The inn was dying the slow, honest way.
No music. No shouting. Just the sound of grease cooling and someone snoring like they were arguing with God.
I was at the corner table, feet up, picking salt off a plate with my knife because the food had given up hours ago. The Dwarf was face-down in a wooden bowl full of empty peanut shells, beard dusted orange, one hand still clutching a mug like it had betrayed him personally. Out cold. Heroic.
The door creaked. I didn't look up.
Probably some drunk blown in by bad weather and worse decisions. This inn specialized in the washed-up and the worn-out.
But the silence that followed wasn't normal. It was the kind that stretched. Tight. Like the air itself was bracing.
Then came the sound. Not boots. Bare feet. Soft, reluctant slaps on warped floorboards. Dust-stung. Road-burned.
I looked.
Loma.
Hair matted with travel. Cheap dress. Skin browner. Leaner. Shoulders pinched like she'd been holding her breath for weeks. No shoes. Gaudy jewelry. A threadbare cloak and a look like she'd chewed glass to get here.
We hadn't spoken since she left with curses on her tongue and fire in her spine.
She didn't smile.
Didn't say sorry.
Just stood there, barefoot in the doorway of a dying inn, with something fragile and awful in her throat.
Then she came over. Not fast. Not hesitant. Just deliberate. Like it took every last piece of pride she had left.
She stopped at my table.
"Saya," she said quietly.
I played cool, although I wanted to hug her and slap her at the same time. "If you're about to ask me whether peanuts count as a vegetable, the answer is no and the Dwarf will fight you when he wakes."
"No. I—" She stopped. Started again. "I have a problem."
That got my attention. I glanced up.
She was wringing her hands. That was new. Usually she wrung other people.
"What kind of problem?" I asked. "Money? Knives? Arrest warrants?"
She shook her head. "A suitor."
I blinked once. "Oh."
"A real one," she added quickly. "Royal. Proper. With banners."
"Oh," I said again, slower.
She leaned in, lowering her voice like the peanuts might be listening. "I got a letter. From my aunt. The Queen of Kishkh."
That earned her a look.
I sat back. "Well look at you. Family correspondence. Very respectable."
She didn't smile.
"They want me back," she said. "To be presented. Married. Aligned."
I hummed. "Sounds dreadful."
"Yes," she said. "Except…"
There it was. The word.
I tilted my head. "Except?"
She swallowed. "Except I've been… working."
Something in my face must have shifted, because she hurried on.
"You know. Since. After... Markets. Inns. Boats. You taught me."
I frowned. "I taught you how to haggle and stab."
"And… other things... remember everything we did..."
"Survival things."
"Yes," she said faintly. "Those."
I stared at her for a second longer than polite.
Then it clicked.
"Oh," I said. That oh. The real one.
She nodded miserably. "They still think I'm the pristine firstborn of Tanagra. Untouched. Symbolic. Worth alliances."
I leaned back in my chair, exhaled through my nose, and finally grokked the shape of the problem.
"…Ah," I said. "That is a problem."
She brightened just a little. "You see it?"
"Yes," I said. "Very clearly now."
She slumped into the chair opposite me, whispering urgently. "Saya, you taught me everything. How to please. How to survive. How to read men. How to work."
I opened my mouth to say something flippant.
Nothing came out.
She looked at me, eyes wide and scared and very much not pretending to be stupid for once.
"They can't know," she said. "They'll test me. Midwives. Old women. Inquisitors. They always do."
I glanced at the Dwarf, still snoring in his bowl like a cautionary tale.
"Well," I said slowly, already feeling fate winding up, "we can't have that."
She leaned forward. "You have an idea."
I smiled.
Not a good smile. A practical one.
"I know someone," I said.
Chapter 291.5: Why I Keep Her
Look.
I know what you're thinking. I know. I know.
Why do I keep helping her? Why do I keep saving the barefoot little disaster with the royal pout and the spine made of soft cheese? Why do I keep reaching out when she stumbles into another pile of noble problems wrapped in scented parchment?
And believe me—I ask myself the same thing. Every. Single. Time.
Maybe it's the snow tower. Maybe cuddling a girl through frostbite makes you stupid. Maybe that kind of warmth settles under your skin and decides to stay, no matter how many times she storms off with fire in her hair and bad decisions in her purse.
Maybe I'm just a sucker for porcelain dolls that crack pretty.
Or maybe—gods help me—she grew on me. Like moss. Like a fungal infection you pretend not to notice because it's kind of cute and only occasionally smells like rot.
Or maybe it's because I remember what it was like. Being thrown out. Being nothing. Having no one. I remember what it's like to beg for a hand and get a boot instead.
So maybe—just maybe—I help her because no one ever helped me.
And don't look at me like that. I'm not going soft. I'm still a cynical, thieving, silver-eyed slut with a mean streak and an allergy to feelings.
But sometimes? When I look at her—tangled hair, chipped nails, that stubborn chin—I see someone who was supposed to be untouchable. Untouchable and untouched. That's the thing with princesses. They're made to be symbols, not people.
And then the world ate her.
And she's still here.
So yeah, maybe I help her. Over and over. Because she's not just any stray.
She's mine.
Mine to mock. Mine to drag out of shit pits. Mine to clean up and slap awake and shove into the future kicking and screaming and occasionally moaning.
And yes. She's a real princess.
She is.
I know she looks like a half-drowned barmaid with attitude and trauma, but trust me. I've seen how she folds napkins when she thinks no one's watching. I've seen her freak out over bad stitching. I've seen her curtsy in her sleep. That kind of thing doesn't wash out.
She says "please" to frogs. She says "thank you" to curses.
She is the real thing.
Which makes me… I don't know. Royal-adjacent? Duchess of Disaster?
I don't care.
What matters is this: when the world chews you up, you don't stay alive by being delicate. You stay alive by learning how to bleed later. After the scam. After the escape. After the girl with the unicorn tapestry stops shaking.
So if you're asking why I helped her again—
I don't have a clean answer.
Could be guilt.
Could be habit.
Could be I don't like seeing things break that didn't deserve to.
But the next time someone asks me what I'm doing helping a royal pain with wet eyes and ruined dignity, I'll tell them the truth:
Because she asked.
Because she needed me.
Because someone had to.
And because no one ever rescued me from my goddamn tower.
So maybe this is my revenge.
Or maybe it's love.
Don't ask again.