We lay flat on a warm slab of stone overlooking the gorge, sunlight baking our spines, a light breeze pushing at the scrub pines above us. Below, the winding road curled like a lazy snake between steep cliffs. No one in sight yet, but the day was young and the armor hadn't walked itself to us.
"Knights come through here all the time," I said, peering over the edge. "Pilgrims, bounty hunters, errand boys pretending they're crusaders. This is the perfect choke point."
Dragon lay beside me, talons digging little grooves in the rock like he was filing his claws out of boredom. His tail flicked behind him like a lazy whip. "You're awfully confident for someone who fled a glowing corpse two days ago."
I ignored that. "They like the view," I continued. "They slow down. Stretch their legs. And that's when we make our move."
Behind us, Mibbs was crouched behind a shrub, trying to stay quiet and mostly failing. I could hear his breathing. Like a panicked rabbit auditioning for a panic attack.
Dragon gave me a sidelong glance. "Want me to swoop down and snatch the next one off his horse? Would be efficient."
I turned and raised an eyebrow. "And risk scorching the armor? Denting it with your talons? Smearing it with dragon slobber?"
"I'm just saying," he muttered, "it'd be faster."
"It's not about fast. It's about clean." I leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And besides… it'd be good for the boy."
Dragon made a skeptical sound in his throat. "By 'good,' you mean traumatic and humiliating?"
"Yes," I said brightly. "Character building."
He huffed. "Classic damsel trap, then?"
"Exactly," I said. "Torn tunic. Big teary eyes. I sob. He dismounts. I flutter. Mibbs strikes."
***
It took another hour of sweat and waiting before we heard the hooves.
Three steady clops, the distinct sound of a horse at walking pace, casual and unhurried. Someone confident. Someone armored.
I peeked over the ledge and spotted him rounding the bend.
Perfect.
The knight was tall in the saddle, riding a lean sorrel mount draped in woven green cloth. His armor wasn't like the usual dull steel of border patrols or temple guards. No, this was old-fashioned—heroic.
Bronze plates curved smooth across his shoulders and chest, catching the sun in long amber flares. A linen tunic beneath, dyed crimson and stitched with curling patterns in gold thread. No helm, just a bronze skullcap with cheek guards, and a tall green crest made of dyed horsehair, bouncing with each step of the horse. His cloak was white and fastened at one shoulder with a brooch shaped like a lion's head.
He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a crumbling mosaic. The kind of knight ballads forget to mention when they get modern. Antique. Radiant. Probably dumb as stone.
Just how I liked them.
His chin was clean-shaven and heroic. His posture screamed noble training. His face—blessedly—was handsome but not too smart. The exact balance of charm and stupidity that made a man do something gallant without checking the bushes first.
Bingo.
I stepped off the trail ahead of him, letting the sunlight catch me just so.
My tunic was in full disaster mode: torn artfully at the hem, falling off one shoulder, held together with two sad little brooches and a belt that had clearly lost the will to cinch anything. One sandal was hanging from my toes, the other trailing somewhere behind me. My hair was windswept and wild, eyes big and shimmering with the sheer drama of my invented misfortune.
I burst out from the bushes with a choked sob, stumbling toward the road. "Oh please! Sir—help me! You must—there were bandits—they took my companions—my poor cousin was—was—" I let my voice crack, hands fluttering near my throat. "I barely escaped with my life!"
He reined in immediately, horse snorting, visor lifting. His face was flushed from the heat, sweat clinging to his brow, but his eyes went wide with knightly alarm.
"Gods above," he said, voice rich with concern. "My lady, are you injured?"
"I—I don't know," I whispered, swaying a little on my feet. "My legs are trembling. I've been running for hours. I think I twisted something. I—I can barely stand—"
He was already dismounting, armor clinking with practiced grace. "Here, lean on me. You're safe now."
I let myself collapse against him, trembling just enough to seem fragile, just enough to let my fingers curl lightly into the folds of his cloak. He smelled like oiled metal and rosemary soap. Rich boy. Even better.
"Oh gods, your voice is so… steady," I breathed, blinking up at him. "You sound like safety."
He flushed, his hands hovering politely at my back, unsure whether to hold or hover.
"I was sent by my lord to deliver a letter to the garrison in Korrim," he said. "But I can—of course—escort you back to safety. Wherever you came from. You're—by the stars—are you barefoot?"
I looked down at my feet and gave a shuddering laugh. "Oh. I hadn't even noticed."
I leaned closer, brushing my shoulder against his chestplate. "It's all such a blur… there was a noise, and then shouting, and fire, and I just ran. I didn't think. I couldn't." I glanced up through damp lashes. "You're so brave. I feel safer already."
His hand finally settled at my elbow. Not too firm. Gentlemanly.
"There's a stream nearby," I murmured. "Would you—mind—just for a moment. I need a sip. If we step off the road—just there, through the trees…"
He nodded immediately. "Of course. Here, let me help you."
And just like that, we were slipping off the trail, the bushes closing behind us, his hand gentle at my waist as I let myself sag against him like a damsel made of silk and need.
Behind the trees, somewhere out of sight, Mibbs waited.
Hopefully upright.
Hopefully conscious.
Hopefully not about to trip over a root again.
The stream gurgled softly as the knight and I slipped into the little clearing. Sunlight danced off the water, scattering gold flecks across the moss.
Perfect staging. Excellent light. Good acoustics.
He'd already shed half his armor—bronze plates stacked neatly on a rock, tunic unlaced at the throat. His chest was all sun-kissed muscle and heroic posture, the kind that makes an artist swoon and a conwoman see opportunity.
I lay back on the grass, propped on my elbows, tunic drooping off one shoulder, legs spread just enough to short-circuit a man's common sense. I giggled—light, breathy, practiced.
"You're very strong," I murmured. "And so brave. I've never felt this… safe."
He grinned, kneeling beside me, confident as a hero stepping into a ballad.
Somewhere in the bushes, Mibbs was supposed to be poised like a jungle cat, ready to leap and subdue this shining idiot with a dramatic cry of justice.
Instead:
Snap.
Crunch.
THUD.
Followed by a small, high-pitched: "Ow—shit—sorry—!"
The knight's head whipped toward the sound.
I sighed internally.
Time slowed—like in those heroic epics where destiny is about to strike, except here destiny was tripping over his own boots and landing face-first in a shrub.
The knight was halfway rising, suspicion sharpening his eyes.
I didn't wait.
I moved.
Training? Instinct? Desperation? Who knows. My hand shot out, grabbed the flat river rock I'd spotted three seconds earlier, and I swung it hard into the side of his head.
THUNK.
Clean, satisfying impact. Like a melon meets justice.
The knight's eyes went wide, then rolled back. He toppled sideways in a heroic, useless heap.
Behind us, Mibbs stumbled out of the bushes, covered in leaves, looking like a wet, terrified scarecrow.
"I-I missed the signal," he stammered. "Was that good? Should I—should I help?"
I tossed the rock aside and got to my feet.
"Mibbs," I sighed. "You tripped on your own ambush shrub."
He blinked.
"And faint now," I added.
He blinked again.
Then fainted.
Dragon landed with a heavy thud behind him, tail flicking with annoyance. "I heard the rock from up there. Let me guess. Plan B?"
"Plan A. Mibbs just fumbled the alphabet." I knelt beside the knight, checked his pulse. Still breathing. Good.
"Strip him," I ordered. "Quickly."
Mibbs blinked. "W-what?"
"Armor. Boots. Anything shiny. Don't just stand there gawping like you've never undressed a man unconscious in a forest before."
Mibbs stammered something and got to work.
Dragon used a claw to unbuckle the greaves. "This one's got nice taste. Might even fit."
The knight groaned softly, eyelids fluttering.
Without a word, I picked up the rock and dropped it on his head again.
Thud.
Still now.
Mibbs squeaked.
Dragon huffed smoke. "You really do have a signature move."
I stood, brushing dirt off my thighs. "When something works, you don't change it. That's called professionalism."