The ship’s rope ladder swayed gently as Edric descended through the underside hatch. His boots sank into the damp soil. Around him, the Timblewhiff’s crew was already a flurry of motion, shouting as they unlashed crates and winched down barrels. The wind, though gentler than aloft, still tugged at his cloak.

  Zylenaia was already several paces ahead, having leapt from the deck earlier. She moved with the agility of someone at home in the muck. Mira followed carefully.

  A rough wooden wagon pulled by two stout ponies lumbered across the field toward the ship. Two halfling men waved a greeting to Zylenaia.

  “Regent! Good journey?” one called, cheerful despite the harsh morning.

  “As good as we could have expected!” Zylenaia shouted back, gesturing to the wagon. “You can load the supplies here. Take care with the chilled crates.”

  As the crew and villagers began the laborious unloading, Edric and Mira followed Zylenaia toward Larkenshire.

  Approaching the city gates, Edric braced for guarded suspicion—like in Ayzelsted or among the Timblewhiff’s crew.

  Instead, he found cheer, curiosity, and lively chatter.

  He passed beneath the stone and brick gate and into the streets of Larkenshire. Merchants called from crowded stalls heavy with produce, herbs, fabrics, and tools. Children darted between legs, shrieking with laughter and trailing muddy footprints.

  It took him a moment to notice—nearly every halfling carried some beastkin trait—fox?ears, faint scales, a strip of patterned fur along the neck, or pronounced canines. Plain halflings were rare enough to stand out. And though beastkin traits were common, he hadn’t yet seen any *full?sized* beastkin among them since leaving Kornic and his crew.

  Nor had he seen another half-elf. Only Zylenaia had evident elven heritage.

  That fact wasn’t lost on the townsfolk either. Heads turned as he passed—a dozen quick double takes. Most only stared for a moment before returning to their errands, whispering behind cupped hands with a blend of awe and curiosity. A child tugged at his mother’s skirts, whispering something while pointing at “the tall one.” She smiled, ushering the child along.

  Zylenaia walked ahead as though nothing were amiss, exchanging short greetings along the way.

  “Good haul, Beric!” she called to a farmer leading a laden cart.

  “How’s the new well holding, Marigold?”—to an herbalist arranging jars.

  The people answered her easily, with warmth. *She's a ruler of these people, not merely over them,* Edric thought.

  They continued through the market square, past inns and workshops. Soon, the buildings rose higher, and the rutted streets gave way to firm cobbles. The modest castle loomed ahead, its patched walls half hidden behind clustered houses.

  He noticed traces of struggle as they walked. Bright new planks patched onto older, charred timbers. Fresh plaster stood out against aged mud walls. Above a roofline, two halflings laid new ceramic shingles.

  The castle was exactly as Zylenaia had promised: modest, more fortress than palace. Its thick walls were plainly hewn, built for endurance rather than show. Fresh mortar and newly set stones contrast with ancient blocks.

  Edric noticed patched single-layer brick walls filling gaps where massive rocks had once fit. The building’s purpose had changed—defense gave way to dwelling. He guessed that restoring its old battlements to an original state would have been costly and strategically pointless.

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  They passed through a reinforced gate into the courtyard. All the guards they passed were halflings. He couldn't help but notice that their heads barely reached his chest.

  *Hardly intimidating,* Edric thought, recalling Zylenaia’s remark about halflings making poor soldiers.

  They turned into a wider hall where Zylenaia stopped.

  “Mira, later you’ll assist me in my quarters,” she said in a softer, more personal tone. “I’ve a backlog of paperwork, and I’m certain my attendants have misplaced half of it.”

  Mira gave a small, knowing smile. “Of course, My Lady. I’ll bring order to the chaos.”

  Zylenaia turned to Edric, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “As for you, Sir Edric, after this, you’ll be shown to your room. But first,”—her voice shifted, formal now—“there’s a most important introduction to make.” Her bearing grew both more regal and almost… excited.

  Zylenaia led them down a corridor that grew progressively brighter, ending in a section illuminated by large arched windows overlooking a small enclosed garden. Her excitement was evident by a subtle spring in her step. Edric watched her, amused by the transformation.

  He also noticed they used oil lamps instead of the ubiquitous sun?stones common in Ayzelsted.

  They reached a sturdy wooden door framed with ornate carvings around a central sunburst. Zylenaia pushed it open with quiet reverence, then stepped aside.

  The room beyond stood in sharp contrast to the castle’s utilitarian halls. Modest in size yet undeniably *cozy*, it was filled with soft natural light filtering through leaded?glass windows. Warmth radiated from the hearth, and everything within the chamber spoke of comfort, not grandeur. Thick, colorful rugs muted their steps on the polished floor.

  Edric’s eye wandered over the furnishings. Each item was a masterpiece of carpentry: A small crib in one corner, a pair of overstuffed armchairs by the fire, a finely carved table. Twining vines and delicate blooms danced along the wood, interspersed with tiny scenes of forest life. Every detail bore the mark of care, a stark contrast to the pragmatic repairs and scant decoration seen elsewhere.

  At the center of the room, on a thick woven blanket, sat a plump infant. He gurgled cheerfully, shaking a wooden rattle that clicked and clacked in perfect rhythm with his laughter. Two older halfling women watched from nearby cushions, their faces soft with pride and gentleness.

  Zylenaia approached quietly and knelt beside the child, her posture shifting between regal formality and maternal affection.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, voice ceremonious, “may I present Sir Edric, one of the Herald’s newest champions, and Lady Mira, his esteemed attendant.” Her tone melted into a tender coo. “Did you hear that, sweetie? More friends!”

  King Browen, blissfully unaware of his audience, giggled and swung his rattle.

  Edric blinked. It was one thing to be told an infant held the throne—another entirely to see it. *This… this is the king?* A small, incredulous laugh escaped him as he returned the child’s grin.

  Zylenaia lifted King Browen, cradling him expertly. The baby seized a lock of her white hair and gurgled with delight. She turned to them with a proud, radiant smile.

  “This is His Majesty, King Browen,” she announced—a blend of royal solemnity and unmistakable fondness.

  She continued, addressing both the giggling infant and her guests, her gaze steady and full of warmth. “My duty is to keep this kingdom from imploding and to protect our people until His Majesty is grown.”

  Her voice softened as she bounced the child, who answered with a happy squeal. The resolve shone through her posture—fierce, deeply personal devotion written across her expression.

  Mira, standing beside Edric, gasped softly. “Oh—he’s absolutely adorable!” The words slipped out before she could restrain them. A flush rose to her cheeks. “I hope that wasn’t… inappropriate for royalty.”

  Zylenaia laughed, an easy, genuine sound. “Nonsense, Mira! He’s a baby, not a statue.”

  King Browen giggled again, as if agreeing.

  “Would you like to hold him?” Zylenaia asked.

  Mira hesitated, visibly torn between propriety and desire. “Oh, I couldn’t. It would be improper.” She gestured at her simple dress as if that alone settled the matter.

  Zylenaia’s expression turned mock?stern. “Mira, you are my attendant. As such, you *must* follow my orders. Hold the King, if you please.”

  Mira’s composure cracked into a radiant smile—the first Edric had seen unguarded. “Yes, My Lady!” she said brightly. Taking the infant, she cradled him with effortless ease, bouncing and murmuring nonsense syllables until his delighted laughter filled the room. He reached out and tangled his tiny fingers in her dark hair.

  Edric watched the three of them—the fierce regent, the dutiful attendant, and the impossibly small monarch—and felt warmth push past his usual restraint. A genuine laugh broke from him, lighter than expected.

  “You didn’t put up much of a fight, Mira,” he said, still grinning.