The tales the man had heard for years from his peers and superiors were true. Though she was apparently no more than two years his senior, the Princess of Osharis' perceived reputation had spread far, deep into the rural areas of Mizan where he had grown up. Whispers of her never being seen by her people, being known only by her name, yet being respected universally because of the King and Regent were sown deeply into the minds of many Mizanians in an almost myth-like fashion, perhaps propaganda spread by the Royal Family to paint the ruling house of Osharis as dark and elusive--something that could not be left ignored.

  The servant of Duke Pallius saw some truth within those whispers, but far from what he expected, Princess Jeralia Dyso was not just a secretive woman but one who walked the same streets as her father's subjects, buying the same things they bought, and offered a helping hand to anyone whether or not they were Osharian. That same princess who he had heard about now invited him to a parlor in Ballandon. Never had he thought he'd be able to sit on such a plump velvet sofa, let alone in the royal palace of a country that his own was on unfriendly terms with.

  "Apologies for the wait, Sir!" Jeralia's voice rang out in the hall leading into the parlor. "The kitchen ladies insisted I do not touch their supplies, but I'd feel terrible I didn't take the opportunity to make these myself! I nearly fought with them, could you believe it?"

  Jeralia practically waltzed into the parlor with a tray in her hands, a cup of hot tea with fresh milk as well as a plate topped with just-baked biscuits sitting on it. She placed the tray on the table that sat between the Mizanian's sofa and another which she took a seat on with poise. The servant could tell she tried to act with grace, but there were things about her that were unusual for a princess. She hadn't changed out of her veil--the purpose of which he still speculated--or her dress and she still had on the same sandals. Her pale, lean muscular arms that were both a result of her curse and her many years of combat training glistened with sweat--meaning she really had been in the kitchens that entire time. Not even the many wives of Duke Pallius dared to sit in sweaty clothing in their own home.

  She's much too different from anyone in His Grace's circle, he thought, carefully dipping a biscuit into the tea, before taking a bite. It's a wonder how she so readily agreed to marry him!

  "Listen, I know I might not be the best when it comes to culinary expression, but you do not need to make that face at me," Jeralia scoffed as her eyes locked with the Mizanian's. "The guards tell me what I make is edible at the very least."

  The Mizanian's eyes widened and he waved his hands in front of him, as if to deny, unaware of the sarcasm in Jeralia's words. She snickered as she saw the anxiety written on his face.

  "I thought you Mizanians were more open to jokes than we are. Perhaps I was wrong, so forgive me. Let's flip the script as you sip on your tea. How are you liking the country so far? I know you weren't exactly here to sightsee, but what's different about this land compared to yours?"

  The man crossed his arms, tilting his back and to the side in thought for several breaths. Then, he lifted one of his hands, connecting his thumb, index and middle fingers together, and making a slight sweeping motion with his wrist.

  "You want to write it out? I'll get you a quill, ink, and some parchment!"

  The Mizanian was taken aback as Jeralia practically jump out of her seat, twisting her body as she turned and headed straight out the door. There was a servant only a few feet away who could've gotten the items for her. A woman of such high prestige in his homeland would not collect things herself if given the opportunity, yet this Princess was doing it eagerly of her own ill.

  He took a few sips on his tea as he waited.

  Maybe I should expect that from a lady who makes such delicious tea with her own hands.

  Jeralia returned shortly after with the items, placing them out for him to use. Jeralia's veiled gaze was glued to his hand as he wrote on the brown sheet. She thought his strokes were not unlike those a painter would use, graceful and delicate. He then turned the parchment around for her to read.

  "Your country is splendid. Its people are kind and the sights are wonderful," Jeralia read his words aloud. "However, I will admit that isn't my true objective in Osharis. It is unrelated to the Duke's visit... Sir, could you elaborate on that?"

  What business did a mute servant from an unfriendly nation have in Osharis that had nothing to do with his master?

  It turned out Jeralia was not the only one who was curious, nor the only one watching the scene unfold. A pair of eyes gazed at the two youths, contempt clear on its owner's face.

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  "Colluding with an enemy civilian," Myrril said, his body appearing translucent and ghastly, undetectable by neither Jeralia nor her guest. "Unacceptable. Young Jeralia, you sure are a handful."

  Myrril's form floated rapidly upwards, and if non-thaumaturgical users could see him, he would have been like a ghost. His form disappeared as it phased through layers of brick and stone as it traveled to Dyso's chambers.

  There, sitting next to Dyso's bed unconscious, was Myrril. His real body. He blinked as his consciousness rejoined his physical form. He told the king what he saw and what he thought, and it took a few moments for the old king to deliver his verdict.

  "You didn't detect thaumaturgy being used, right? It is difficult to spy without practicing it. You should know that by now, my friend."

  Myrril furrowed his brow.

  "So what do you suggest we do? She's never brought home anyone before. We don't know who that man is, spy or not."

  A light smile appeared on Dyso's lips.

  "Let her learn. Let her learn from him the ways of Mizanian life. If he had bad intentions, he surely would've acted upon them by now."

  Myrril scoffed.

  "You've always been too soft on the girl, you know. Coincidences aren't so common." he said, before turning and exiting the room quickly.

  Jeralia allowed the Mizanian to continue writing. Her extra-sensitive nose, with the ability and appearance of a star-nosed mole's, allowed her to make a realization after she had sat with him for as long as she did. Past the scent of being bathed by the warm Osharian summer sun all day on his skin, and the deeper odour of years of wood shavings and chopped wood on his clothing, there was a scent that her nose had only encountered from one other source--herself.

  "A special reason," Jeralia read, immediately taking the parchment from him as soon as he finished writing, too anxious to learn to do it more calmly. "I am not like other people, you see. I wish to find its cause, and I know that the only place I can find it is in Osharis."

  The first sentence was enough to make Jeralia freeze. What did he mean by that? How was he different? Was he different in the way she was? No, he still looked like a normal person. He had nothing to cover up. Was he cursed like she was, or was it something else?

  She wouldn't find out. Loud steps from the hall outside signaled the arrival of the Regent of Osharis.

  "U-Uncle Myrril?" she gasped, whipping around to face him. "What brings you here? Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

  "Let's just say a little inconvenience kept me up," he crossed his arm, the subject of his speech being only one person. "Explain this. Why have you brought this man into Ballandon's sanctity without permission? We have rules."

  "He means no harm!" Jeralia exclaimed, before taking the man's letter and passing it to the Regent. His expression remained unchanged even as he finished reading it.

  "Do you understand what it could mean if he was found to have stayed in this palace, Young Jeralia?" Myrril's breathing was heavy with exasperation. "We could be accused of hostage-taking, and that's that. Your marriage will be the least of your problems."

  Jeralia's heart thumped hard against her ribs. Although she so badly wanted to debunk Myrril, she knew he was right. But she didn't want to believe it.

  "There are things they say about me in that Kingdom. I only want a small chance to maybe--somehow--prove them wrong!"

  "Well, my friend from Mizan," he gaze turned to the mute man. "What do you think? Has your perception of Her Highness changed?"

  He couldn't say anything. What good was a nod to the Regent of Osharis, who valued proof and reason over a simple yes or no?

  "Oh, nothing? Then perhaps your visit to our home was not very fruitful. If you came here for answers... you won't get any."

  "Uncle Myrril, you don't get it!" Jeralia practically pleaded. "He is unable to speak, you just read that! He knows what he's seen!"

  "I will have to ask you to leave, and you will not speak a word of this to your entourage. Understood?" Myrril said sternly to the man, who was too shocked to defend himself.

  Jeralia tried to keep up as guards gently escorted the man off the premises.

  "This isn't fair!" she exclaimed. "I-I don't even know your name!"

  All she wanted was a name to the man who she presumed was like her, in some way or form. But she would not get that, not on that night.

  --

  The cool breeze that came with the earliest hours of the next day did not bother the veteran wizard as they lifted the folds of his grey robes in the slightest. Walking through the alleys of Grisvald, he was somehow reminded of a certain night his best friend had experienced not very long ago. But the stakes were not that high tonight. In fact, he knew that whatever he was coming for, he would get a resounding 'yes' in response.

  The person he was looking for was at the very back of the alley. The lamps of the adjacent streets illuminated him, revealing the face of a man who looked no older than his third decade. His short, raven-black hair lifted in the air was by its strands by the breeze, and his face had a slight stubble. His muscular frame was covered by a green tabard, silver shoulder plates and breastplate. His legs donned brown pants and black shoes, and a dark purple cape waved behind him.

  "What an honour is to see you, Regent. Always a pleasure."

  "This isn't the time to be witty. You might look young, but there's no reason to act so immature. Not when you're about to do what you're going to."

  "I've been here for an hour," the man said, annoyed. "I can't humour myself when I've had to wait this long? Just tell me what to do. Payment comes after the job's done."

  Myrril handed the man a scroll of parchment, detailing the task he was to do. His brow lifted upwards, his eyes screaming with astonishment.

  "Regent, this is--

  "I know, but why are you so surprised? You'd do anything if the pay's right--and believe me, you will be well compensated. I... I need him done with. Our kingdom is compromised by that family. I've already dealt with one half... the other half is yours to handle. Can you do it?"

  The mercenary smirked in response.

  "Do birds fly?"