An hour passed.
The carts rolled onward, wheels grinding over gravel and packed earth. The city walls had long vanished behind them, swallowed by distance and dust.
“Shift,” Ivaline said.
Bubble let out a small, relieved sound and climbed onto the cart. Her legs trembled—not from distance, but from the tension she’d been holding since departure.
Before she could retreat fully into silence, Ivaline added, quieter:
“Talk to Nicole. Or the merchant. It helps.”
Bubble hesitated, fingers tightening on the cart’s edge.
“…I’ll try.”
Nasha stepped down to replace her.
Bow ready. Posture correct. Expression rigid.
Her eyes were dull—not from fear, but from lack of sleep and a frustration she refused to soften.
They walked.
The road stretched ahead, bordered by low grass and scattered stone. No movement. No threat.
No reason for the weight in her chest.
So this is it.
From shaded rooms and polished desks
to dirt roads and guard rotations.
She remembered mornings where servants brought tea without being asked. Afternoons spent reviewing ledgers beside her father. Evenings listening to discussions about trade routes and supply forecasts that once sounded stable. Predictable.
They’re dealing with weapons.
During the Demon King war, it had been good business. Necessary business. Nations needed steel. Frontlines needed resupply. A forge closer to the front halved transport costs and doubled efficiency.
When the opportunity came—
A caravan contract.
A secured route.
A forge license approved near the front.
It wasn’t greed.
It was calculation.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The contracts were clean.
The guarantees valid.
The escorts adequate.
What failed… was time.
Between signing and execution:
- A border fort fell.
? A supply road collapsed under demon assault.
? The designated “safe zone” became contested ground.
By the time anyone realized—
The caravan was already en route.
Weapons meant for soldiers ended in demon hands.
Steel forged for shields was reshaped into claws and siege hooks.
The half-built forge—funded, inspected, documented—became a demon foundry.
No fraud.
No traitor.
No clause to invoke.
Just war.
She had noticed inconsistencies in the reports—delays, discrepancies in escort rotation.
Too late.
By the time she raised concern, the capital was committed.
The collectors came.
Furniture sold.
Jewelry pawned.
Pride swallowed.
Her parents survived.
Her little brother still laughed.
Their capital was gone.
Their credit shattered.
Their name… politely avoided.
Now they ran a small shop.
Selling household goods.
Repairing chipped tools.
Surviving.
So why did it still feel like she was the one being punished?
Now she walked a dirt road.
Taking orders from a girl younger than her.
An orphan.
A frontier adventurer.
Is this my fate?
Or the price of fixing what I helped break?
“Ivaline,” she said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“…Why did you become an adventurer?”
Ivaline did not answer immediately.
They walked several more steps.
“To eat,” she said.
Nasha blinked.
“That’s it?”
“At first,” Ivaline replied. “Later, to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“When to stop running,” Ivaline said. “And where to stand.”
They halted.
Ivaline turned to face her fully.
“You’re angry,” she said. “And tired.”
Nasha scoffed softly.
“You really are something. Saying that like it’s a weather report.”
“If I’m wrong, say so.”
“…You’re not.”
Her voice tightened.
“I don’t like this. Being ordered around. Especially by someone younger. Especially by someone who—”
She stopped.
“…Someone who didn’t lose everything before learning how the world works.”
Ivaline met her gaze without flinching.
“I didn’t lose everything,” she said.
Nasha frowned.
“I never had it.”
The words did not accuse.
They simply existed.
“No guardian. No home. No one to feed me. Every meal was earned. Every night survived.”
Nasha went quiet.
“I don’t order you because I enjoy it,” Ivaline continued. “I do it because Mireya asked me to keep you alive.”
“…That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You don’t act thirteen,” Nasha said.
“I don’t need to,” Ivaline replied. “I need you awake when arrows fly.”
A dry laugh escaped her.
“…You’re awful.”
“So I’ve been told.”
They resumed walking.
The tension did not vanish—but it shifted. Loosened. Repositioned.
After a moment, Ivaline spoke again.
“You’re good with documents. Liability. Revisions.”
Nasha glanced sideways. “…Yes.”
“I know a merchant. Corvix. He handles contracts, debt structuring, quiet agreements.”
Nasha’s steps slowed.
“He may need someone like you. Not now. Later.”
“Why tell me this?”
“If you do well on this job,” Ivaline said, “I’ll speak to him.”
No sympathy in her tone. No favor granted in advance.
Just a condition.
Competence.
“…You would do that?”
“Yes.”
Nasha swallowed.
“…Then I’ll do well. For this job.”
“That’s enough.”
They continued forward.
Nasha adjusted her grip on the bow. Her shoulders straightened—not with pride, but with direction.
“Ivaline.”
“Yes?”
“If I fall asleep, kick me.”
Ivaline considered it.
“…I’ll call first.”
“…Fair.”
The road stretched ahead.
Uncertain.
But no longer without purpose.