head at Irene and waiting.


----


Galene glanced over at Orien, who had turned back to his bowl and was finishing it in dead silence. The crackle of the fire was now so loud, sounding like the beams of buildings crumbling, of stones hurling towards the ground, heavy and impossible to toss or lift. The wind was howling, screaming like the dragons and the dying and Galene lifted a spoonful of broth to her own mouth silently.


The quiet was anything but. It felt thick like paste and it felt like it had stretched itself across the space that was now empty and devoid of any spoken word. Warren would not speak, she knew. Because of Hardeep's words, of course, but it mattered more how he thought of them, whether or not they seemed like words designed to hurt or the ramblings of a drunken man.


Her eyes found Kydoimos'.


It doesn't matter that he's drunk, they would sometimes snap, he means what he says. Alcohol is to loosen the tongue, not tighten the brain.


She swallowed her next spoonful silently, eyes returning to the bowl.


When she finished, she placed it on the ground, glancing around. Orien had finished as well and moved to collect the empty bowls and the still full one that Hardeep had dropped and abandoned. For a second, his fingers stilled and she wondered if she should get up and take it instead, make the decision whether or not to give it to the rider or throw it away or--


"Warren," Orien called out, picking up the bowl and standing, turning to face the guard. Galene followed his gaze as well, face turned to the man who was far too obedient for his own good.


No longer.


"Did you want some more?"


It was such a simple, normal question that Galene had to suppress the urge to laugh. More. More what? Broth, clearly, but they all knew that Warren was not inclined to drink anymore broth, having already made an episode over the spoonful he had consumed earlier. So why ask?
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene had been about to turn around and head out of the room when she felt Hardeep’s arm snake around her shoulders and push her to the bed. A glance was thrown at the door. It was closed. Even if it was not, what did it matter? Hisraad never cared for such trivial things, not even when his daughter and wife were somewhere in the house. Her mind jumped to the memory of her previous master the moment she felt Hardeep walk to the bed and push Irene along with him. Those memories were not pleasant and brought forth mild anger that simmered at the back of her mind. It was no wonder that she regarded the bed with mild concern and sat down nonetheless on its edge.


“I know many languages,” she said, replying to his previous comment. “Galene and I are not from the same nation. Izmar only has slaves with her dark skin.”


It was pure speculation on her part. Galene could have been from Izmar or not. The girl spoke and carried herself with dignity of a noble, and no noble of Izmar would dare taint their pristine bloodline with anyone outside their sacred homeland, let alone with a slave to bring a darker skinned child into this world.


Hardeep’s question snapped Irene out of her thoughts and she looked at the rider over her shoulder, lips parted in surprise. His question was unexpected. Did he make her stay for this, to talk? She’d assumed him to be like any other man, like Hisraad. A man who preferred action as opposed to long talks of opinions.


Look at me, she wanted to say. Look at me and see for yourself what I think of slaves’ lives. What they experience, endure and stay silent about. Prayers are left unanswered and most nights they cry themselves to sleep. Many end their lives while there is still something of them left. Others become husks, mindless servants. Cattle. They are reduced to cattle. That is what I think.









There was a time when Irene worked for a man who dealt in slaves. He’d lock them up in cages made carriages and hide them from the prying eyes of the city guards as they rode through the dark night streets to ships that would sail off to faraway lands. The guards were paid off. The ship crew was paid off. Everyone who had the power to stop a shipment of people were bribed with so much coin that none dared utter a word. That coin showed the power of that man and many feared him, for good reason.


Irene was paid off, too. She had not realized what she was guarding until they stopped at the harbour, the night before the cargo was loaded onto the ship.


That day she freed those slaves and instead of getting a poisoned dagger in between her shoulder blades, for that is how that man disposed of those not loyal to him, she received a warning. A warning in the form of coin and a message that the man was amused. She’d later received word that all those who worked for that man were killed, one by one, found in some alley or a ditch or washed to the shore by the river’s waters.


She’d never dealt with that man again. He’d captured a new batch of slaves. His business continued.


Back then she’d not realized what those people in cages were condemned to. What awaited them upon arrival. As any other person she chose to live in ignorance and reassured her conscience with thoughts that she, a mercenary of limited repute, couldn’t stop such a vast business.


The leather collar around her neck suddenly felt tighter and Irene lifted a hand to hook her fingers into the leather, pulling against it. Karma, she supposed.


“I understand the need for slaves,” she said, looking away from Hardeep and absently stared at the wall. “Their role in your society. It is cheap labour, good business. They are easy to manage and replace. My own homeland relies on them, as do many other nations. Some willingly sell themselves into slavery to escape poverty. For some it is salvation from sure death.”


She turned on the bed to look at Hardeep.


“Their lives, or mine?” Her hand remained on the collar, either because it was choking her or because she wanted to remind Hardeep that she was a slave. Sighing silently through her nose, Irene shifted her gaze from Hardeep and thought on her words. “I understand the need for slaves, and I disagree with it. As a slave you do not matter. Your principles are forgotten; your wishes are reduced to impossible dreams. Your future is irrelevant. No matter the master, be they benevolent or cruel, a position of a slave is unchangeable. Their lives can be easy and relatively carefree; or they struggle to live another day and pray they do not die from hunger or beatings.”


It was common sense. It was how the slaves were viewed by all, sometimes with pity and sometimes with no emotion at all.


No poison coated Irene’s words (except for when her eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of hunger and beatings and her back ached at the memory of Hisraad). Her eyes were not cold. They were tired, filled with contemplation for she was not sure how to respond to Hardeep’s question. Hardeep’s views could be that of any other master – a slave is a slave, stripped of hopes and dreams and filled with the wish to obey their master. They could be that of a man who hated slavery. He could have had no views at all.


The reality of slavery had long dawned on her. She’d accepted the truth behind it, though never bent down under its pressure like most slaves did. Hisraad tried to break her, make her join his mindless slave force. And maybe she would have, had Balin not rescued her.


“To me, in the end it doesn’t matter what master it is, what life it is. A collar still binds us regardless. No one should be reduced to nothing. Slaves are people, individuals. Not cattle.” Finally, she lifted her eyes to look at Hardeep. Her fingers pulled on the collar as much as the stiff leather allowed it. “I suppose my words aren’t enough to free me from this and let me go?”


It was a bold question and a foolish one. Irene regretted the words the moment they left her lips and she looked away from Hardeep, letting her hand slide from the collar and rest on her lap.


Wishing to change the subject, Irene asked, “Do you require my help with taking off your amour?”





***





Warren had not lifted his eyes when Hardeep and Irene departed. He heard them walk, one silent and the other uneven as he leaned his body against the smaller figure. The guard’s eyes were half closed as he watched the floor and in the corner of his vision he could see the door to his master’s room swing to a close. Even with Hardeep gone Warren did not dare look up. He did not dare move.


He was frozen in shame. Shame that he feared would show the moment he’d remove his hand and look at the others, at Orien.


You knew they were lovers.


He did. It did not make Hardeep’s words any less insulting. They were a reminder of what Hardeep was to Orien, what they’ve done and how they ended up as. The slaves and servants of the Passi household talked in whispers, glancing at each other like young women who had just heard a juicy piece of gossip. No one knew for sure of what had happened between Orien and Hardeep, but they guessed from how infrequent the male slave visited their young master’s quarters, or did not.


Orien addressing Hardeep by his first name alone was enough to prove those rumours right. Hardeep. Just Hardeep. No one dared call the rider in such an impolite way, save for Galene and a handful of others. Orien could because they once shared an intimate relationship. Maybe they still did. Maybe Orien still wished he did.


Warren gripped his head tighter with his hand, refusing to think on such thoughts.


You knew you cannot feel anything for him.


He did. It did not stop his eyes from finding Orien in the crowd. It did not stop his heart from racing each time the man passed by him, doing some daily task or another. It did not stop Warren from looking away in shame for even considering the possibility of talking to Orien.


You know what is your duty as Sir Hardeep’s guard.


He did. And for once, he hated it.


Hearing his name made Warren’s shoulders jerk and he lowered his hand, looking at Orien with surprise. If Warren was ashamed, how did Orien feel? His relationship with Hardeep was just announced by the rider himself, the alcohol loosening his tongue. Warren wished to erase his master’s words from his mind and yet they were still there, clear as day.


Sir Balin would never dare act in such a disrespectful way.


“Huh?” Warren’s gaze fell on the bowl and his hand instinctively lifted up to reach for it. He stopped himself before he could take the bowl. It was Hardeep’s bowl. Sir Hardeep’s bowl. His share, one he did not finish and instead went to lie on the other riders’ lap and poke at Galene’s face while uttering the most absurd of comments. Like who shared his bed and how.


Sir Balin would never dare act like Hardeep had.


Warren reached for the bowl. “Yes, thank you.” After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Do you need help? With anything?”
 
@Lenaara


Hardeep rolled his head around his neck and peered up at the ceiling as Irene spoke, the words meaning something but at the same time very little. "My mother believed that, too," he said. "She thought that no mater where we were, what we did, we were all good and bad and that if slavery was supposed to be some punishment, that it was far too harsh because it didn't foster any good." He turned his head to stare at Irene. "She thought that all humans were so, that they should all be free to live.


"Do you know what they thought, when she said that? When she suggested that the backs of slaves were not worth the coins that they brought in?"


His tone turned sharper, harder, cutting through the air.


"The laughed. Said she was a fool to believe that there would be any way else, any way around the fact that slaves are what we use to keep our homes clean, our fields tended. Said she was a little girl with her head still stuck up in the clouds, having never gotten off the dragon once she got on.


"I think they were talking about my father being the dragon, too," he added as an afterthought before shaking his head slightly and leaning back so that he rested against the wall, head turning to look at Irene dully.


"I am not my mother," he said in a stone voice, in response to her request for her freedom.


Balin would not have released her, either.


"Balin only decided to pick up pieces of what she believed," he added, turning to look at the ceiling again. "He never believed, I don't think not truly like she did, that we could free them. That they even deserved to be free." He barked a laugh. "Kindness does not mean seeing someone as equal or deserving."


He sat up completely, pulling at the leather straps on his armor.


"Do you believe my father a good man? Be honest," he added, the last two words spoken with a bite. He yanked at his own armor, not bothering to take up the slave's request or offer of help, whichever one it was.


----


Orien dragged a tired hand down his face as he heard Kydoimos and Galene get up, probably to do their own cleaning.


"I could have some help with putting things away," he said wearily. "Washing the bowls in this weather will prove to be cold so I'd like a few extra hands to speed things along."


He was tired.


Gods he was tired. He wasn't that old and already he felt exhausted and drained and like the world had emptied him of any sort of willingness and energy. Hardeep had been, for a brief moment, a glimpse back in time, back to when life had a rhythm that was natural for him, one that involved studying and books and the taste of his mother's recipes. He had been allowed many things, when he was Hardeep's lover including information others were not privy to about the Passis, about the way the household worked. He was allowed food that the others could not taste and books the others could not have. He was allowed a time of luxury and leisure and for Orien, he believed the end would simply come when Hardeep was bored.


Except Hardeep didn't become bored. He became distant.


There was a distinction where Orien wished there wasn't and sometimes, he wondered if there were still chances when things could have ended more in boredom than silence, as was now the norm.


"Please," Orien added in a rasp.


He was so tired.
 
@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene listened to Hardeep quietly, looking at the man the same way she looked at him that night by the fire, sharing memories that were both heavy and light, pleasant and not so much. It was usually Sir Hardeep who spoke to her, as rarely as that happened, and she limited her conversations with him to a few words. If she was allowed a knife. If she was allowed to hunt. If she could help him with one thing or another. As that night, it was Hardeep who spoke to her now and to whom she could respond freely, without fearing for someone to listen in.


The topic changed to that of his mother and Irene felt uneasy, awkward almost to be told such words. What word of advice could she offer? She, who lost her mother at an age when having one meant so much for a young girl? When she thought of parents, she thought of Leon. It was always Leon, for he raised her to be the woman she now was. It was not her mother, who visited rarely and who taught Irene the skills of a housewife. It was not her father, whom she did not remember at all. It was Leon.


There was no advice she could offer Hardeep. Her mother never questioned slavery. She was raised by the Izmarian culture and was exposed only briefly to Vanguard, where the society was completely different. Her mother would have laughed at Hardeep’s mother, too.


His laugh made Irene flinch slightly and she regarded the rider with thinned lips and slightly narrowed eyes.


“Everyone should be free,” she said quietly. “What they do with their freedom is going to decide whether or not they deserve it. Not men dressed in finery, sitting in their seats of gold thinking they know best.”


This time poison was apparent in her voice. Freedom was a sensitive topic. To hear that people, slaves, did not deserve to be free was—


Irene looked away from Hardeep, realizing the truth to her words. She was free once. Now she was a slave. Perhaps she deserved it for all the lives she’s taken and for all the lives she’s saved all because of a selfish wish. It was not kindness that stilled her blade from cutting down a man who happened to be her enemy because of some unfortunate circumstances. She knew that long ago, that what stilled her blade was a stubborn and selfish wish born of fear that took root in her heart as she watched Leon die an old, frail man.


Maybe she did not deserve to be free but that did not mean she could not retake her freedom.


She turned her head to look at Hardeep in time to see him sit up and pull on the straps of his armour. He had not replied to her question, though Irene still turned on the bed to face him completely, one leg folded under her, and reached for his hands. A gentle hand was placed over his to stop him yanking forcefully at the armour, and took the strap to pull against it herself.


“I have been to nations where slavery does not exist. There the fields are tended to and the homes are clean,” Irene said, her eyes focused on the leather straps. “Your mother was an admirable woman. Just because others did not agree with her views, it does not mean she was wrong.”


Hardeep’s question made Irene’s hands halt for a moment and she looked up at the man, leaning back.


“Your father?” She asked, returning her attention to the straps. Another was loosened and she leaned in slightly to unwrap the furs from around Hardeep’s shoulders.


Be honest. Was that in regards to her other lie?


“I did not know your father,” Irene finally said, not quite sure if that was the answer Hardeep was looking for. “We’d exchanged only a handful of words. He told me to get on the dragon and asked me if I know how to ride a horse.” She snorted at the memory, shaking her head slightly. “I found that question odd. A horse is hardly a dragon.”


She’d set the furs onto the bed and continued with the chest piece of the armour, guessing mostly which piece had to be untied first. It was the first time she was taking off a dragon rider’s armour. It was intricate in its design, and had she not been experienced in wearing similar layers of protective leather paddings, she’d have been utterly lost.


“He’d asked for my name, and when I answered, he’d said it…kindly. He’d never touched me, as many would a slave to see what they were buying. He’d threatened the man who starved and beaten me. He let me fly on a dragon.” Her hands moved towards Hardeep’s arm so she’d take off the armguard. “Still, your father bought me as a slave to serve you in bed.”


Leaning back, Irene spared a hand to push her braid behind her back and with her other untangled the leather strap, pulling the bracer off Hardeep’s arm.


“He appeared a kind man. The same way you appeared an angry man when we first met. You proved to be calm since then. First impressions are not always the right ones,” she continued, not looking up at Hardeep, and began to unfasten the straps of over his other arm. “I believe your father to have been a good man during our brief meeting. After two years of Hisraad, your father was one of the few kind people I’ve met.


Was he a good man, a good father?”
 
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