I feigned shock, letting my gaze drop to the ground.

“Is it truly chivalrous to charge a prisoner for a morsel of food, Sir?” I asked, my voice tinged with subtle, uncontrolled mockery.

He seemed to think on it for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Well, you are a noblewoman,” he finally said, though his tone wavered with uncertainty, as if he were reassuring himself. 

“A noblewoman without means,” I countered.

"Then I am not sure I-"

“But my father." I interrupted casually. "He is a man of great wealth and influence. He would surely reward the man who showed kindness to his daughter in her time of need.”

In both of our dreams. That man would write a gold mine in Blert's name if only he knew.

Truman's eyes gleamed at the mention of wealth. He crossed his arms over his chest, considering this new angle.

“And what would this great man of wealth think if I were to offer assistance… at a price?” He insisted, making me want to roll my eyes.

I leaned in conspiratorially.

“It is universally known, Sir, that Marquis Ashdown values loyalty above all else. A favor to his daughter could secure you a friend in high places—perhaps even a handsome reward.”

Truman shifted his weight, clearly tempted, but he hesitated. He looked up, as though searching the skies for an answer.

“No gold on you now?” Truman asked, his tonne chillingly suggestive and his golden eyes coldly searching mine.

A chill coursed through my spine at the realization that Truman must possess very developed hearing capabilities, to have heard my whisper from all that way earlier.

The jewels adorning my body felt suffocating as I broke into a cold sweat, thinking he might have heard them clanking at some point.

“No,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze with pointed insistence. “But my father—”

“You said that already,” he interrupted, though not unkindly. He was more like a child trying to piece together a puzzle. 

I sighed inwardly.

"And you might be the kind knight in question, Sir Truman. Imagine your name spoken with gratitude in the halls of my father… such a gesture could be most rewarding. Any kindness you extend to me will be repaid, sooner or later, either by myself or by the Marquis himself."

At the mention of the Marquis, a flicker of excitement crossed his face but quickly vanished. His suspicions seemed to dissolve.

“Well…” he began, but his words trailed off as he noticed Fars approaching from behind him, several meters away.

I hadn't even seen him coming yet.

“I suppose I could be of service,” he finally said.

“What are you doing, Truman?” Fars’s voice was as unpleasant as his aura—rusty, grating, and altogether uninviting. “Why are you talking to this wench?”

“She… uh…” Truman looked at me, his eyes pleading for assistance, as though the simple task of lying was beyond him.

“There was a large spider,” I offered smoothly, a new realization unlocked. “Sir Truman was kind enough to help me dispatch it.”

Truman nodded, his expression blank but agreeable.

It was becoming clear that Truman lacked quick thinking, that or he was a terrible liar and knew so.

“Is that so?” Fars said, giving me a mocking look before sharply turning to Truman.

"Yes, Sir."

"Yes, Sir." Fars repeated, mocking. “Years among us, and you still can’t string together a proper sentence. Back to your post, Truman." He shooed the man with his hand and his eyes flicked to the boulder where Alice sat hidden, a sly grin creeping across his face.

Truman remained unfazed, his hands resting lightly on his belt as he gave Fars a respectful nod and left.

“Were you mocking Sir Truman's accent?” I asked, only now realizing that Truman's speech did sound ever so slightly different from the rest of these dogs.

“Accent?” Fars barked a laugh. “Ya deaf, woman? Even someone who doesn’t speak the language could hear that obnoxious drawl of his.” He clicked his tongue, eyes going back to looking at the boulder.

Clearing his throat, Fars straightened his collar. “Sit down. If you see something that frightens you, call for me. That foreigner is useless in a real crisis,” he declared loudly, though his words seemed more for Alice’s benefit than mine.

I complied. Fars, meanwhile, sauntered over to Alice’s rock, his greasy grin widening as he adjusted his collar yet again.

Truman felt just the tiniest bit proud of himself as he discreetly marched towards the prisoners' quarters—well, the tent, really. 

The campsite was a modest affair, something Commander Blert was never too keen on admitting. 

With scattered canvas tents, a few flickering oil lamps casting a warm glow over the otherwise dim surroundings, and the occasional sound of a guard shifting in his sleep.

The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp ground and grass mixed with the lingering smoke from earlier cooking fires.

But there was another scent, one that stood out against the backdrop of the campsite—the unmistakable lavender fragrance that only a noblewoman like Lady Penelope could maintain, no matter where she slept or how unkempt her hair had become. Truman followed the scent to a black tent, guarded—if you could call it that—by two knights cozied up on either side of the entrance, deeply asleep, their snores merging with the night’s sounds.

In his palms, Truman held his treasure: Two chickens.

Each one was meticulously wrapped in a dozen pieces of cloth—just to be safe. Truman figured that if anyone happened to interrupt his secret mission, he could always claim they were rocks. Not the most convincing cover story, but he hadn't exactly been caught yet, so there was no need to worry.

"Thankfully," he murmured to himself as he circled around to the back of the tent.

Once there, he could make out two shadows inside, cast by the glow of an oil lamp that the ever-practical maid, Alice, seemed to carry with her everywhere at night.

"My lady," Truman whispered, just loud enough to make the two shadows flinch.

Silence followed, with one shadow still and lying down, seemingly trying to sleep, while the other hovered over something—a piece of parchment, perhaps?

“You were awake!?” The one with the parchment hissed at her companion, hastily shoving the parchment into her chest as if it were the most natural hiding spot in the world.

Truman swiftly looked away, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Must I announce my state of consciousness at all times, my lady?" The emotionlessness of Alice's character was lsurprising given her agressjve tone. If you so wish—though it may be a challenge—I shall endeavor to declare it from now on,” Lady Alice's voice dripped with dry humor.

“... Smawtass” Penelope simply mumbled, stepping closer to the tent wall where Truman stood, her shadow looming larger.

Truman's senses were sharp, to an excrutiating degree.

And so he could hear it; the clattering, ever so faint, of jewels on Lady Penelope's body. He knew about it from the moment they met.

At first, he thought she might have stolen them from other maids. But asking around the caravan proved his suspicions wrong.

Her response earlier meant she did not want to share. And as desperate for gold as he was, Truman was no thief. He would earn that gold (or whatever it was), and not the other way around. That was his plan.

“I’ve brought it,” Truman whispered, holding up the bundled chickens as if they were the crown jewels.

“Ekthellent,” Penelope’s voice barely contained a childlike glee.

It was a stark contrast to the dry, cold demeanor she maintained around the campsite. Though Truman was not typically observant of such subtleties, the knights had drilled it into his ears during their gossip sessions.

Truman smiled, feeling a warm swell of pride at having completed his task.

But then a small hiccup of realization hit him.

“Wait, how do I get 'em in?” Penelope’s question mirrored his thoughts.

A blonde, skinny lad ran through an expanse of flower-strewn fields, where the colors seemed to bleed into one another as the sun set with a surreal, accelerated grace. The sky was a canvas of shifting hues, the golden light turning to deep oranges and purples as if time itself was slipping away.