"How are you feeling now?"

  "Not great, miss. My back still aches for no good reason, and my joints took quite a beating. I must warn you—be careful yourself. Watch your step on those stairs. The princess's palace is an old castle, and those stone steps are crumbling away. There's even a nasty gap in the staircase right outside the princess's chamber. That's what sent me tumbling. You must be vigilant, especially when carrying the little princess."

  "I will, ma'am."

  White-armored knights stood sentinel at the door, pulling it open once they recognized the approaching party. These were Rhones Lord's men. "Don't worry, they're not stationed here regularly," the wet nurse remarked, catching Petrova's scrutinizing glance at the two knights. "This is our quarters—where we tend to the princess and live ourselves." The chamber was generously proportioned, with abundant natural light that filled it with a luminous clarity. "Queen Claire occupied this room when she first wed King Salt." The space preserved its original character from Claire's arrival: a wardrobe twice the size of those belonging to ordinary nobility, a desk cluttered with delicate trinkets, ornamental swords of exceptional craftsmanship, and even a portrait of Claire as a maiden adorning the wall. Two substantial beds flanked opposite sides of the room, complemented by a wooden cradle. "You two will share one bed. Is that agreeable? Unless you'd rather bunk with the old hag, smelling her stink and listening to her snore all night. Wouldn't bother me none."

  "I have no objection, ma'am." Kristina Petrova started at hearing someone else respond before she could. She had been engrossed in examining the exquisite handcrafted objects on the desk, completely overlooking another woman in the room's shadowy corner—a woman who shared her station as the princess's attendant. The figure rose from a wooden stool, her left hand still gently rocking the cradle. "I'm Beth Keton," she said. The dim lighting obscured her features, though her height was evident—matching Kristina's own. "I favor darkness and the shelter of shadows. You may address me as 'Black Beth.'"

  "...I'll stick with Beth, if that's acceptable." (What a peculiar self-introduction.)

  "Suit yourself." Beth Keton regarded her with glacial indifference. "For your information, I serve as Princess Rebecca's personal handmaiden."

  "I am also Princess Rebecca's personal handmaiden," Kristina countered, words rapid as gunfire. "I'm Kristina Petrova."

  "No need to compete for favor just yet, you two; the princess hasn't even weaned," Hubbard remarked, sprawling across her bed without bothering to remove her dress. "Rest while the princess sleeps. Once she wakes, you'll have your hands full. Even if you choose not to rest, allow me my slumber." Soon, only snores filled the air.

  Beth Keton retreated to her corner perch. Kristina Petrova decided to change into more suitable attire. She stepped behind the screen and began removing her garments. A penetrating, frigid gaze seemed to pierce the barrier, boring into her exposed back.

  (This spells trouble,) she thought. (Beth Keton—this woman will be nothing but trouble.)

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "What the hell are you doing!?" The laundry supervisor loomed in the doorway, fists planted firmly on her hips. "Since when does laundering require a visit to the kitchen?"

  Treni crouched beside the stove, reaching for another sausage. "Hey!" Her sister jabbed an elbow into her ribs. "Tessa's right there!"

  "Don't imagine I'm blind to your schemes, ladies," Tessa declared, propping herself against the wooden doorframe. "Nothing in this kitchen requires washing. Not the sausages, not the cured meats, nothing!" She snarled, "Now get your half-elf backsides out of here!"

  "Maybe her nasty, tangled yellow hair needs a wash," Treni muttered. Teresa clamped her palm over her sister's mouth. "Forgive us, ma'am," the elder sister pleaded with exaggerated contrition. "We were simply famished and wandered in by chance."

  "Strange how I never witness you 'wandering by chance' into the cesspits," the supervisor retorted savagely. "The camp's latrines and sewage trenches remain unfinished. Shall I reassign you there instead, you miserable strumpets?"

  Teresa maintained her grip on her struggling sister, who fought to free herself. "We vow it won't happen again, ma'am. Please don't cast us aside," she implored with theatrical desperation. "Out! Now!"

  The twins slowly straightened. Teresa clutched her clothing with feigned modesty, while Treni thumped her chest, gasping dramatically. "Well? Worth the theft?" Tessa waved away an intrusive fly.

  "Sorry..." Teresa hung her head. Noticing Treni still regulating her breathing, the supervisor taunted, "Oh, did the sausage obstruct your throat? How unfortunate. I assumed you'd mastered such activities with men by now."

  "You wretched—" Treni's eyes blazed with indignation. "What?" Tessa's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Do you consider yourselves special merely because you've attached yourselves to a pair of knights?"

  Teresa tugged urgently at her sister's sleeve. "There's no truth to that... Miss Tessa. We're departing now." She pulled Treni towards the exit. "Hold there. Where's the laundry you claimed to be washing?"

  "Oh... I... left it in the laundry chamber. We'll collect it immediately," Teresa stammered unconvincingly.

  "So you've washed nothing at all!?" The supervisor erupted in fury. "You filthy, worthless trollops," she spat, jabbing her finger at Teresa's face. "Listen carefully. Every soiled garment in the laundry room now becomes your responsibility. Haul it all to the river and scrub until dawn breaks. And don't let me see your faces in this place again!"

  The sisters hastily fled the kitchen. "It's already daytime anyway," Treni grumbled in protest.

  On the third morning after their initial encounter with Carl and Tyler, Milankai initiated a ruthless purge of the camp's prostitutes. His primary targets were almost exclusively half-elves—specifically those half-elves who offended his sensibilities. He manufactured various pretexts to eliminate these unfortunate women, with the ratio of male to female executions peaking at 1:10. After careful deliberation, Teresa and Treni elected to become "handmaidens"—or more accurately, "possessions"—of Carl and Tyler. Under Devalosfang's protection, the pair evaded the purge. Yet Milankai's expression suggested his campaign remained unfinished. One could only wonder if he secretly prayed for Carl and Tyler's demise on the battlefield.

  "It was merely a morsel of food," Treni complained, massaging her stomach as they stood amidst the laundry room. The other washerwomen had long since departed for their duties. "Why is there such an abundance?"

  "Cease your complaints, sister," Teresa admonished, transferring a mountain of coarse linen shirts into a massive wooden tub. "Compared to our peers, our circumstances are enviable. The other girls must not only toil throughout daylight hours but service clients through the night as well."

  "I would gladly offer my services to Sir Tyler and Sir Carl," Treni remarked, delicately lifting a saturated shirt by its hem before sniffing it and recoiling in disgust. "Too bad they don't seem to want our 'services'."