1

It was still early in the morning even by her majesty’s standards, when she stirred at the sound of someone climbing the creaking stairs. The whole flimsy cabin appeared to groan and sway under the visitor’s weight, though it was likely more a problem of the architecture. Shortly, the door was unlocked, and the same crude-looking pirate man peered in, who had originally delivered her.

“Wakey-wakey, your majesty!” the man gleefully—mockingly—greeted Yuliana, and tossed a bundle of clothes at her when she was barely up on her feet. “Rise ‘n shine! We are at no royal ball now; here’s an outfit more suited for ya!”

Still drowsy and blinking, Yuliana examined the clothes in her arms. It was certainly not a very regal outfit, but neither was it the sort of a scandalous garb you’d put on a prized slave to display her assets. They were only some unisex rags, a white cotton blouse, a pair of sand-colored capri pants, a crude leather belt, and small shoes, all secondhand and worn thin, but washed, at least. She thanked the man with only a reproachful scowl. He seemed to care little for her opinion.

“See here, your majesty,” the man proceeded to explain, “we have a handful of real simple rules about this place. The most important one is this: you gotta work for what you eat. Doesn’t matter who you are, or what you’re here for. Ought to be plain enough for even a noble to understand, yes? Not up to it and you can starve, for all I care.”

Yuliana didn’t find this ultimatum any more worthy of a response. She would not be threatened or coerced. Yet, she was at the same time painfully aware of her own vulnerability, and the dread left by unsavory past experiences had not fully left her. What were they going to make her do? Whatever it was, she would have no other real choice but to do it, or else be left trapped without food or water. And what else could await her but defilement and torture, when speaking of dedicated, unconscionable criminals?

“Aye, it so happens we’ve already got a job set for you.” The man answered Yuliana’s tense, suspicious glare with an off-putting grin, as if he had read her mind.

“Something only a woman can do…”

2

A cramped tunnel led to a cavern under the hills, a short distance from the town. Water had worn the cavity over untold ages into an onion-like shape, and even now there was a steady downpour coming down a crack in the ceiling. Through another opening in the south side, a blade of daylight cut in, allowing for a dim but just about sufficient view of the place. Yuliana was brought into this cavern, and she crept on like a cat, tense and grinding her teeth, prepared to fight to the bitter end for her dignity and well-being.

Was this their torture chamber, or some such pit of depravity, where not even the heavens might see the atrocities committed?

Given no choice, Yuliana climbed down a set of flimsy bamboo ladders to the bottom of the cave. There she saw several wide, shallow wood barrels on the ground. The barrels were full of clothes, tall, colorful mounds of them. Garments the pirates had looted off their victims’ corpses, no doubt, appropriated for personal use. Was nothing sacred to these animals? Could they not even make their own costumes, but had to rob everything at the expense of innocent people’s lives? Yuliana stared at those cloth heaps, shuddering in revulsion, like seeing so many corpses, and thought she was going to faint.

Near the middle of the cave was a round basin the ceaseless stream had eroded, around which were several women kneeling, equipped with washboards, busily scrubbing the clothes clean. Other slaves the renegades had captured, forced to labor endlessly just to keep their lives? How terrible!

“Here,” the pirate man told Yuliana, handing her a washboard. “I trust the supreme imperator knows how to use one. If not, ask the ladies for instructions. Then, have a pleasant day.”

Saying no more, the man climbed up the ladder out of the cavern and was gone.

Yuliana was left standing in the shade, staring at the washboard in confusion. It appeared that she had not been brought here to be toyed with and tortured, after all. Or maybe they were only warming up? As she remained busy trying to wrap her mind around the anti-climactic turn of events, one of the women got up without a word, picked up an empty basket from the ground, piled it full of rags, and threw a bar of soap on top. Then, she marched over to her majesty and thrust the basket in her hands.

“Here’s to get you started,” the woman said. “No need to be shy, just get in the line and put your back to it.”

The lady then returned to her own spot and continued to scrub a checkered shirt with vigor.

Yuliana had to doubt if she had been as confused even on the day when they had made her the Empress. Not sure if it was a good idea, but lacking better alternatives, she found a free spot by the shallow pool and got to work.

While out camping or during long marches, the troops in Langoria’s Royal Army had to wash their own clothes, and the princess was not exempt from this, so the method itself wasn’t entirely unknown to her. Not that she was a real expert at the craft either, and the speed and efficiency of the other women put them in a league of their own. For how long had they been imprisoned here on this island? Probably years, by the looks of it.

But not a day more.

Even as her hands worked, Yuliana attentively surveyed her surroundings. Mysteriously enough, there weren’t any guards. She hadn’t seen any at the tunnel’s outer entrance either. Perhaps the villains thought the island was enough of a prison on its own, and didn’t require gates or wardens. But with this many capable hands, operating even a larger ship should have been doable. Surely some of the women knew how to sail, and could help the rest. But she had to learn more about the situation first.

Yuliana glanced at the woman closest to her, on her left. The slave appeared to be in her forties, a bit on the chubby side, grayish, curled hair kept back with a simple scarf, a dirty apron on to cover her blouse and skirt from the soap foam and splashes.

“Hey,” Yuliana whispered to her. “Excuse me, ma'am. What is your name?”

The woman looked back at her, a bit dumbfounded.

“...Why, I’m Becky,” she answered. “Well, Anette Wilbeck—but Becky is what they all call me around here.”

“All right,” Yuliana nodded. “Seems to me you’ve been here for a while, Becky.”

“You could say that again,” Becky replied, with a bit of an odd look.

“Do you know how many guards there are?” Yuliana continued to ask, while moving her hands. “Outside, in the town?”

“Guards?” Becky repeated, raising her brows. “None, as far as I know! Not much point standing up there all idle. They’ve got better things to do, surely.”

None? Yuliana frowned, feeling none the wiser.

It seemed the pirates really were that confident in the sea barrier and whatever traps they had in place, and didn’t bother to actively watch over the prisoners. How careless of them. But Yuliana remembered well the way back to the cove. All she needed was a weapon, a knife, anything, to take over a small ship. The opponents were only pirates, after all, motivated chiefly by greed, and lacking both discipline and training. She could try to bribe some, or threaten others, promising them amnesty in exchange for her safety. It shouldn’t have been too hard to find allies. They’d gather the slaves and sail away in the cover of the night, and that would be the end of this unfortunate detour.

“Listen, Becky,” Yuliana told the woman. “I have a plan to get us out of here. Just wait for my word, and we’ll be gone before they know it.”

“Gone!?” Becky exclaimed, astonished. Rather unnecessarily loud, Yuliana felt. “Hope not before Friday! That’s when my hub comes back from the sea, and he wouldn’t know where I’ve gone! He’d be beside himself with worry!”

“Eh?” Yuliana paused. “Your…hub?”

“Aye, my husband, Billy,” Becky explained. “He’s been away three months on a voyage, and it’d be a downright pity if he didn’t have a warm meal ready for him when he comes back!”

“You’ve...married a pirate?”

The concept was a little difficult for her majesty to digest.

Becky didn’t seem to see anything problematic in it.

“Why, yes?” she replied. “What of it? One hairy goose or another?”

Yuliana looked around at the women, her confusion reaching its extreme limits. Hearing them quite well, the others were giggling at the exchange and her majesty's stupefied reaction.

Then, an idea even more bizarre began to sneak into Yuliana's awareness.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Yuliana slowly said to Becky, “but...aren’t you all slaves? Being kept here against your will?”

“Slaves? Damn straight we are!” another answered her, further down the line. “I keep telling our Steve to try wash his own longjohns sometime, to see what it’s like! But that scoundrel keeps always slipping away, saying he’s the one risking his hide for our freedom, being the bread-winner of the family, or whatever, so it’s only ‘fair’ that I do the laundry! But that ain’t right! I bet he’s out there drowning in grog with the boys, and not risking a damned thing! What is that if not downright oppression? He could make do with some ‘gender equality’ every once in a while!”

“That’s...not quite what I meant,” Yuliana said. “You aren’t being forced to work?”

“Forced?” Becky repeated. “Forced by necessity, I suppose. It wouldn’t be so nice, going in dirty clothes all year round.”

“No, I mean, like, coerced, by someone else.”

The woman kept blankly staring at her. “Like who?”

“I don’t know,” Yuliana shrugged. “The Confederacy?”

Her suggestion was received with a round of open laughter.

“Well, I don’t know about the ‘confederacy’,” Becky told Yuliana, “but I’ve lived in Harm’s Haven for all my life. And while it may not be the best place in the world, I sure wouldn’t trade it for another!”

The attachment in Anette Wilbeck’s voice and expression came clear, and appeared to be echoed by the others around. Those were certainly not the faces of abused slaves, dominated with terror and violence, but those of free people living on their own terms, no more bound than the average land dweller, if not less so.

“It’s so good to have helping hands when it’s laundry day,” an elderly woman said further back, already changing the subject. “It’s such a hassle, every week.”

“Yet, I don’t see your hands moving, your majesty,” the one who had given Yuliana her share pointed out. “The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get started with lunch. And I’ll have you help me with that too, just so you know.”

Yuliana hurried to pick up the soap, while trying to process the unexpected developments.

“They’ve...told you who I am?” she asked.

“Of course,” the woman replied. “He sent us word a week back. Told us to give you a real warm welcome.”

“He? Who?”

The woman halted her work and glanced up at Yuliana, as if to ask whether she was being quite serious. Then, recognizing that their royal guest really had no idea, she put the answer in plain words with a sarcastic look.

“The King.”

3

Over the course of that day, it became evident to Yuliana that most of the people in Harm’s Haven were not strictly pirates, or even a bit naughty delinquents, but more or less ordinary people of standard sensibilities. Or, could it perhaps be said that pirates were ordinary people too, deep down, and not the sort of mindless, bloodthirsty savages that official sources liked to portray them as?

Much like every other conceivable human community, they had immoral individuals among their numbers, as well as those to be deemed virtuous, while the vast majority didn’t care either way, and only toiled to get by the best they could, one day at a time. A shared interest had drawn all these people together in the Confederate sanctuary, and that interest, in this case, was fairly clear, timeless, and easy for anyone to relate to:

The desire to live free.

Naturally, no community could retain its cohesion without some manner of rules, but the local rules were very few in number and equal to every last soul. Though there was a “King”, and though the Captains who owned ships were something like nobles, these figures exerted no such political power over the others as the elite on land might, gave no orders, nor demanded preferential treatment.

Everyone worked for the common good, according to their ability, not to earn money, but to make the collective life more pleasant. They assumed no great pressure for this and kept the daily goals simple. And when all the work was done and dusk fell, they would go enjoy the sun, the sea, and their games together. Dance and merryment filled the town, and the tunes of violins, flutes, and drums sounded between the houses, accompanied by spontaneous waves of laughter.

It was quite natural then, that as one who had lived by rigid codes, rules, and expectations for all her life, Yuliana found such a place uncannily intriguing, to the point that escape temporarily left her mind.

She spent the day in a disoriented daze, helping the women of the island with their mundane chores, doing whatever was asked of her, as per her courteous nature. She was clumsy and slow to work, but good-intending, and no one had the heart to demand better of her. People would laugh and jest about her few blunders, but in good spirit, without losing their temper, and then they would sit down and dine together.

Whether they wanted to admit it or not, the women were quite curious to see a genuine noble—an Empress, no less—and kept asking her many strange questions after getting over their initial caution. It was as if she were a mythical creature instead of a girl. Yuliana did her best to answer them and assured everyone her blood ran red like any other person’s. And every now and then, she had to consciously remind herself that she was a prisoner and a hostage, or else that fact would have escaped her too.

But at the end of the day, Yuliana was escorted back to her cabin quarters, and on the way there, she overheard some disconcerting words exchanged between passing sailors, which once again brought the existing predicament to her mind.

“Can you bring the bard?” a sailor asked his companion.

“Aye,” the other one nodded. “I’ll go fetch him now. See you at the Winker in a moment.”

“Oh, man, I’ve been waiting for this! Gettin’ right shivers!”

Then, the pair passed outside hearing distance.

The bard.

Of course.

Yuliana was more than a little guilty to realize Waramoti’s existence had all but slipped off her mind. He was kept somewhere apart from the Empress and she hadn’t seen so much as a glimpse of him this whole day, being stuck in the kitchens and wherever. Now, receiving this foreboding reminder of the minstrel’s fate, Yuliana thought about him again with growing anxiety, as well as a sense of responsibility.

She was a priceless hostage, he was not.

It was unlikely they would treat him with similar courtesy, but assume him a spy, or a bodyguard, and squeeze out of the youth any information he might possess. That had to have been what the men were talking about—preparations for his interrogation. It was going to take place tonight, and soon.

By the women’s chatter, Yuliana had learned that the ‘Winker’ was a tavern, the largest one in town, and a popular gathering place. It was somewhere on the detached part of the island, on the north side of the canyon, the same as her majesty’s cabin. “But don’t go there at night,” the women had cautioned her, as if she had any choice in the matter. “That’s no place for a child!”

Yuliana would’ve liked to point out that she was already twenty, a knight as well as an established politician, and quite far from a “child”, but knew this was not the essence of the conversation. And next to these mature, hard-working women, she did appear somewhat childish and inexperienced, admittedly.

Experience aside, there could be no mistake that the Winker was where the rogues were going to take Waramoti, to rough him up. Worse for him, the poor musician knew nothing at all of value to barter for his life. They wouldn’t believe his assurances of ignorance, of course. No, they would beat and torture him, until the young man’s body and spirit alike were crushed beyond recognition. It was only when he was reduced to a miserable, bloodied ruin of a man that they would finally accept his lack of value, and then dump him in the sea to tie up loose ends.

Yuliana couldn’t bear the thought.

She had to do something. It was her fault that the bard was in this mess, after all! No, thinking about it deeper, it was actually all his own fault. But, he wouldn’t have followed her, if she hadn’t been kidnapped, so perhaps she did bear a grain of blame in the matter, however minor. Whether it was strictly her fault at all, or was not, she couldn’t leave him in mortal peril. The man had to be rescued.

Yuliana climbed obediently into her attic room, waited for the door to be locked after her, and pretended to settle down. But as soon as she heard the footsteps grow distant and the sense of presence fade, she got up again and returned to the door.

The tiny window and the toilet hole were out of the question, obviously, but there were other ways to leave. From the kitchen, she had snatched a secret weapon: a spoon!

She was not a professional burglar, or gifted at breaking-and-entering, but Yuliana nevertheless understood the basic mechanisms of doors to an adequate degree. As much as the legends belittled humans in contrast with the other races of the world, they still had superb intelligence and skills of hand. She went on to unscrew the bolts holding the large lock in place, using the thin end of the steel spoon for a screwdriver.

It was a little harder than she had imagined.

The lock was old and rusted, and so were the screws; twisting too hard risked breaking them, or mauling them useless. She had to be delicate about it. It took her nearly an hour, but through persistent effort, she managed to extract all four screws and yanked the lock case off its place. From the other side of the door came a loud bang, as the lock’s conjoined counterpart fell on the landing. Success!

Holding her breath for a moment, Yuliana listened, waiting to see if anyone had heard the noise and would come to check up on her.

She sensed nothing. The road was clear.

Yuliana forced open the door, congratulating herself for the hard-earned success, stepped out to the stairway landing, and then remembered that the front door was likewise locked, and she would have to repeat the painstaking process all over.

“Damn it.”

No. There was a square window left of the door. Not a large one, but certainly larger than the one in the attic. It was the type with two halves, aligned so that the bottom panel could be pulled up next to the top one. Better yet, it was only closed with a simple latch.

She could fit through it.

Probably. Possibly.

She should have.

Yuliana climbed downstairs and hurriedly moved the boxes, bottles, and other junk blocking the way. Then double-checking that the route was clear through the murky glass, she undid the latch and began to pull up the bottom panel. It was incredibly stiff, with hardly anything to get a hold of. Had it ever been opened since the day it was set in place?

“Oh, the things I must put up with…!” The Empress groaned, trying to fit her nails under the edges, to no avail. The fear of breaking a nail prevented her from putting enough force into it. Then, she remembered the spoon again and retrieved that tool of astonishing utility. Using the handle as a small lever, she wedged it under the frame and managed to finally loosen the window enough to wriggle her fingers under it, and pulled it up.

CREEE—!

The dry wood parts let out a terrible scream at the forced motion, which rang across the quiet gorge outside. Someone had to have heard it, for sure. Yuliana cringed and crouched behind the wall, cursing her poor luck.

She waited for a long while, but no one came.

The town stood completely silent. No one could be seen moving about on the paths on the other side, the facing cliffs dyed flaming orange by the sunset. Was everyone asleep already? Perhaps her luck was amazing, after all?

Leaning on the window, trying to appear natural, the Empress gazed at the scenery, waiting to see if anything would change for the worse. Every now and then, locals could randomly be seen step out of their cabins, to throw away dirty dishwater, depart to visit a friend next door, or to go retrieve firewood, mindful only of their own business.

Had they already lost interest in their valuable prisoner? How weird.

Deeming it safe in a while, Yuliana gathered her courage again, and went on to squeeze out of the small opening. There was no quick or graceful way to achieve this. Red with embarrassment, praying no one was looking, she assisted her chest through the tight gap, and expected the rest to follow along easily enough. But, against all calculations, it was her bottom that became the biggest problem. Like a vice, the edges of the window bit down at her buttocks and she was stuck.

“No way…!” Yuliana cried, shocked.

Couldn’t the window be opened any more? Wriggling her hips left and right, kicking and turning, certain she would die of shame if anyone saw her in such a position, Yuliana wormed out, one painful inch at a time. Finally, after what felt like a small lifetime of sweaty struggle, she fell through and landed on the path in front of the cabin, her heel kicking the window as she fell, making a hideous racket.

Had there been any guards, she would have been caught long ago, but none showed up even at this point. She was beginning to hope that some would. Such disgraceful performance simply didn’t deserve success.

“If I ever make it out of this place alive, I’m going on a diet,” Yuliana promised to herself, dusting her clothes, and left to search for the bard.

She made no effort to hide, knowing that sneaking around and acting suspicious was bound to draw more attention than merely behaving like everybody else. She walked east along the board-covered path, in the general direction of where she had seen the sailors go, searching with her eyes for any building that seemed like a tavern.

Trees hung low over the way, providing some cover. Whenever Yuliana saw people coming her way, she would slip in the bushes, take cover in the cracks between the shacks, or sit by a wall, pretending to be sleeping, and no one would spare her so much as a look. Like this, she steadily advanced, eventually coming across an irregular footpath that abandoned the town and trailed away uphill.

Yuliana could pick up faint, muffled noise coming from behind the bushes ahead. There was quite a commotion, suggesting a larger number of people. Growing more wary, she followed the beaten path and came eventually to a recess dug deep into the hill. Burrowed in the back of that unnatural depression, in the close embrace of dense vegetation, was a larger building, and so Yuliana found what she had been looking for.

It was unmistakably a tavern.

A lengthy, two-story house with a slanted roof, and boarding painted dark green. Before the entryway spread a wide open terrace, where dozens of round little tables and chairs awaited customers. If any additional confirmation was required, the name of the establishment was spelled in large, white letters on a sizable blackboard above the entrance, decorated with a stylized image of a human skeleton, a tankard in its bony grip, one of the eye holes closed.

The Winker.

Looking at that ghastly picture, Yuliana shuddered again, thinking it was in very poor taste. But this had to be the place, where they had brought Waramoti—if she had heard right. Even if she wanted nothing less, she had to check inside.

Mysteriously, there was no one enjoying the night out on the terrace, despite the excellent weather. But the noise she had heard was clearly coming from this building, and could now be heard much louder. It appeared that all the people were inside, grilling the unfortunate artist for Imperial secrets.

Time was of the essence.

Glancing back to make sure she wasn’t followed, Yuliana approached the door. She already had a plan ready. She would use the same trick Izumi had in Grelden. After confirming the situation, she would light a fire for diversion, and trick the pirates to rush out. In the ensuing confusion, she would free the bard and they would flee into the woods, find a way to steal a smaller boat, and sail away. It was a highly idealistic plan, perhaps, but the best she could come up with. Desperate times called for desperate measures, as Miragrave tended to say. If things went wrong, she would have to summon the Lord of Light, and pray the spirit would help them. But it should only be her absolute last resort.

Pressing her ear against the door, Yuliana could hear great clamoring produced by several dozens of people. Chaotic, violent noise, terrible laughter, and stomping. What on earth was happening in there? One might have thought there was a downright carnage going on. What manner of hideous butchery was the pitiful musician put through, to these villains’ heartless amusement?

Listening to that hair-raising commotion, terror seized Yuliana’s heart and she nearly doubled back, judging the minstrel beyond saving. But then she forced herself back. How could she be the leader of millions and dream of saving the world, if standing up to a handful of pirates on behalf of one small man was too much?

Berating herself for her cowardice, she gripped the door handle.

“My Lord, please watch over me…” Yuliana quietly prayed, closing her eyes.

Then, opening the door a little—she drew a breath and passed inside.

The interior was one wide, spacious hall. The tavern extended partially below the ground level, with an L-shaped staircase taking down from the entrance. Long, narrow tables and slim benches divided the floor area, and sturdy wood pillars held up the bare ceiling, whence several alchemical lamps hung down to brighten the room with a rustic, warm hue.

In the far back was an impressive bar counter, behind which rested enormous barrels of ale, kegs of rum, and countless colorful bottles of spirits, and jars of unknown substances, tidily lined up on their respective shelves.

And there were, of course, people.

There were certainly a lot of people, so many that nobody even noticed Yuliana’s addition to the number. Not half of the customers even had a seat, but stood along the walls in multiple rows, their attention elsewhere.

Bracing herself for whatever atrocious display had them so hooked, Yuliana peered over the staircase railing—and subsequently her fear, her courageous plans, and noble intentions alike were gone, like a mirage in the desert.

It was not a bloody scene of torture unfolding below, at least not in the usual sense.

The bard was definitely the star of it, as Yuliana had correctly deduced, but his circumstances were a tad different from the envisioned.

First of all, he was not in chains, being tickled with knives or red hot pokers.

No, he was quite free, his unbound yet intact hands clutching his favored lute. Not at all like a prisoner, acting more like the king of the hill, Waramoti pranced rudely back and forth along a table in the middle of the hall, singing and playing a most bizarre song, the lyrics of which made no sense whatsoever.

The audience followed his performance nevertheless captivated, excitedly clapping their hands and stomping their feet to match the rhythm of his lyrics.

Alelard, the basement ward

Gathering in the soupman’s yard

Ladle and strainer

Garlic press and grater

Rawround, the gold-bound

Deal in all, the coins-count

Cards up and cards down

Pay one dime, you’re the clown!

Helmstruck, the brass hat ruck

Kill what moves, don’t give quack

Axes and maces

Bruised-up faces

Innsland, the bookmans’ band

Look on down—there’s your hand!

Curve the phrases

Leave empty spaces

Wrenchfill! The mason’s mill

Piercing steel? Fresh is drill

Earthworks and oiling

Lava pit a-boiling

(Well? What else is there?)

Knobout! The stride’s that stout!

Eyes up on the look-out

Bow and arrow

Bone and marrow

Old and narrow!

Gold and barrow!

Hold!—And hooray!

As the song came to an end, the listeners exploded into thundering applause, laughing so hard at the silly lyrics and the bard’s comical performance that they could hardly keep upright. And, as everyone gradually recovered, they took advantage of the break in the concert to retrieve a refill of drinks, keeping the bartender and his assistants busy.

Watching this unfold, Yuliana mysteriously lost all sense of danger and urgency, feeling more hollow inside than anything else. She ended up wandering down the stairs and joined the spectators, too stunned for words. And that was where Waramoti eventually spotted her.

Casually wiping sweat off his brow, he hopped off the table, and came over to greet her.

“Your majesty,” the youth said, a smile of profound satisfaction lighting up his face. “How glad I am to see you hale and whole! How was your day? Is there anything you need? I can spare you a coin if you want a drink. I’ve no shortage of the sort now, hahaha!”

“...I came here to rescue you,” Yuliana informed the bard, hoping to convey her deep disapproval with every syllable.

“...Rescue me?” Waramoti repeated, surprised, the idea quite strange to him.

“Uh-huh.” She nodded.

“Why, I, uh, appreciate the thought,” he stammered, “but I’m doing quite well for the time being, in spite of myself...”

“I can certainly see that,” Yuliana told him, her tone rather chilling. “And indeed, why is it that you already look more like a pirate than they do?”

“Ahaha! That is only your imagination, your majesty!” Waramoti forced a laughter. “I have not one piraty bone in me. I am merely doing my job as a humble entertainer, and there is absolutely nothing lawless or immoral going on, I assure you.”

“Have you been drinking?” she asked, her face turning even more reproachful as she detected the scent of ale all about him.

“...Maybe?” he replied with faked innocence and a shrug. “I assure you, I am fully of age by any kingdom’s law, despite my looks! And unlike our friend Izumi, I do know how to hold my liquor. Goodness, if that lady and alcohol weren’t ever a hideous match! You ought to have been there to see what happened to that tavern in Twainol! But I digress! Please, go and rest easy! I think it’s already past good little princess’s bedtime. Don’t worry about me, I shall be quite fine. Ah, time for the next piece, I must be going now.”

So saying, the bard bid a hurried farewell to Yuliana and left to head back to the other side of the hall.

“I was a fool to ever worry!” she lamented, turning to leave, swearing that whatever should happen from hereon, she would never again go out of her way to try and help the bard.

Then, she abruptly stopped mid-step and turned quickly back.

“Wait—what happened in Twainol? You never told me about that one! Wait! Waramoti! Come back! I’m going to need details!”