Daelith opened her eyes. Above stretched a dome of stars, so vast it almost deceived her into thinking she lay once more in her own bed. But a breath drew in the scent of smoke and damp earth, and the illusion dissolved. The silence around her was broken only by the crackle of burning wood and the faint clink of utensils.
She stirred, the rough fabric of the sleeping bag under her, a soft blanket still resting across her shoulders.
"Oh, look who's awake — our little beauty," came a familiar voice.
She recognized it at once: Kai, the half-elf. He lounged by the flames, his lute propped against him, head tilted, eyes fixed on her with lively curiosity — almost admiration. There was no malice in his regard, only interest. His dark hair, almost black, fell loosely across a high forehead and in the shifting firelight he seemed even more striking than before — perhaps too striking.
She quickly looked away.
Her thoughts still scattered, body aching, a faint tension coiled within her.
"How are you feeling, milady?"
Daelith sat up, checking herself instinctively: dress was intact, skin clean, no traces of blood. And her head did not hurt.
"I'm fine," she answered cautiously. Yet a vague unease stirred in her chest.
Who were they? Bandits? If they intended to sell her into slavery or demand ransom, they wouldn't have taken such care… Or was it a trap?
"Well, that's good," Kai replied with a smile that seemed designed to disarm. "You're the only one who made it out of that mess alive. Well… aside from us, of course."
He crouched before her, extending a hand. After a moment's hesitation, she took it. His fingers were warm, but stained with something dark — earth, or soot.
"My name is Kairen, though you can call me Kai."
He helped her to her feet, and together they moved closer to the fire. Daelith discreetly wiped her hand on a handkerchief.
By the fire, a broad-shouldered gray woman — the shield-bearing warrior — was eating, lightly tapping her spoon against the bowl. Without the armor or metal pauldrons, she looked smaller than Daelith remembered. Were it not for her ash-gray skin, in the plain white shirt she might have passed for an ordinary, though tall, young woman. The robed wizard lingered nearby, a book in one hand while a spoon stirred his tea of its own accord. The elf archer was nowhere in sight.
Daelith raised her hand in an uncertain wave.
The gray woman gave a brief nod and went on eating. The wizard, however, set aside his book, rose, and extended a hand.
"I'm glad to see you awake, milady. I'm Aevor." his smile was warm, faintly shy, as though he was unaccustomed to formal introductions. Gentle and disarming, it carried a rare, unforced sincerity.
Daelith felt herself smile back. In the depths of his eyes flickered faint purple sparks — magic subtle yet alive, like a quiet flame. His chestnut hair looked perpetually tousled, the kind of disorder born of restless fingers and absentminded thought.
"And this," he said, nodding toward the gray woman, "is Kulirak. Had it not been for her, that goblin would have thoroughly smashed my head."
Kulirak snorted softly, set aside her bowl. She rose, deliberate and unhurried — tall, statuesque. Her sky-blue eyes glimmered faintly, framed by the dark stripes that crossed her ash-colored skin. Daelith had no idea to which people she belonged — and had no intention of asking.
"Welcome to the mercenary camp, girl," Kulirak said, wiping her hand on her trousers before extending it.
Daelith held her ground, straightening as if at court, meeting the outstretched hand without hesitation. The handshake was firm and precise, cautious but fearless. Kulirak narrowed her eyes, then smiled.
The mercenaries didn't appear dangerous; on the contrary, their friendliness almost lured her into lowering her guard.
Nearby, Aevor offered her a bowl of stew and a piece of bread.
"Eat. It will help you recover," he said.
Daelith sat by the fire and took a slow, careful bite. The stew was foul, bitter enough to twist her mouth into a grimace. She sensed that they didn't know who she was. They watched her, friendliness tempered with wariness, as if weighing when — and whether — to ask her name.
What if she lied?
"You still haven't introduced yourself," Kai said, lowering himself to sit beside her. His gaze was lively, curious, and teasing.
She hesitated.
Before Daelith could answer, an elf slipped out of the shadows, so silent it made her flinch.
"She's from the royal family," he said, eyes fixed on Daelith. "The Stormar crest on the carriage and the chests leaves no doubt."
The princess flushed, a sharp, disapproving glance flashing his way. Clever.
"Royal family?" Kai straightened, eyebrows raised, trying to process the news. "So she's not just a traveler… she's nobility?"
All eyes turned toward her. Daelith's fists clenched, breath caught in her throat.
Kai, sensing her tension, softened slightly.
"Listen, we get it. You're scared. You've been through an attack, seen your people fall. But if it weren't for us, you might not have made it. We're not your enemies."
"Then… why my archer?" she burst out, anger flaring up, cutting through the fear.
If they were so noble, why did he fall by their hands?
Kulirak shot an angry glare, broad nostrils flaring.
"He was with them! Hmph!" her voice was sharp, biting. "The moment the fight began, he sided with them. Fired on your own people!"
"That's impossible!" Daelith exclaimed, disbelief rising.
It just can't be! General Geldar, her uncle… he wouldn't allow a spy in the royal guard.
Kai silently rummaged through his pocket and opened his palm, revealing several cheap rings.
"These were taken from the dead. See the mark? Every bandit wore one. So did your archer. They were working together."
On the metal, a dagger had been crudely scratched.
Daelith's teeth caught her lip. What if it was true?
But how had he gotten into the princess's guard? Bribe? Interception?
Everyone stayed silent, waiting for an answer.
A sharp breath escaped her and, before she could stop herself, blurted out:
"I am Daelith of Stormar. Daughter of Grim, King of Stormar."
A stunned hush fell over the camp.
Kai paled slightly.
"Princess," he breathed.
They might have guessed she was of noble birth, but not that she was the king's daughter.
"I need to reach Kelen'Tir, the kingdom of the forest elves," she went on, straightening her back. "It was my father's command. Will you help me get there? I'm sure you will be rewarded."
Kai rubbed his neck, glancing uneasily at the others before forcing a smile.
"Your Highness… First of all, we are honored to help! Truly. But… Kelen'Thir is very far."
"And very well guarded," the elf added, folding his arms. "Outsiders are cut down before they can speak a name."
"The wiser choice would be to return you to Stormar," Aevor concluded.
"No!"
Pride giving way to desperation, Daelith leapt to her feet, nearly toppling the stew pot. Her heart hammered against ribs, despair burning in her gaze. The mercenaries froze. Confusion, caution, and a flicker of curiosity passed between them.
"Please… let me stay. My father — he must believe I am dead."
The proud bearing of a princess crumbled into something cornered and small, her fingers quivering.
Aevor reached for her hand, enclosing it gently in his.
"Your Majesty… what has happened? What are you running from?"
She flinched at the soft touch, heat coloring her cheeks. Daelith's eyes dropped to the fire, refusing to meet theirs.
The fear of returning to Stormar bound her like iron chains. For a moment, reality seemed to blur, as though all of this were only a fevered dream. Faces surfaced — faces she both dreaded and despised
At last the princess whispered, steady but low:
"I cannot go back to the Grey Castle."
Silence thickened. She drew a shaky breath, gathering courage to beg.
"Let me stay in the camp, to serve. I cannot fight, but I'll do anything you ask."
"Your Majes—" Kai began, but she cut him short with a lifted hand.
"Please. Just Daelith. No titles."
Kulirak's gravelly voice broke the pause.
"Well then, it seems there are two of us without a tribe." she laid her broad hand on Daelith's shoulder. "Welcome, Daelith."
A shadow passed behind blue eyes; her grip lingered a heartbeat longer than needed.
"Well, I won't complain about extra hands," Aevor said, giving Daelith's fingers a reassuring squeeze.
"I make no promises!" Kai gave a mock bow, mischief flashing in his eyes.
"Are you sure we want trouble?" the elf stepped closer, eyes on Kulirak before darting to the others. "They'll be looking for her."
"For who? I haven't seen any princesses…" Kai scratched the back of his head with playful concern, glancing around theatrically. "Have you, Aevor?"
"Not a one," the wizard replied with a dry snort.
"Do as you please," the archer muttered, teeth gritted, then spun on his heel and vanished into the forest.
"We do have a taste for trouble," Kulirak said, narrowing her eyes, a sly curve on her lips. "And it usually pays well."
"Don't mind Aérion," Kai drawled, lazily reaching for his lute. He drew out the name just a little, stressing the first syllable — Ah-é-rion. "He's a thorn in the side."
"An annoying one," the warrior woman snorted, brushing past him with a light tap on his head.
The lute strings twanged in protest.
"Hey! What was that for?!"
"But he's not wrong." Kulirak shrugged, ignoring him entirely, then bent to gather the dirty dishes and handed them to Aevor. "You handle this better anyway."
Aevor smirked, lips pressed together as he took the plates.
Daelith glanced toward the forest. Darkness pooled between the trees, curling around thick trunks as if waiting for a chance to move forward. She exhaled and lifted her shoulders. He would just have to accept the majority's choice.
"I can help," Daelith said, following Aevor, having never so much as washed a dish in her life. She hadn't even crossed the kitchen threshold before.
Aevor cast a look back with a gentle smile.
"Kulirak's right," he said, stepping toward the tent. "Magic does make dishwashing easier. Though I wouldn't call this its most noble use."
From another tent, light flickered; Kulirak's silhouette slipped behind the curtain. Kai stayed by the fire, plucking at his lute strings, looking between Aevor and Daelith with amused interest.
Aevor filled a basin with water, murmuring a spell. The liquid shimmered in the moonlight. Daelith watched, barely able to hide a delighted smile.
"A pinch of soaproot," he continued, "and these dishes will be as good as new." Whispering another word, phantom hands grasped the scrubber and began cleaning on their own.
Daelith shook her head, laughing softly.
"I'll show you where you'll sleep," he added. "Tomorrow we'll set up a proper tent."
She followed him inside. A tiny sun glowed in a glass jar, casting light across the room: hay bales, a sleeping bag, stacks of books, a chest, and a faded rug. Daelith forced herself to keep her expression neutral.
It was… unfamiliar. Not a royal chamber, but far from Stormar.
Suddenly, Kulirak appeared in the doorway.
"Take this." she tossed a long shirt to Daelith and smirked. "Borrowed it from an inn we stayed at once."
Daelith accepted it silently, smiling politely.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. We'll 'borrow' more later." Kulirak grinned and slipped behind the curtain.
Aevor cleared his throat, rummaging in the chest.
"Here," he said, handing her a bottle of water. "If you get thirsty. We'll decide what to do in the morning."
Daelith nodded.
He was about to leave but paused at the doorway. Turning back, he stepped closer.
"Try to stay away from Aérion," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "He…"
For a moment, Aevor hesitated, then added quietly, "He's a vampire."
Her blood ran cold, but… there was no panic in Aevor's eyes, only a quiet, steady warning. He didn't look away, as if checking whether she understood.
"Aérion is on our side… but I had to warn you."
Daelith swallowed hard — a shiver ran down her spine — but his calm tone, free of fear or urgency, was strangely reassuring.
He wasn't trying to scare her. He was simply stating a fact.
Did that mean she was safe? Or was the danger already here, right behind her, breathing down her neck?
Alone in the tent, Daelith changed into the rough tunic and climbed onto the bed.
The camp was quiet now. The bright strumming of the lute had faded — Kai had, it seemed, gone to sleep. Fresh night air slipped through the tent fabric, slowly loosening the tension knotted in her shoulders. Somewhere in the grass, a cricket chirped steadily. Beneath the thick blanket, it was warm, cozy, and the pillow smelled faintly of mint. The hay inside, however, was stiff and scratchy.
It seemed trivial, almost laughable, compared to everything that had happened today.
Her thoughts fluttered like startled birds. She was in a mercenary camp. Not on her own land. Without a title. Without a coin. What came next?
Daelith rolled onto her other side, trying to shake off the gnawing unease.
But she was free.
She would not return to the Grey Castle. She would not marry Emmazuriel.
Of course, they would search for her. Send word to her father — or a messenger… or whatever means the forest elves used. Perhaps they would assume she was dead, mourn… and forget. After all, a princess who had never stepped beyond the castle walls was not meant to survive in the wild.
Could she?
She was no longer a pawn in her father's schemes. And the thought, fragile as it was, suddenly lifted a weight from her chest, as if a knot had untied itself.
Daelith drew a deep, steadying breath of the cool night air.
For the first time, she could discover herself.
The tiny flame in the glass jar flickered and died. Darkness pressed in around her, and in the quiet, Aevor's warning about Aérion drifted back to her mind.
When she was a child, Gwynn had told her stories of vampires — bedtime tales meant to make her shiver. In those stories, they were clever, cunning, swift, and always ravenous. Children of the night, the nanny would say, must be avoided at all costs, never meet their eyes.
But how much of it was true? Had Gwynn ever seen them herself, or merely passed on someone else's whispers?
Why would a vampire travel with a band of mercenaries?
Yet no one here seemed afraid of him. So… should she be?
Daelith shifted uncomfortably on the stiff, scratchy hay beneath the blanket. Dampness crept through the tent seams, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Outside, an owl called from a distant pine, its cry echoing like a sinister note in the night. Something stirred in the underbrush, and every sound made her pulse quicken.
But weariness and the day's anxieties finally took hold, and before she knew it, she sank into strange, uneasy dreams.