The stench of stale beer, adventurer's sweat, and the thick smoke from the hearth was the usual perfume of the Yawning Boar. Paul Greyrat didn't mind. In fact, he liked it. It was the scent of freedom, a tangible reminder that he wasn't trapped in the polished hall of some stuffy nobleman.
"Come on, old man, don't be stingy. Fill this mug to the brim, or I'll have to tell your wife about that waitress from Millis I saw you with last month."
The tavernkeeper, a stout man with more hair on his arms than on his head, shot him a murderous glare but filled the wooden mug until the foam threatened to spill over.
"One of these days, your mouth is going to get you a dagger in the back, Paul."
"And what a glorious day that will be!" Paul shot back with a cheeky grin, raising his mug. "To daggers, and the women who wield them!"
The crash of the tavern door swinging open cut through the laughter of the few drunks keeping him company. The noise of the room didn't stop, but its tone shifted, as if a new instrument—one much finer and more complex—had joined the orchestra of chaos. The chatter dropped to a murmur; the laughter died out.
Paul swiveled on his stool to see what had caused such a commotion. And he forgot how to breathe.
The woman who had just entered did not belong in this place. She didn't belong in this town. She probably didn't belong on this plane of existence. She was tall, with a commanding elegance that made the sawdust on the floor seem offended by her presence. Her hair, a deep and profound red, fell straight down her back like a cascade of spilled wine, a feature so vibrant it seemed to burn in the torchlight.
Her dress, an even more intense shade of red, was a work of aristocratic art. It was off-the-shoulder, with a tight bodice that highlighted a slender yet incredibly curvaceous figure. A large pendant with a green gem rested just above her generous décolletage, a necklace that made no effort to hide the magnificent spectacle it offered.
Then, Paul's gaze traveled. It descended from her sharp, noble features, past the green gem, and stopped. It crashed.
Holy hell.
Her cleavage was a battlefield, a promise of glory. Two hills of immaculate white, so large, so perfectly round, they seemed to defy the laws of physics and modesty, threatening to break free with every delicate step she took.
I've fallen in love, was the first coherent thought that crossed his mind. The second, far more honest, was: Or have I just fallen in love with her breasts? Is that even natural?
She approached the bar, ignoring the lewd stares and whispers with regal indifference. Her voice, when she spoke, was like music amid the noise, clear and tinged with authority.
"Excuse me, good man. My carriage has had a mishap with its axle. Would you be so kind as to tell me if there is a blacksmith in this village who isn't completely drunk at this hour?"
The tavernkeeper, intimidated, could only stammer. Paul, however, saw his chance. He slid off his stool with an agility that belied the beer already flowing through his veins, his heart hammering out a rhythm of pure lust and a strange, new fascination.
"The only decent blacksmith around here is so old he uses his own heartbeat as a hammer. He'll take an eternity," he said, his voice adopting a charmingly confident tone. "But, lucky for you, the ale in this place is the best in the region. Allow me to buy you a drink while you wait. I'm Paul."
The woman turned to look at him. Her eyes, sharp and almond-shaped, a reddish-brown hue that harmonized with her hair, scanned him from head to toe, lingering on the hilt of the sword on his back and on his overly confident smile. There was no disdain in her gaze, but rather an analytical curiosity. A small, almost imperceptible smile, heavy with irony, curved her lips.
"Hilda," she replied, accepting his introduction with a nod. "And what do you gain from this display of generosity, Paul?"
"The unparalleled company of a lady, of course. And the chance to hear a good story. A dress like that and a jewel like that in a place like this don't scream 'pleasure trip'."
"You're very observant."
"It's my job. I'm an adventurer."
They sat at a secluded table in a corner that offered the illusion of privacy. Paul got her a decent wine—or the most decent thing the Yawning Boar could offer.
"An adventurer?" she asked, taking a delicate sip. "Do you spend your time killing monsters and rescuing damsels in distress?"
"Sometimes. Though, to be honest, the damsels usually cause more trouble than the monsters," he answered with a grin. "The last ogre I killed at least had the decency to die quickly. The last damsel I rescued tried to convince me to marry her and take over her father's turnip farm. I ran for the hills."
Hilda nearly choked on her wine. A small, genuine laugh escaped her, a sound so out of place and so beautiful that Paul felt his heart skip a beat.
"A wise choice. Turnips can be terribly monotonous."
"And you, my lady… are you running from a monster, or a turnip farm?"
The amusement in Hilda's eyes faded, replaced by a shadow of weariness.
"From something much worse," she said, her voice a whisper. "From a script already written. Let's just say I'm taking an unauthorized vacation from my… duties."
"Duties are a cage," Paul said, his tone turning strangely serious, losing all its arrogance. "I escaped one myself. A gilded cage, full of expectations and a father who wanted me to be someone I wasn't. That's why I chose this. The sword, the road, the freedom to sleep under the stars and owe no one an explanation."
Hilda looked at him differently then. She saw past the arrogant, womanizing adventurer. She saw a kindred spirit, someone who understood, even in a rough sort of way, the weight of a name.
"A gilded cage…" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "That's a very accurate description. Sometimes I feel my entire life is nothing more than a series of rehearsed steps in a dance I never asked to join."
The conversation flowed for over an hour. He told her stories of battles with goblins, of freezing nights in the mountains, and of the camaraderie of his adventuring party. She, without giving away too many details, told him of a world of balls, false smiles, and a future that others had decided for her.
With every word, with every shared laugh, Paul felt the initial attraction, that purely carnal fascination with her physique, begin to transform. He found himself listening not just to her voice, but to the longing for freedom within it. He admired her. He admired her courage for stopping in a place like this, her intelligence in keeping him at bay, the way her eyes burned when she spoke of a world without labels.
Okay, it's official, he thought, as he watched her take another sip of wine, the candlelight reflecting on her lips. It's not just her breasts. Well, they're a big part of it. They're a divine work of art, an argument for the existence of gods. But it's her. It's the fire in her eyes. It's the way she craves the same freedom I do. I need this woman in my life. Not just in my bed. In my life.
"It seems the repairs on your carriage are going to take a bit longer than expected," Paul said, seeing one of the tavern boys signal to him from the doorway. "The blacksmith says the axle is completely broken. He'll need to forge a new one. It won't be ready until tomorrow."
Hilda sighed, but she didn't seem worried. She seemed… relieved.
"What a terrible inconvenience."
"The absolute worst," Paul agreed, his smile turning predatory. "I suppose you'll have to stay for dinner. And who knows, maybe even spend the night. This town has an inn. It's no palace, but the beds are decent. I know from personal experience."
Hilda looked at him, a challenge glinting in her reddish eyes.
"Are you trying to get me into bed on our first date, Mr. Adventurer?"
"I'm trying to convince you that one night of freedom is worth more than a lifetime of duties," he corrected, his voice a low, persuasive murmur. "Dinner first. The rest… is just a pending conversation. The chance to be just 'Hilda' and 'Paul' for one night, without titles or last names."
She held his gaze for a long second, weighing the offer. The promise of a respite, of a single night without the weight of her name, was a sweet and tempting poison. Then, a slow, genuine smile—one that reached her eyes—lit up her face.
"In that case," she said, raising her glass, "I accept your proposal. To conversation. And to freedom."