Ronister groggily opens his eyes as he hears a rapping upon his door.

  No doubt lies in his heart that Lady Courtney stands across from the threshold. A spike of fear thrusts 'pon his heart: will she scold him for his behavior before the throne? And yet, to show such bald-faced audacity to the crown itself… Lady Courtney's title as hero is the only reason their twosome were not yet drawn and quartered before the noble masses.

  Hero. 'Tis a strange title for Lady Courtney. When the girl first descended from the clouds, he had no doubt in his mind that she was a chosen soul of legend. And yet, as time goes on… no! Ronister must hold onto his loyalty and honor still.

  The rapping grows wilder.

  Escaping his too-large downy bed, Ronister flies swiftly to the door before cracking it open the barest of inches.

  "Milady…? It's quite late in the eve…"

  "..." Lady Courtney squints down at him, the distant candlelight barely illuminating her face. "Ugh, I forgot how cute you are without the armor."

  Cute?!

  "I-I'm not cute! I am a man, not a doll!"

  And, besides, his bowl cut has grown long and shaggy during his time away from a proper barber – his bangs now hang over his eyes. …Which they usually do anyways, but they now reach his nose!

  "You have a little button nose and a natural blush and a face that grandmas want to pinch. You are literally ka-yute." Lady Courtney ruffles his hair, to his utter dismay. "Like a teddy bear."

  "I…!" Ronister tries to fix his hair, before attempting to hide his face under a pout. "...I'm not cute. 'Tis folly, surely."

  Lady Courtney rolls her eyes.

  "Anyways, so. I figured we could, like, wander the castle, see where everything is." She explains, jerking a thumb behind her. "I'm also hungry, so if we could find a pantry to raid, that'd be sweet."

  "Ah! You were absent from supper – it was a quiet affair, and the maids would not wish to wake you unduly, I suppose." Ronister says. "I believe I know where the kitchens are. Fate willing, we can ask a night guard if we see one."

  With that, Ronister dons his new, royally-gifted sandals and takes a candlestick holder from its sconce, shuffling out of his room in his new, royally-gifted pajamas. The silks of his clothes are unbelievably smooth and luxurious… and somewhat unbearable, in their disharmony with his humble, Smallwood origins.

  The earlier dread rises upon his aching heart once more – the fear of Lady Courtney and her simmering temper. As they meander along the castle halls, no amount of kingly threads could provide solace to Ronister – when would she mention it? What would she say to him about it? He'd told her, in her region's verbiage, to still her tongue lest the king cut it off. But what manner of squire was he, to bark at a hero thusly? What right did he have?

  Even as Ronister avoids gazing upon it, as any sane person ought to do, the heavy weight of the Bastion in the horizon presses down on his shoulders. They were in court, of all places, and Lady Courtney was acting so uncouthly… but His Majesty was asking her those questions, she simply answered… but could she not have answered some modicum of decorum…?

  "Ronister." Her voice calls out, and his eyes snap to her. "You're supposed to be leading me, right?"

  He's tarried a few yards behind her, now, bathed in the cursed moonlight of the Bastion while Lady Courtney stands before the entrance to this castle wing's staircase. Gulping and muttering his apologies, Ronister hurries back to her side.

  As they begin to descend down the cobblestone stairwell, though, Lady Courtney pauses in her step.

  "Hey." The candle's shadow mars her frown. "You look like someone shat in your corn flakes."

  Another strange and unduly euphemism. "Pardon?"

  "You look miserable." Lady Courtney says, cutting the chaff. "Is it because of our meeting? With the King, I mean?"

  "I…" Ronister trails off into silence, debating the boons and banes of confessing his dilemma. What would she think? Would her ire grow? Would she dismiss his woes? Would she leave –

  "That's a yes." She sighs. "I dunno what Charlon's goddamn problem is, honestly."

  Alack, her disregard pierces his heart once again! Does it not register that the leader of his nation stood in front of them? Were the attendants and lords and ladies simply a mirage, was the throne and scepter and crown merely shaped air?

  "Milady, he's…!" Ronister's voice raises, but his tongue finds no words. His silence is borne of both his consciousness of the night, and also… of trained behavior. He's grown used to being cut off.

  "He's what?" Courtney prods, sure as steel and barbed as a bed of thorns. "Finish the sentence."

  "He's… he's the king," Ronister follows weakly, uncertain of what other argument can be made, "he levies taxes, and raises armies, and… I just don't understand, milady, why…?"

  "I could care less if he was the god of reincarnation, I was tired and dirty and hungry, and he pissed me off with his stupid riddles." Courtney glowers. There's an animalistic simplicity to her words – the type that gets wolves hunted by yeomen. "But I'll say I was impressed, at least."

  "By what?" Ronister wracks his brain for what might impress the irascible Cross daughter, if not King Charlon himself. "The court? The throne…?"

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  "No, by you."

  Ronister's heart beats backwards for a moment, and he gazes upon Lady Courtney as though she'd grown a second and third head. What? "I beg pardon? Me? I – I did nothing –"

  "You told me off for being an asshole. Most people don't have the balls to do that, I guess." She shrugs, her expression perhaps a bit softer than before – but perhaps 'tis a trick of the light. "That's it."

  "...I see." Ronister swallows again, this time choking down a pride that he's not certain he deserves. "Should I, ah. Do it… more?"

  "I mean, for being a fully-armored ankle-biter, you kinda fold like a cheap suit for literally everybody. So, um." Lady Courtney pauses. "Yeah, I guess so. Keep up the good work."

  "I…" Feeling a burst of light and giddiness in his stomach, Ronister salutes, nearly smacking himself in the skull as he does not register the usual sheet of helmet steel donned upon his head. "Yes, milady!"

  "Alright, whatevs. Let's get a sandwich or something already."

  Eventually, they do stumble upon the royal kitchens, where the nightly staff bear the task of shelving new stock and preparing any meals for the evening guard. Despite the witching hour, they are active in their efforts, albeit more relaxed and less heavily staffed than their daytime counterparts.

  "Oh! It's the hero!"

  "The one who silenced Duke Dequeed?"

  "Yes, hello, 'tis I, your glorious hero," Courtney waves them off, "could I get a sandwich, please? Oh, and whatever Ronnie wants."

  Later, while Lady Courtney devours her long-awaited sandwich of hams, greens, and cheeses, Ronister helps himself to an extra dessert of scones and jam – thank goodness his mother is not here to scold him.

  As he takes his first bite, it is warm and buttery and tart, and tastes a bit more sweetly than he expected. It is delicious.

  Returning to their quarters, stomachs satisfied, Ronister licks the last of the jam from his fingertips while Courtney sips on a beverage. Although they did not have the 'soda' or 'lacroy' that she requested, she did appreciate a porcelain cup of tea in ice.

  "Can't believe they wouldn't give me booze," she complains into her drink, "they're just as bad as my mom, I swear."

  "Gran Tidel does have a reputation of teetotalism, even among other townships in Grandstart." The explanation flows out of his mouth easily and happily – it's become almost second nature, now.

  "Teetotalism?"

  "Not consuming hard liquor?" Ronister offers, doubting his own understanding of the word for a blink's time.

  "Oh. Sober, got it." She looks at him. "Have you…?"

  "Only once or twice," Ronister blushes, "In truth, I rather despise the taste, and the rabble in the beer halls are… not kind to me. I assume you partake, milady?"

  "If I'm at a party or when I can sneak it into the house, sure." Lady Courtney confirms. "If my parents catch wind of it, I'll be chewed out on the spot, which, ugh."

  "Are they teetotalers, as well?"

  "Nah, it's actually illegal before the age of 21, where I'm from?"

  "Forgive my assumption," Ronister makes a face, "but that number seems rather arbitrary."

  "I think there's some history behind it – I dunno, I didn't pay attention during –"

  "Hero?"

  A melodic voice calls out from behind both of them.

  Ronister's hand twitches for his weapon, but he finds no purchase, grasping at the edges of his silk shirt instead of the old warhammer gifted by the good folks of Smallwood. His instinct falls flat, however, when he glimpses their third party.

  Princess Charlouise III – daughter of King Charlon I and the late Queen. Even in the unholy glow of the Bastion's moon, her golden locks and her heavenly blue eyes are as legendary as the rumors confess them to be. Her skin shines as flawlessly as a mirror, and oh, her rosy cheeks…! And even her voice carries the soft whisper of the most gentle, kindest soul to ever grace the whole of Septgard…

  These are all, of course, objective observations that Ronister makes. Completely objective. As Lady Courtney would say, totally, literally objective. Ignore how Ronister fidgets, how his knees knock against one another! All that is unimportant! Balderdash, even!

  "Huh?" Lady Courtney says, displaying her usual reverence and courtesy towards royalty. "Oh, you're the princess, right?"

  "Your Highness!" Ronister immediately bows, as deeply as he can muster, as befitting his station underneath hers. He has no time to worry about whether Lady Courtney bows, he must make a good first impression! "It is my greatest pleasure to meet you! I am –"

  "Ronister of Smallwood, yes." She smiles, and oh, his heart flies with cherub wings! "I do not believe I introduced myself properly: I am Princess Charlouise, but please, call me Charlouise in private. It is a pleasure to meet the both of you."

  "Oh, you too," Lady Courtney says casually, as though an incredibly beautiful woman isn't standing right in front of her, "I, uh… sorry if I had an attitude with your dad, I guess?"

  "We will do anything you ask, if it would make it up to you, Your Highness – er, Princess Charlouise!" Ronister blurts out, wanting desperately to make her happy – before getting suddenly and roughly kicked in the shin by Courtney. "Ow, milady?!"

  "What did I say before, Ronnie?!"

  Before they can devolve into further hysterics, they're cut off by Princess Charlouise's adorable giggle – just Charlouise in private, and how Ronister shall struggle to follow that command. "Worry not. My father's methods are strange, but he means well, even if he is unconventional."

  "Uh huh," Courtney deadpans, in her usual flavor of disdain.

  "In any case, I, ah, I simply wished to meet with our newest hero, even if it meant staying up late. The last hero departed rather quickly when I was younger, so I'm ever so happy to meet one properly." Her Highness, er, Charlouise smiles, blushing and toying with a lock of her hair. "Especially one with such ferocity..."

  "I'd argue against being ferocious, but I did make a pretty strong impression," Lady Courtney says, "so sure, yeah, girl power, woo. For real, though, it's nice to meet you, too. Did you have any… specific questions or… something?"

  "So many. For both of you, really." She mentioned Ronister! Her Highness has questions for Ronister! Oh, what a blessed night! "But I understand it's late. If you are willing, I can send notice once I find time for an appointment between us, sometime before the Soul's Claim?"

  "Of course, Your – Charlouise! We shall be ever punctual." Ronister nods enthusiastically.

  "I mean, we're just sort of faffing around until then, so sure." Lady Courtney shrugs.

  "Hmm… you make a good point. I shall ask about possible ways to fill your time, as well. Our court mage should be available to provide an introduction to Septgard and the hero's journey, I think." Princess Charlouise ponders, before smiling and curtseying. "I shall allow you to your chambers, then. Have a good evening, both of you."

  "Farewell, Charlouise." Ronister bows again, smiling like a loon.

  "Yeah, see you."

  As they part ways and their duo makes their way further down the hall, Ronister replays every moment of the conversation in his head, reviewing his actions and ascertaining that he did not fumble his first impression with Her Highness.

  "...You liiiiiike her." Courtney whistles, and a red-hot blush burns on Ronister's face.

  "Hold thy tongue!" He yelps, hoping to silence her as he did in the royal court.

  "Oh, Charlouiiiiise! I'll do aaaanything for you! Let me kiss your hand, like a trrrrue gentleman!"

  "Silence!"

  "Don't worry, Ronnie. Court's gonna teach you the Declassified School Survival Guide of how to pull women way above your league. Just don't be surprised if she dumps you for a political marriage with an ugly rich bastard, okay?"

  "Shut uuuupp!"

  The next morning, Courtney's eyes shoot open.

  "Did I sign myself up for school last night?"

  Three firm knocks sound at her door.

  "Son of a bitch, I did!"