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Book 2: Chapter 14: Every Day A New Problem
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 19:01:39 +0000 UTCChapter 14:
Every Day a New Problem
Elen could not remember ever being this tired. Her legs ached with every step, a bone-deep weariness that had settled into her body like a second skin. The days blurred together in a long, gray haze. There had been the endless trudge up narrow mountain paths, feet soaked from freezing rain, every breath sharp with cold. There were haunted nights where the wind battered their camp and she lay awake, clutching her sword hilt to her chest, praying to Lirien that the Beastkin would not find them. Sometimes a wolf’s cry drifted on the wind, and everyone would fall silent, listening, until only the crackle of fire or the sobbing of a man too tired to hide it filled the dark. Sometimes someone did not wake in the morning. But they survived, and survival was everything.
When they finally left Ashford’s highlands and crossed into Stormvale, she could feel a subtle shift pass through the battered column of survivors. The old fear lifted a little. Someone began to sing, off-key but stubborn. Jarl, who could not carry a tune to save his life, sang loudest anyway. Even Faren joined in, and before long others were humming, their spirits lifting as the land changed beneath their feet.
"You hear that, Elen?" Jarl grinned as he walked, the wind snapping at his muddy cloak. "Means we’re out of cursed Ashford for good. Nothing out here wants to eat us except maybe a goat."
Elen tried to smile, her lips cracked and dry, but she managed it. "You said that about the last mountain. And there were three wolves."
Faren, hauling a heavy sack, barked out a laugh. "Three wolves, and Jarl nearly lost his trousers running. Should have seen him. Fastest he’s ever moved."
"I was outnumbered," Jarl said, his voice full of mock dignity. He flashed a smile at Elen. "You weren’t scared at all, were you? You Ashford girls must have steel in your bones."
Elen wanted to protest but the words caught in her throat. Was she brave or just lucky? Sometimes it felt like she was only pretending to be strong, borrowing the confidence she remembered from her mother. But she wasn’t here now. Only Elen and these men who had become her friends, forged by a handful of desperate days on the run.
Ser Quen rode at the rear, astride a tired piebald horse. He was the only one who still wore a real uniform, the blue and white sash of Caerwyn faded but clean across his chest. Elen quickly learned he was the kind of man who rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying, but when he did, the others listened. He was the one who had handed her water, who had kept the worst of the nightmares at bay with a quiet word and a steady look.
As they neared the first real town, Quen slowed his horse to walk beside her. His eyes were sharp but kind.
"You holding up?" he asked in a low voice so the others would not hear.
Elen nodded. "Better now that we’re here."
"Good," he said. "Stormvale folk are rough but they’ve got decent hearts."
The town appeared on the horizon just before sunset, a huddle of gray rooftops, woodsmoke curling from chimneys, sturdy wooden walls and watchtowers at each corner. As they trudged down from the muddy ridge, Elen felt hope and dread mixing together in her chest. Their battered company drew closer and the town guards spotted them, ringing a warning bell that echoed across the fields.
They halted on the muddy road just outside bowshot. Elen looked around. There were less a hundred tired souls, most wounded or half-starved, their battered uniforms stained and patched, swords more rust than steel. These were the refugees of the king’s Second Army, survivors but not an army any longer.
Ser Quen muttered, "Wait here," and rode up with two other officers and a priest in Lirien’s green sash. The rest of them just stood in the cold, too exhausted to wonder if the gates would even open. Jarl spat in the mud. "Town’s got a right to be nervous, I guess. Last time a column like ours showed up, someone probably burned the granary."
Faren shrugged, dropping his pack. "If I were them, I’d keep us out too. Hungry soldiers are just as bad as bandits."
Elen watched the walls. Children peered through gaps in the timber, eyes wide. A pair of women, one with a babe, pulled their shawls tighter, as if expecting the ragged column to storm the gates at any moment.
No one moved for a long time. The sun bled orange against the clouds, turning the steppe to fire. The only sounds were the wind, the creak of old leather, the shifting of tired feet. At last a rider came back from the gate, waving his arm. Ser Quen’s voice rang out across the ranks.
"We’re camping outside. Officers only in for parley. Supplies might be sent. No looting, no trouble. Hold your discipline and you’ll eat tonight."
There was a weak cheer, half relief, half bitter humor. Some men collapsed where they stood. Others drifted to the edge of the road, sinking down against packs or wagon wheels. Elen’s fingers shook as she tried to strike a spark, her nails still stained from days on the mountain.
Jarl plopped down beside her, Faren following with a groan. They sat in a huddle, backs to the wind. Faren produced a chunk of bread, hard as stone, and broke it three ways.
"Better than nothing," he said.
Elen nibbled at hers. "Do you think they’ll send food?"
Jarl shrugged. "Depends how scared they are. Maybe we’ll get stew. Maybe we’ll get told to piss off. We’ll know soon enough."
When Ser Quen returned, he looked tired but relieved. "They’re wary," he said. "But they’ll send soup and some old cheese. Bread if we’re lucky. Don’t expect to be invited in. Stormvale’s been hit hard by refugees and bandits. But they’re not turning us away."
Faren let out a sigh. "Soup sounds like a feast."
Jarl leaned back with a smile. "Long as it’s hot. And no onions. Stormvale onions will put you in your grave.
In the evening, they ate the rationed soup in silence, savoring every bite. Around them, other fires burned low. Some men sang, others just stared into the dark. Elen found herself relaxing, letting the warmth of the fire and her friends’ voices wash over her. For a little while, she let herself believe things could get better.
Jarl talked about home, his parents’ farm near the Crown Duchy, his mother making stew from weeds and water. Faren told stories of his daughters, how the youngest would hide in the cellar whenever thunder rolled across the hills. Ser Quen spoke softly of Caerwyn, of green fields and slow rivers, of the festivals of Lirien where even the nobles danced barefoot in the mud.
Elen mostly listened, grateful for their kindness and the way they never pressed her for details. When they did ask about Ashford, she stared at the fire and said only, "I ran away before the battle. I thought there would be time to come back. But then it all happened so fast."
Faren shook his head. "Doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and you helped carry Quen’s pack all the way from the pass. That’s worth more than most."
Jarl grinned. "You ever want to see the Crown Duchy proper, you stick with us. We’ll show you everything. Even the food gets better, eventually."
Night fell. Around them, other survivors huddled close, some singing, others silent. Before sleep, Ser Quen spoke quietly. "We made it. That’s more than most can say. Lirien’s hand must have guided you, Elen. Not everyone walks out of Ashford alive."
She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling the ache of homesickness and something softer, like hope. As the stars came out, she whispered her thanks to Lirien, and to the new friends she made along the way.
Before breakfast, someone rang a battered iron bell, and slowly, the battered survivors gathered in a loose ring around the officers. Elen stood just behind Jarl and Faren, feeling small in the crowd, her hand resting lightly on her sword. Ser Quen was up front, his posture straight despite the fatigue in his eyes. Beside him stood two other captains, faces grim. The priest from yesterday was there too, Lirien’s green sash bright against the gray morning.
Quen cleared his throat and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “Listen close. News from the city: another group—soldiers like us—crossed into Stormvale last night. Thirty miles out, headed this way. The townsfolk got a messenger just before dawn. Seems the Beastkin aren’t pursuing, for now.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Faren shot Jarl a quick look, relief and worry warring on his face. “More survivors,” he whispered. “Maybe even some of ours.”
Elen glanced at the others. She recognized hope in the way men straightened, heads lifting, eyes searching the horizon.
A captain with a battered black cloak stepped forward. “We need to talk routes,” he said. “We’re too close to Ashford’s border here. If the Duchess sends patrols, we’re trapped against the wall. The safest way south is the Great Gate—the Gate of the North.”
“The Gate,” Quen agreed, nodding. “It’s the choke point for every army in the region. Ashford, Velmire, Stormvale, the Crown Duchy, everyone holds it, or wants to. If it’s still in our hands, we can get to the capital safely.”
“But that’s the problem,” Jarl muttered to Elen, voice low. “If it’s lost, we’re walking straight into a lion’s den. Might as well hand ourselves to Ashford.”
The priest spoke, his tone calm and clear. “We could try to link up with the other band. Strength in numbers. But it will slow us down, and there’s no guarantee we’ll find enough supplies on the road. The alternative is to march straight southwest, toward the Gate, and hope we’re not cut off.”
Another officer—a sharp-faced woman with a captain’s braid—lifted her hand. “Stormvale’s lord may still hold the Gate. We should send a messenger. If it falls, we scatter west, toward Velmire. It’s a longer road, but safer than being caught here.”
The men and women around Elen shifted, voices rising in a tangled chorus. Some wanted to wait, gather the other survivors. Others wanted to push forward, afraid every hour lost might be their last. Arguments sprang up, about food, safety, duty, fear. Elen watched it all in silence, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The knot of anxiety in her stomach never left.
As the officers debated, Jarl nudged her gently. “What do you think, Elen? Would you risk the Gate?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m just glad I’m not deciding.”
Faren gave her a crooked smile. “That’s the smartest thing anyone’s said all morning.”
Eventually, Ser Quen raised his hand, calling for quiet. “We’ll send a runner to the other survivors, tell them our plan. The main column will march southwest by midday. We head for the Gate of the North, and pray it’s still ours.”
There were no cheers, only weary acceptance. It was not hope, exactly, but it was a plan. And sometimes, Elen realized, that was enough. She watched as the officers broke up, the men and women around her packing up camp with stiff, tired motions. The road ahead was long and full of danger, but for the first time since fleeing Ashford, Elen felt like she was moving toward something, not just running away. She whispered a silent prayer to Lirien, then lifted her pack and joined her friends as they prepared for whatever the day might bring.
--::--
Grace woke like a computer someone had just switched back on, no warning, no gentle slide from dream to waking, just a hard reset. One second, nothing. The next, she was staring at her bedroom ceiling in Gatewick, sunlight streaming through the windows and making dust motes dance above her head.
She lay there a moment, pulse tapping behind her eyes. The room was warm, too bright, annoyingly peaceful. Her thoughts clung to the last thing she remembered—those eyes, floating in a dark universe, vast and cold and... awake. She winced. Right on cue, a headache began to coil at the base of her skull, soft at first but promising thunder.
Nyras. Just the thought of the name sent a sharp, white ache stabbing through her brain. Grace gritted her teeth and tried to focus on something else, but it was like her mind was a minefield now. Step near that forbidden memory, and boom—pain. Of course. The universe’s answer to curiosity: a slap to the head. Great. That’s just fantastic. Try to remember what she saw, what really happened last night, and her own body turned against her. She couldn’t even get angry properly without the ache flaring sharper, making her squint at the ceiling like she could burn a hole through it.
What the hell even was that? Those eyes, huge as stars, looking right at her, surprise in their depths, and then nothing. Blank. Not even a proper blackout, just a hole in the world, a chasm she wasn’t allowed to cross. She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to pound her fist against the mattress. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “Cosmic censorship. Just what I needed.”
The knock at the door startled her. Once. Twice. Then a quick series, urgent, almost panicked. She rolled her eyes. Of course. Couldn’t even sulk in peace without someone wanting something. The headache throbbed again as she stood up, dragging her hands through her hair. Her whole body felt weird, off, as if the connection to the world was still rebooting. Maybe Corax had locked the door to keep out gawkers, or maybe he just enjoyed making things inconvenient. At least she hadn’t woken up on the floor.
She shuffled over, unlatched the lock, and swung open the door. Her maid stood there, face pale with worry, clutching a tray of breakfast and a pot of tea like a shield.
“My lady, I—I’ve been knocking for nearly ten minutes. Are you unwell?”
Grace forced a smile, the sort that was more teeth than warmth. “Just slept a little too well, that’s all.” She let the maid in, watching her bustle about, straightening pillows and opening the curtains as if sunlight could solve anything. The light streamed in, setting every speck of dust aglow, making the old Gatewick stone look less gray and more golden, at least for now.
She sprawled on the bed and let the silence linger until the maid, nervous as always, hovered with her tea tray. “My lady, is there anything you require this morning?”
Grace, barely listening, waved her off and started nibbling a corner of buttered bread, mind already drifting. Gods, what day is it again? I swear every week here is just Marketday repeated with different flavors of headache.
She asked, absently, “So, what’s on my schedule today?”
The maid perked up, clearly grateful for an easy question. “There are visitors waiting in the lower gallery, my lady. They have been here since dawn, seeking audience.”
Grace paused, mid-chew. “Who?”
“I do not know, my lady. Lady Elyne placed them in the blue parlor and said you would see them if you had time.”
If Elyne hasn’t dragged me out of bed already, they can’t be important, Grace thought, swallowing her irritation along with her toast. “They can wait. If it was urgent, Elyne would have called for me herself.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”
Grace rolled her eyes inwardly. Please don’t let this become the new normal—an audience every morning, as if I’m supposed to care about an endless parade of complaints and petty requests. It’s just the same problems, recycled with different faces. If this is ruling, no wonder half the nobility goes mad.
She turned her focus to the breakfast spread. Porridge, bread, a single poached egg, nothing special, but better than the gray gruel she’d expected after reading the so-called financial reports from the steward. Honestly, how did he manage to lose money running a castle? Even with creative accounting…
She sighed, stuffing another bite into her mouth, then realized the maid was still hovering nearby. “Anything else?”
The maid seemed flustered, as if she had forgotten her own lines in a badly-rehearsed play. “Oh, yes, my lady. Later today, you are invited to the city hall for a formal meeting with the mayor. He has arranged for the city’s accounts to be presented.”
Grace almost laughed. “Finally. I was beginning to think he’d just make up numbers and hope I wouldn’t notice.”
The maid’s eyes widened in horror, but Grace only smiled sweetly.
That reminds me… I should really check out the dungeon today too, just to see if our dear steward is still having the time of his life down there.
She set aside her cup and stretched, bones cracking, already feeling the weight of the day ahead settling across her shoulders. “What else?”
The maid took a quick breath, visibly relieved to have made it through the worst. “Lady Elyne asked me to remind you that you have training scheduled in the courtyard this afternoon. Lady Clara will join you, as will Lady Elyne herself. And there are lessons after, in the library.”
Grace exhaled, slumping dramatically against the headboard. Wonderful. My day is already overbooked.
She let the silence hang, thinking of all the things she should do today—check the accounts, give some audiences, check the dungeon, also check the “family business” Ser Calen keeps hinting about yesterday like he’s in some secret society instead of just smuggling in a Wolfkin and a street kid. “The delivery arrives tomorrow, my lady.” Just say it, Calen. Pet and slave, delivered fresh and traumatized. Ugh. Even my own knights speak like they’re writing a bad serial novel.
The maid, sensing Grace’s mood, quietly fetched her hairbrush and ribbons, preparing to work on her curls. Grace allowed herself to be arranged and fussed over, face blank but mind spinning.
I seriously need, like, thirty-hour days. And a real staff, not just people who panic whenever something weird happens. Why is everything a hassle around here?
She glanced in the mirror as the maid began to braid her hair, watching her own reflection shift between bored, tired, and quietly amused. When the maid finished, Grace flashed her brightest, most imperious smile. “Ready for the day.”
“Of course, my lady,” the maid replied.
Grace straightened her spine and rose, mentally bracing herself for the day.
Comments
Bunny
Lovely!
The Time walrus
Poor Grace, can't go more than a week without some fresh eldritch horror screwing with her head. At this point she should organize a queue.
