The inn was low-ceilinged and sour with smoke.
Rotting wood, spilled ale, and old eyes.
Francesca and Alberta sat in the far corner-hoods drawn, hands near their belts, backs to the wall. The fire on the hearth had long died, leaving only sputtering coals.
They asked in whispers.
Not about names.
About echoes.
A woman who once healed without herbs.
A girl with fire-colored hair.
A ruin that no one wanted to remember.
The innkeeper kept glancing at them. Too long. Too curious.
An old man muttered into his drink.
"I heard the Duke buried a body that wasn't hers. Covered the truth with gold."
Francesca looked sideways. Alberta stared at her untouched cup, knuckles white beneath the table.
Outside, a wind stirred dust down the silent road.
--------
That night, Francesca stood by the warped window, watching the moon vanish behind creeping fog.
"They're watching," she said.
Alberta didn't ask who.
She just nodded.
---------
They left before dawn.
The forest was pale with mist-cold and quiet, the kind of silence that presses too tightly around the ribs.
Every branch crack felt louder.
Every crow call like a warning.
Then-
A branch snapped.
A footstep, too steady to be wild.
Francesca's hand slid to her dagger.
Shadows shifted.
Then steel.
Five of them. Maybe six. Emerging from the fog like ghosts with blades.
Francesca stepped forward.
"You're not going to touch her," she said coldly, crouching into a stance far too disciplined for a mere handmaiden.
The first attacker lunged.
She ducked under the blade and slammed her dagger into his side-fluid, fast, not clean but deadly. Another came from behind. She twisted, kicked him in the knee, and drove her elbow into his throat.
Alberta grabbed a branch, swinging wide-striking one across the face. Her stance wasn't trained-but desperate, sharp, and full of bite.
"Stay behind me!" Francesca barked, slashing a blade from a wrist.
"No," Alberta snapped, shoving another figure back. "Not anymore."
------
Francesca moved like a storm in silk. Every turn of her blade was survival dressed in grace.
A mercenary swung high-she ducked and slashed his thigh. Another came low-she spun, kicked his chest, and stabbed his side before he hit the dirt.
A third grabbed her wrist. She twisted with a snarl, disarming him in two moves that were far too elegant for battlefield grit.
"You're not just a handmaiden," one of the attackers muttered, panting.
Francesca smiled grimly. "I iron shirts and stab hearts. Keeps my wrists flexible."
-------------
A sudden crack of steel. Then silence.
A new figure stepped from the trees-coat half-drawn, sword dripping.
"Not bad," Dantes muttered, voice soaked in dry amusement. "For a couple of girls on a morning stroll."
Francesca pointed her blade at the last standing attacker. "He's mine."
"Be my guest," Dantes said, leaning against a tree. "I'm just here for the commentary."
Francesca darted forward, disarmed the man with a deft flick, then slammed her hilt into his head.
He crumpled.
She turned, breathless. "You always show up uninvited?"
Dantes smirked. "And ruin the fun? Wouldn't dream of it."
His gaze flicked to Alberta-mud on her dress, blood on her arm, still clutching the broken branch.
"You all right, Firebrand?"
She blinked at him.
"I didn't expect you."
"I tend to show up where people bleed," he said, wiping his blade on a cloak. "It's a bad habit. Keeps me social."
He gave Francesca a once-over, grinning. "Nice footwork, by the way. You throw elbows better than most knights. They teach that in embroidery class?"
Francesca narrowed her eyes. "Want to find out?"
"Oh, I'd rather not get stabbed before breakfast."
He turned to Alberta again-his smirk softening.
"But you," he said. "Not bad for a girl with a stick."
Alberta exhaled, still catching her breath.
"I had a good teacher," she muttered.
His gaze lingered-just a second too long.
"Then remind me to thank him," he said.