Sasha grinned. "Good. Because if you don't, I'll have to start teasing you every day until you admit it."
Historia's cheeks warmed again, but this time she laughed, a little more freely.
"Maybe you already do."
"Definitely," Sasha said with a wink.
---
The camp felt different now. Alex knew it as soon as he stepped out of the cell. The cold morning air stung his bruised wrists.
People watched him—some curious, some cautious, some angry. The refugees whispered as he walked by, their voices mixing with the sounds of cooking pots and a blacksmith hammering metal far away.
He wasn't just another face anymore. He was the man who walked away from a murder charge. The one the queen had defended.
He kept his head low and walked on the muddy paths back to the stables. The smell of manure and wet hay was familiar, and it helped him feel steady.
He grabbed a pitchfork and started working. The sound of metal scraping straw was a small comfort in his busy mind.
Historia's words from the cell played in his head. They listen to their queen. She kept her promise, but at what cost?
He knew the MPs wouldn't forget what happened.
Around mid-morning, the stable gate creaked open. Historia stood there with one Scout—a tall, thin man with sharp features and tired eyes.
Alex recognized him. "Jean Kirstein."
"Alex," Historia said calm. "You're done with the stables."
Alex froze, pitchfork in hand. "What?"
She stepped closer, her cloak brushing the straw on the ground. Jean stood by the gate, arms crossed, watching Alex carefully.
"You're being moved," she said. "To the castle. You'll work in the supply room—counting items, deliveries, whatever they need."
Alex held the pitchfork tighter. Safer? Maybe from Titans, but not from the MPs who tried to blame him for murder. He looked at Jean, who raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
"You're sending me to the capital?" Alex asked, trying to sound calm. "Why?"
Historia met his eyes, steady and unreadable. "Because I need people I can trust. You've shown you don't cause trouble."
He almost laughed. Trust? She didn't know half the things he was hiding—the future, the Rumbling, what Eren would become. But she didn't wait for an answer. This was an order dressed like a favor.
Jean cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Don't think too much about it. When the queen says jump, you jump. Better than shoveling poop, right?" His voice was light, but his eyes studied Alex closely.
Alex nodded slowly and put the pitchfork down. "Yeah. Okay." He didn't trust himself to say more.
The trip to the capital passed in a blur of dirt roads and shaking wagons. Jean rode beside him, his horse snorting in the cold air. Alex sat among crates of grain and medicine. The big stone walls of Wall Rose stood tall ahead, casting long shadows over the fields.
Every bump in the wagon reminded Alex how far he was from home—the real home with Wi-Fi and takeout and no Titans.
Jean didn't talk much, but when he did, he was direct. "You don't act like a refugee," he said once, looking at Alex from his horse. "No offense, but most people from Trost look half-starved and nervous. You're… calm. "
Alex shrugged and stared at the faraway sky. "I lost everything. Maybe I'm just numb now."
Jean snorted. "Don't get too relaxed. The capital is full of trouble. The MPs will come after you if you make one wrong move."
Alex didn't say anything, but his mind was busy. Jean was right—the Military Police were a big problem. And now Alex was closer to them, near Historia's castle, where every look and word would be watched.
When they got to the capital. The supply room was in a small building nearby, full of crates and sacks that smelled dusty and dry.
A rough-looking quartermaster gave Alex a book and a piece of charcoal, telling him to "keep things neat." The job was simple, but it was inside, away from mud and the MPs' hard looks.
That evening, while he sorted barrels of flour, the door opened quietly. He didn't have to look to know it was her. The soft smell of lavender gave her away.
"Getting used to it?" Historia asked softly, her voice clear in the quiet room.
Alex looked up, wiping sweat from his forehead. She wore a plain wool dress—no crown, no fancy clothes—just some ink stains on her fingers from signing papers her hairs loose not like her usually tied back hairs.
"Yeah," he said. "Better than the stables. Thanks."
She nodded but kept looking at him closely. "I meant what I said. I need people I can trust. This place is different from the camp. People watch and talk."
He put the book down, feeling tight in his throat. "I understand. I'll keep my head low."
She stepped closer, her boots scraping the stone floor. "That's not enough here." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The MPs are mad. They think I'm too soft, too careless. They want a reason to fight back."
Alex's stomach turned. "And I'm one of those reasons."
She didn't deny it. "You're a target because of me. But I'm not sending you back to the camp. You're here now. So… be careful."
He nodded, not sure what to say. Her presence made him feel steady but also like he was too close to danger. "Why me?" he asked before thinking. "I'm nobody. Just a guy who got lucky."
Her lips moved in a small smile. "Maybe. But you don't look at me like I'm just a queen. You see me as a person."
For a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe. Her words touched something deep inside—something he hadn't felt since he arrived here. "You are," he said quietly. "Crown or not."
She looked at him softly for a second, then turned away. "Get some rest, Alex. Tomorrow will be a long day."
As she left and the door closed softly, Alex stood alone in the dim room.
The morning
The supply room smelled of dust, stale grain, and damp wood. It was the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes and didn't wash out easily.