Mustapha sat hunched at the small table, picking at his breakfast. His fingers crumbled a piece of rye bread, his gaze fixed on the table as he chewed slowly, the hearty spread of boiled eggs, smoked fish, and a steaming bowl of stew untouched beside him.
Rosa leaned over, refilling his mug, her sleeves rolled up from morning chores, her movements brisk but precise.
"The young man came around again," she said, eyes fixed on the steady stream pouring from the pitcher. "Doesn't seem like he's planning to leave anytime soon."
Mustapha didn't look up. He tore another piece of bread, slower this time.
"I'll talk to him," he said, the words slipping out on an exhale.
"I don't mind him," Rosa replied, setting the pitcher down with a soft thud. "But it seems like you don't trust him… yet you let him stay."
She lingered a moment. "Who is he?" she asked.
"I don't know" he lied.
He had a clue that the boy had something to do with the king. With the way he moved, cautious and guarded when they'd entered Drakoria, as if he feared recognition, it was obvious, even though he tried to be subtle. The boy must have known who he was from the beginning. Probably fought in the last war against the king, but Mustapha doesn't have strong feelings about that, and he doesn't understand why.
His fingers scratched absently at his arm.
"Have you met with the king?" Rosa asked.
"No" he said simply, standing up.
"Why?" she pressed.
"No reason." he answered, collecting his sword belt. The leather creaked faintly as he looped it around his waist. "I don't want to send the wrong message." he added. "I'm not sure how long I will be staying"
There was a moment of pause as he tightened the strap.
"Then why did you return at all?" she asked, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.
He paused. Not because he sensed the irritation, but he was giving it a shot. Maybe, if asked aloud, the reason would come to him. Nothing came on. He grew more uncomfortable, but he didn't show it.
Rosa walked up to him quietly. She touched his arm, looking up to his eyes with soft eyes. "Why don't you retire?" she suggested softly. "You have given everything to the kingdom, I'm sure the king would grant you this much."
Mustapha had thought of that, but it didn't sit well with him. He had given more than 40 years of his life to the kingdom, but stopping now felt incomplete. Not because he had sworn, as a new knight, that only death will take him out of service. Something deeper tugged at him, a sense that there was still something vital left undone—something tied to the kingdom, or perhaps the king himself. He couldn't name it, but it kept him tethered.
A soft knock interrupted the silence. The door creaked open, and a new young maid stepped inside, her hands clasped nervously. "Lady Helene is here for you, sir," she announced.
Mustapha's brows furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He nodded, dismissing the maid, and turned toward the door.
As he stepped into the corridor, the witch of the court stood waiting, her presence commanding, even with a plain cloak around her shoulders. Her sharp eyes met his, unyielding and unfamiliar.
"I heard you were back," she said, her voice steady but carrying an edge. "We need to talk."
┌─────── ♕ ───────┐
Mette-Marit. A young free spirit maid that is well known to sleep around. She often accepts payments to go to the king's room in place of anyone who doesn't want to. Sometimes when there are new maids, as they often are these days, the maids would play a trick on the naive new maids. They will send them to the king unprepared, and unaware of the King's indulgences, and it will break many of them, just like the one that is being consoled right now.
She seemed mostly intact, so Mette-Marit believes the king didn't go the distance with her.
Two of the eldest maids were hugging and consoling her, while often shooting warning glares at the young ones around, who were finding it hard to hide their amusements.
Mette-Marit used to be one of them. Matter of fact, she had once been at the heart of such pranks, but these days she was dreaming bigger.
She slipped out of the room and into the corridor, her slippers soft against the cold stone. As she passed beneath one of the long hallway arches, she caught the sound of raised voices echoing from outside the castle. Curious, she followed the noise until she came upon a group of three maids clustered at a window. "What's going on?" she asked, stepping beside them.
They didn't answer, only moved aside so she could see.
Below, at the castle gates, a barbarian woman was fighting to push past the knights. Her long, untamed hair whipped about her shoulders as she struggled, eractic, shouting something that sounded like "I must see my husband!" in the most refined barbarian accent Matte-Marit had ever heard.
She expected the knights to knock her down or drag her off, but instead they handled her with strange care—blocking her punches, guiding her arms away gently. None struck her, or raised their voices.
As Matte-Marit was about to leave, a man sprinted past them in the hallway. They saw that he was wearing similar clothes to the barbarian so she stayed, watching until he appeared at the castle entrance. The moment he emerged, the woman calmed instantly. The man froze, then approached her slowly.
When he got close enough, her hand flew.
The slap cracked across the yard like a whip, and the man collapsed to the cobblestones in a heap. No stumble, no stagger—just flat on his side.
The maids gasped in unison.
Then came the laughter.
The barbarian seemed to be crying while scolding him as he tried to sit up but was so much affected by the slap. No one tried to intervene, and she turned and stormed out, leaving the man stunned.
The man remained on the ground, watching her leave. Mette-Marit had seen enough. She turned from the window and left the giggling maids behind.
The royal wing was quieter. As she approached the queen's chambers, the knights opened the door.
"You are late" the young queen said.
"I apologize, Your Highness," Mette-Marit answered quickly, dipping into a graceful genuflection. "I was delayed."
She turned slightly to the older woman seated in the corner and bowed low. "I-I greet my lady."
Immediately, she cursed herself.
She promised herself never to stutter before the dragon lady again, never to come out pathetic, but again and again she does it no matter how hard she try.
The dragon lady didn't even acknowledge her, as always, and expected. She was feeding crystals into a thing pulsed with oily darkness Mette-Marit couldn't begin to understand. She watched it extend part of its body to collect the crystal.
"Let's go" the queen said. "We will keep our walk short today"
"As you wish, my queen" Matte-Marit agreed.
The queen led the way out and she followed.
Getting close to her was easy, because she could tell she was lonely. Even though she had not officially made her a personal maid, Matte-Marit knew she stood a better chance than most to be selected, especially since the rest are trying their best to maintain distance between them and the king. Where they see trouble she sees opportunity. It was her chance to finally leave the kitchen. To re-define herself, go higher, and maybe attract the eyes of better suitors, now that she still has her youthful charms. A finely developed blonde, with deep blue eyes, pouting red lips,and a full heaving bosom. She was well aware of what she has, it has being shown to her long before she knew what it meant, but she knew better than to think it will last forever. They never do, and she must take full advantage.