You'd think that being a thrall of a hunky barbarian brute would be fun.
I mean, he looked the part — big, scarred, smelled like smoke and salt and unresolved trauma. Exactly the kind of man I used to entertain back in my seediest, most profitable days in the coastal brothels of Seebulba. The kind who'd pay extra for bite marks and call me "storm witch" in three dialects before passing out in their own mead.
But no.
Apparently, there are two kinds of barbarians in this world.
Abroad? Loud, horny, generous with coin, and admirably unbothered by moral hygiene.
And then there's this one.
At home.
In his village.
Where apparently he is engaged.
To a woman named Rikka. Who could snap me in half with her thighs — and that's not a compliment, it's a weather warning.
So what does he do?
He gives me to her. As a gift. A house gift.
And okay.
I know what you're picturing.
Some sort of steamy snowbound threesome on a bear rug, involving furs, oil, and very flexible cultural norms.
Alas.
No.
What I got was a broom.
A list of chores.
And the strong suggestion that if I so much as moaned wrong, Rikka would shove me headfirst into the root cellar and leave me for the winter cabbage.
Up here, this far north, the days are stupidly short.
And don't ask me why.
Nobody knows. And if they pretend they do, they're lying or drunk or both.
Geography? Please. The world is flat. Everyone knows that. Balanced on the coiled back of the great snake, who dreams storms and causes earthquakes when its stomach rumbles. That's just basic theology. So why is daylight being rationed like dried meat in a siege?
It's cold. The sky looks like melted lead. The wind is sarcastic. That's already punishment enough.
But I digress.
Anyway.
I'm kicked out of bed before dawn.
Not out out — I was never in-in.
I sleep at the foot of the bed. Like a lapdog. Or a spare boot.
Fine. Domestic hierarchy.
She's the lady of the longhouse, I'm the southern trophy skank doing penance with a broom.
But why so early?
"To start the fire," she says.
"To fetch water," she says.
"To remember your place," she says, which is apparently somewhere between chamberpot scrubber and doormat.
So I drag myself from the sheepskin blanket I'm allowed to borrow (smells like damp and despair), shove my frozen feet into birch bark clogs — with no socks — and trudge through frost to the stream.
Yes.
The stream.
Which is frozen over.
And guess who gets to break it open with a stick like a peasant ice witch?
Yours truly.
Then back to the fire. Shivering. To cook porridge.
From scratch.
And Rikka — radiant, terrifying, judgmental Rikka — likes her berries smashed by hand. In a stone mortar. Not blended, not warmed. Just smashed. With feeling.
Because apparently, if the berries aren't sobbing, you didn't crush them right.
And the porridge is burnt. Again.
Smoke curling up from the pot like it's trying to flee the shame. The oats are welded to the bottom. I've stirred it with a stick. I've prayed. I've even whispered sweet threats at it like "cook properly, or I will stab your ancestors." Nothing worked.
Rikka peers into the pot. She doesn't say anything. She just breathes through her nose. Slow. Controlled. Disappointed. It's worse than yelling.
That's when I crack.
"I am a princess, damn it! Not a kitchen helper!"
Her eyebrow lifts. One single, frosty arch of disbelief.
"I don't belong here with clogs and cows and—murdered oats! I am Princess Saya of Delvida, rightful daughter of the House of Velvet Dawn, born under the Ruby Eclipse, anointed in rose water and fireflies!"
Okay yes.
It's a page right out of Loma's ridiculous fantasy diary.
But hell, she got tea and a tower and a magic samovar out of it.
What do I have? A wooden ladle and frostbite.
So I stand there, soot on my cheek, hair in disarray, proudly holding my title like a shield.
Rikka looks at me.
"Princess," she repeats flatly.
"Yes."
"Of Delvida."
"Yes, Delvida," I say with all the dignity a person can muster while standing barefoot in a puddle of lukewarm porridge water.
A long pause.
Then she points at the pot. "Then rule your kingdom and clean it, Your Majesty."
I scrape the blackened mess with a carved wooden spoon that feels more like an insult than a utensil.
Princess of Ash.
Queen of Char.
Next to a pile of root vegetables that will need peeling.
***
The longhouse door creaks open with the kind of casual arrogance that usually means trouble or trade—sometimes both.
In steps a man who does not belong here. No frostbite, no scars, no axe slung across his back. Instead: rings on every finger, robes too clean for someone who just rode through a snowstorm, and a grin like a coin purse with teeth.
A merchant.
Not the roadside kind, either. This one reeks of caravan silk and contracts signed in blood. Beady little eyes scanning everything like he's appraising livestock. And next to him? A skinny scribe type, carrying a ledger and already regretting life.
"Rikka!" he calls out, all theatrical charm. "Still terrifying the locals? You look positively radiant, dear—like a thunderstorm in human form."
Rikka grunts in approval, tossing a half-chopped root into the stew. "Still swindling widows and selling bad wine, Urdan?"
"Only the ones who deserve it." He chuckles, removes his gloves one finger at a time. "Heard about your latest raid. That chieftain's skull makes a lovely goblet, by the way. Your taste in trophies is impeccable."
They laugh like old friends comparing war crimes.
Then his gaze lands on me.
I'm still at the hearth, covered in soot and porridge residue, clogs soaked from the stream run, hair in a mess that no princess has ever worn in public. And yet, I meet his stare with all the poise I can gather from the wreckage of my pride.
He raises an eyebrow. "And who's this charming creature?"
Rikka doesn't even look at me. "Riffraff," she says flatly. "Hrung found her half-frozen in the woods. Claims to be some princess."
The merchant tilts his head. "Oh?"
"Delvida or Delirium or Delusion, one of those," Rikka adds. "She burns porridge and talks too much."
I smile sweetly. My hands are black with ash, my pride held together with sarcasm and raw spite.
"I am a princess," I say, voice cool. "Saya of Delvida. Twin-born under the Ruby Eclipse. Hidden for my safety. Raised in exile. And destined for more than scrubbing pots in birch bark shoes."
The merchant's grin widens.
Rikka snorts and stirs the stew.
But I see it. In his eyes. The flicker.
Maybe he believes me.
Maybe he just sees potential.
Either way — something's shifting.
And I'm not scraping porridge forever.
The merchant's eyes light up.
Not with pity. Not with disbelief.
But with opportunity.
"Burns porridge, you say?" he muses, stepping closer. "Claims to be a princess?"
He circles me like I'm a half-moldy painting he just pulled from a dead noble's cellar. I hold my ground, chin high, soot-smeared and barefoot but defiant. He's shorter than me. That won't stop him from trying to sell me to someone taller.
"Tell you what, Rikka…" he drawls, turning back toward the hearth. "I think I could flip this creature."
"Flip," I repeat. "I'm not a cart."
He ignores me. "Clean her up a bit. Comb the knots, teach her which fork to hold first. Pitch her to someone like… Lord Artag, perhaps? The man's sick with boredom and drunk on conquest. What he needs is novelty. An exotic, tragic little mouthy thing with a crown-shaped hole in her past."
He gestures broadly. "She certainly sounds appropriately difficult."
I open my mouth to protest. Rikka throws me a look. I close it again.
"We split the profit," the merchant says. "Fifty-fifty."
"Seventy-thirty," Rikka replies instantly, not even blinking.
The merchant tuts. "Look, Rikka. She's probably eating more than she earns."
"She did eat a whole turnip yesterday," Rikka says, tone dry as tinder.
I hiss, "It was boiled. And my ration."
"Hm. Yes," the merchant nods thoughtfully. "Wasteful."
He strokes his beard like he just discovered mold he could monetize. "Sixty-forty?"
Rikka grunts.
I just stare at them.
They're bartering over me like I'm a haunted plow.
I'd be outraged if I weren't already calculating how to make this scam mine.