I’d been reluctant to let anyone help me bathe. The very idea felt preposterous and wrong. I wasn’t a child or bedridden! I could manage perfectly well on my own.

  But tradition held that noble ladies had maids to assist with their toilette, and gradually, I found myself getting used to it. In hindsight, it wasn’t even such a slow process. It was just another perk that came with rank. And if I thought about it logically, it made sense: having someone clean the areas I couldn’t easily reach or see was simply practical.

  Still, I flinched the first time one of the girls washed my back and found the scars. The ones left from when my wings had been removed.

  They’d never healed properly, no matter what magic or balm had been used. And now, they felt even more pronounced, etched deeper into my skin, as if my body refused to forget what had been taken.

  Sensing my unease, the girl instantly pulled her hands away and asked anxiously,

  “Did I do something wrong, my lady?”

  I sighed.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head slowly, then swallowed hard.

  There had been a time when I had wings - right there - and I’d removed them just to look more human.

  Why had I done that? Why had I refused to accept what I was? Why did I try so hard to conform?

  I am who I am and how I am.

  My thoughts drifted back to those days, to the moment I asked Gonzo to cut off my horns and wings. The memory hit like a punch to the gut, and I let out another long sigh.

  The girl stood still, unsure what to do.

  “It’s alright, go on,” I told her. “They’re just old scars… reminders of how stupid I was.”

  Her smooth hands, gently washing my back, felt like balm over old wounds. I hadn’t realized how deeply those scars still hurt me.

  She continued dutifully, while the other girl let more hot water flow in, testing the warmth with her elbow.

  I glanced at them: two young peasant girls, likely no older than eighteen. Their levels barely touched two or three. Almost nothing. And I wondered, what future could they possibly have in this land?

  They worked in quiet harmony, speaking softly in their lilting local accent, coordinating without effort. Fiona’s assistant had likely recruited them to help supplement the staff for this gathering, and the girls were earning what - for them - was easy money.

  After the bath, they scrubbed me dry with thick, fluffy towels, then gave me a light massage with fragrant oils.

  Oh well… I had to give it to them, they knew what they were doing. And they did it well.

  Lying there, satisfied on the massage table, I let my thoughts drift.

  Julietta had sent me a message earlier, saying she’d be delayed and that we shouldn’t wait for her.

  “Sorry, Lores. I knew it might take longer to wrap things up, but it’s worse than I feared. No, don’t panic, it’s not dangerous, just stupid logistics and even stupider elves with their pet projects. I might have to ask you to pick me up later. I know you can fly fast when I’m not weighing you down, so go ahead and leave with the others. Take your time and enjoy yourself. This mess might take a few days to sort, maybe even a full quarter. Once it’s settled, I’ll let you know when and where to pick me up. Love, your Ju.”

  I snorted involuntarily and rolled my eyes. Clearly, things hadn’t gone as smoothly as she’d hoped, or maybe she’d decided to visit the elf lands along with the refugees? She must have her reasons. And honestly, who was I to tell her what to do?

  "Don’t mind me," I said to the girls, who had paused at my reaction. "Just thinking of something. Please, go on."

  So, until Ju came back, Yolanda would have to play the princess again. We’d pay our final courtesy visit to our host... and then leave.

  I decided to accept Zachary’s proposal: we would leave together with his entourage tomorrow through a portal that would take us to Devinshire, where the Viscount had a villa—a small town south of Duke Thorston’s megalomaniac castle.

  Decision made, later that afternoon, Yolanda and I accompanied Zachary to pay a courtesy visit to Fiona.

  She received us in her “Blue Saloon,” a beautifully painted, spacious room with a high ceiling, where the dominant color was - unsurprisingly - azure blue.

  The frescoes on the ceiling depicted clouds, birds, and angels, while the walls displayed scenes from the legend of Nemenculada, an epic and tragic love story between Kargath, the god of war, and Nemenia, a river nymph said to have once lived in the waters flowing through the town.

  According to the more romantic version, the river was named after her. The less poetic version claimed the nymph did not live here, but in a different location where another river with the same name existed. Fiona, of course, preferred the local romantic tale, and I had no intention of contesting her on matters of local mythology.

  My problems didn’t come from anything as lofty as local mythology, they were far more mundane, namely: wardrobe.

  The moment I stepped inside, I realized I was overdressed... or rather, wrongly dressed. The Blue Saloon turned out to be furnished entirely with an assortment of pillows in all shapes and sizes for lounging or reclining, and a few low, round tables laden with fruit and drinks. Fiona herself wore a flowing pair of wide-legged trousers and a heavily embroidered blouse, the picture of relaxed elegance. We were kindly asked to remove our shoes.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Yes, the invitation had specified “relaxed casual for the Blue Saloon,” but clearly, I’d misunderstood the emphasis. I probably should’ve made some inquiries beforehand.

  Zachary and Yolanda had gotten it right. Yolanda, in her perpetually too-casual and too-sexy way, had - annoyingly - hit the nail on the head this time. I, on the other hand, had chosen a dress that fell just to my knees, which now required me to sit with constant awareness and care. Brilliant choice.

  Aside from Fiona, there were two other people present, not counting the servants. One, I later learned, was her librarian, and the other her chief priestess, Anastasia. The librarian’s name was Jonas, I believe, though he had one of those perfectly average faces that just refuse to stick in memory.

  As Fiona inquired about our travel plans and Zachary began explaining, I learned a bit more about Devinshire. The town had no real strategic importance, except for one thing: a portal opened there. One of the few known portals in the region, in fact. That alone made it valuable. Many nobles kept houses in Devinshire specifically for that reason, ensuring they had their own transportation hub ready whenever needed.

  Zachary assured me that we’d have no trouble finding a few carriages there to get us back to my domain. He also suggested buying a handful of portal scrolls linked to Devinshire while we were in town as they were cheaper locally. That piqued my curiosity, so I asked him about the price.

  “Well, it depends,” Zachary said after sipping his red juice. “Portal scrolls that work within the region can be as cheap as ten gold, with a refund guaranteed if they don’t work. But you have to bring the scroll back to claim it.”

  Fiona let out a hearty laugh. “I’ve never heard of anyone actually getting that refund, but they keep saying it!”

  He chuckled and nodded. “If you want a higher-grade scroll that can open the portal from anywhere within the kingdom, you’re looking at forty gold, minimum. As for ones that work across continents, I’ve only ever seen them offered by sources too shady to trust.”

  “Yes,” Fiona confirmed, nodding. “A skilled mage can check the scroll’s power signature, so I wouldn’t recommend buying one unless it’s been examined first. You pay a thousand gold and then end up stranded? No, thank you. I have a couple made by that old elf Grodor, but they’re becoming rare. Some speculate he might have died.”

  I eyed the juice Zachary was drinking and, noting his satisfied expression, gestured for a maid.

  “I’ll have the same, please.”

  “Or it could be a sign that the elves are preparing something,” the librarian remarked, casting a sideways glance at Yolanda - currently masquerading as Ju.

  The ‘princess’ rolled her eyes and shifted languidly to her other side. I had worried she might not manage a convincing noble act, but she maintained a surprisingly refined and aloof demeanor. Reclining near me, she lazily nibbled on fruit with the practiced boredom of someone born to courtly ritual. At the librarian’s jab, she chuckled softly.

  “I can assure you the elves are far too busy preparing for the winter balls. Their social calendar is centuries old. This is the season for finding next year’s partner.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Either she’d memorized some talking points from Ju, or she knew a lot more about elven culture than I did.

  “Choosing a new partner on a regular basis,” the priestess said, clearly disapproving. “What does that say about elven morality?”

  Yolanda gave a light shrug, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

  “Indeed, how decadent. Meeting a new partner every forty years. Far more depraved than, say, cheating on your spouse with the help whenever the mood strikes.”

  The priestess gasped, scandalized, but Fiona calmly placed a hand over hers in a soothing gesture.

  I took a sip of the juice just then and smiled in delight.

  Heavenly. I nodded appreciatively at Zachary, who returned the nod with a grin.

  “What about the rumors of the elven plague reappearing in Khandora?” the librarian pressed, clearly determined to steer the conversation back toward the elves.

  I couldn’t help but suspect these questions had been coordinated with Fiona in advance.

  Before Yolanda could answer, Zachary let out a chuckle and mused aloud,

  “Could that have anything to do with the rumor that Khandora’s food reserves can only cover a quarter of their population the coming long winter?”

  Fiona turned her sharp gaze on him.

  “And where did you hear that?” she asked, voice just short of accusatory.

  Zachary only shrugged.

  “Some Khandorian merchants, chatting a bit too loudly over ale in one of the town taverns.”

  “And you believe what drunkards mumble over beer?” Fiona asked, clearly exasperated. Then she turned her focus to Yolanda.

  “What does Your Highness say? Could it be true? Are the elves reviving that old plague?”

  Yolanda sighed, flicking a grape into her mouth before replying.

  “Fiona, I thought we agreed to drop the titles in these casual meetings. Or have we suddenly slipped into protocol?”

  Fiona gave her an acknowledging nod but waited.

  “As for the plague,” Yolanda continued smoothly, “I can assure you: no. The elves wouldn’t resurrect a century-old plague from the Great War. It was never all that effective to begin with, and it certainly wouldn't serve any purpose now.”

  “Not efficient enough?” the librarian burst out, clearly outraged. “A thirty percent mortality rate isn’t efficient in your eyes? Entire regions were wiped out!”

  “You're forgetting the proper form of address, young man,” Yolanda said coolly, raising an eyebrow as she glanced toward Fiona for effect. Then, with a casual shrug, she added, “But if we judge efficiency by the end result - who holds this land now - I'd say it wasn’t enough. Of course, opinions may differ.”

  I sipped from my drink, watching Yolanda perform with poised indifference. She was good. Maybe even better than Ju. Julietta might’ve been too diplomatic to put the man in his place so cleanly.

  “But Your Highness,” the librarian pressed on, voice tight with frustration, “surely you won’t deny that the elves discuss culling humanity? Or that there have been cases of the plague in Khandora?”

  Yolanda turned her eyes to Fiona, as though the question had come from her directly. Then she gave a measured shake of her head.

  “I wouldn’t deny that such talk exists. Just as plenty of humans talk about ‘cleansing’ the forests of what they call vermin. And as for the plague...” She paused briefly, letting her words land. “More likely, some fool - intentionally or not - disturbed a grave site from the war era. That would be enough. Plague spores can linger, especially in poorly marked mass graves. Even digging a field in the wrong spot could be enough to bring the old curse back.”

  Zachary turned to her, brows lifted in surprise.

  “You mean the plague could still be contagious after a hundred years?”

  Yolanda gave a small chuckle and nodded.

  “Of course. It can lie dormant in the soil for centuries. That’s why plague victims should be burned, not buried.”