The sun filtered softly through the cracked wooden shutters of the little roadside inn, illuminating a humble room that smelled faintly of old parchment, breakfast stew, and mild regret.
Inside, Princess Lia of Hector sat cross-legged on the bed, clutching a steaming cup of herbal tea like it was the last bastion of sanity.
Across from her, sitting upside down on a chair—with her legs in the air and helmet still on—was Graye, the human equivalent of a blunt force trauma in armor form.
"I still say we were cursed by delicious food," Graye mumbled from behind her visor. "I knew that last sausage had something shady in it. It tasted like betrayal."
Lia sighed, setting the cup down. "It wasn't the food, Graye. It was the wine. Or possibly the bread. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if even the butter was enchanted."
Graye gasped. "The butter?!"
