“Ugh, everything hurts”, groaned Keela, leaning back in on the pile of cushions she was sat on.

“You pushed yourself too hard right after waking up”, replied Bertaut, taking off his jacket and throwing it on his bed.

They were both in a bedroom; Bertaut’s, to be precise. He suddenly realized this and looked at her.

“Why are you in my room?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

“I figured we could talk a bit about what all of this is”, replied Keela, gesturing to the room.

“Well, let’s talk then.”

Keela simply raised her hand, gesturing for him to wait. A few minutes of strange silence later, someone knocked at the door. Curious, Bertaut went to get it. A servant with a bottle of alcohol bowed their head as the door opened.

“Is this your doing?” asked Bertaut, shooting Keela an annoyed look.

“Yep”, she replied, tilting her head up.

Bertaut grabbed the bottle and sighed, putting it on the table and grabbing the two glasses brought by the servant. He poured two short glasses of the strong liquor and handed her one, sitting across from her. She sat straight up, downing the glass.

“I hadn’t had a drink in so long, I think I needed that”, she said, pouring herself another one.

“I wouldn’t advise going too fast, this drink is particularly strong”, replied Bertaut, sipping his glass.

She rolled her eyes and brought her glass with her to the window, sipping it slowly. The moonlight was filtering in through the rough glass, leaving jagged uneven shadows on the ground.

“This can’t be real, right?” she asked the moon, looking at its broken face through the hammered glass.

“What do you mean?” asked Bertaut, turning towards her in his chair.

“Well, I live twenty years of my life in slums, only to find out that I’m actually a princess? And all this other stuff which I didn’t even touch on; none of this is real, right? This feels like a dream”, she continued, looking at him while cocking her head in incredulity.

“I can tell you it very much isn’t. All of this is real, from palace to empire; it is all yours”, replied Bertaut, looking at her with a look that teetered the line between pity and understanding.

She laid back onto the wall, sliding down into a sitting position.

“This sucks”, she said after a heavy sigh, downing the rest of her drink.

“How so? A lot of people would want to be royalty”, replied Bertaut, getting up from his chair.

“I go from leading a relatively carefree but harsh life to leading a goddamn country. It’s a pretty big leap if you ask me”, she said, looking at the ceiling.

“Who said you couldn’t be carefree?” replied Bertaut, filling up her glass and sitting down in front of her.

“You’re asking me to be carefree after you nearly died the other day?”

“I was too young to die, it’s fine.”

“Aren’t you like… old?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who’s twenty years older than I am.”

Keela sighed before her head whipped forward in surprise.

“You’re 42?” she screamed, wide eyed.

“41 actually.”

“I thought you were older with that hair.”

“You know, half of your hair is white too.”

“You’ll have to explain that later.”

“Sure.”

They both sat in silence for a while. Keela examined Bertaut intently for the first time, looking for details. His face was fairly smooth; the lack of wrinkles showing that he wasn’t as old as she thought. His piercing gaze had gone softer, the corners of his mouth resting into a warm smile. He looked less wary, free to show emotion without worry.

“You know, you lied to me a lot so I thought I’d use this moment to clear up things”, she said, sipping a bit of her drink.

“Sure; ask away”, he replied, finishing his glass, laying against the bed.

“Did you really have to run a heist on The Ivory Razor?”

“No, I was just testing you and was using it as a way to hone some other skills.”

“So you’re telling me I got that disgusting scar for no reason?”

“What scar?”

She raised her shirt pointing to where the Ivory Razor mark should’ve been, finding only clean skin. She looked back up to see a coy smile painted on Bertaut’s face.

“You sly little…” she started, narrowing her eyes.

Bertaut laughed heartily; a sight so rare and so pure that Keela almost couldn’t believe it. Her worries faded away in the crystalline echo of the laughter as he composed himself.

“Does Raymond know?” she asked, attempting to take a sip from her drink, only to find it empty.

“No”, he replied, handing her the bottle.

“What happened to his wife?” she asked, pouring herself another glass.

“She… actually ran away. She ran and joined the elf side and probably died in one of the raids. I told him she went MIA to lessen the pain. He never really forgave the elves.”

“That’s fucked.”

“Honestly, the entire country hated this side so much that they were willing to blame it all on it. It was smarter.”

Keela let out a heavy sigh. She massaged the bridge of her nose, finally feeling the alcohol kicking in. She downed her glass again and looked at Bertaut.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m worried about this reputation of mine. Was it me who decided to wipe out the dwarves?” she asked, worried about the answer.

“No. It was your mother’s idea”, he replied, reassuring her.

“Oh thank god. Where is she now?”

“Dead.”

“By whom?”

“You.”

“What?”

“It’s where you got your nickname; the Cruel Princess. When you realized that your mother had doomed the entire country in her folly, after the genocide, you stabbed her in her sleep, a whole thirty-six times in the chest, neck and even eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s a well earned nickname.”

“I thought you’d be more taken aback.”

“The alcohol is numbing me.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough then.”

“Yeah, p-probably.”

Bunching her knees up to her chest, Keela let out a long sigh, reflecting the weight of her worries.

“Not remembering anything is rough. I’m missing a third of my life, those are useful memories”, she said, mulling over it.

“You’ll just have to make new ones”, said Bertaut, finishing his own glass and setting it to the side.

“Making new memories…”

“You should also head to bed, it’s late.”

She nodded and got up, a bit wobbly from the alcohol but steady enough to walk.

“Good night, thanks for the drink”, she said, going out the door.

“Good night, it was no problem”, he replied, starting to turn around and close the door.

“Wait hold on!”

As he opened the door, she dragged him to her level and kissed him. This wasn’t the first time but it was a better time. It was more heartfelt, more connecting. Bertaut’s hand lost itself in her hair and her grip tightened around his collar. After a few seconds that felt like hours, she pulled away and waved, moseying down the corridor towards her room, her face bright red from embarrassment.