Arthur felt like he had been trampled by a herd of angry oxen.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he lay on the plush featherbed of the guest quarters. Commander Richard hadn't been joking. The "basics" involved running until his lungs burned, lifting stones until his arms shook, and getting hit with a wooden stick every time his footwork was "sloppy"—which was, apparently, always.
At least the bed is soft, Arthur thought, staring at the canopy ceiling painted with constellations. Even if I can't move to enjoy it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound came from the window.
Arthur groaned, rolling over. "If that's a pigeon, I'm eating it."
He dragged himself up and unlatched the heavy glass pane.
A face popped up from the ledge, upside down.
"You look terrible," Erika grinned, her golden hair dangling towards the stone sill.
Arthur jumped back, clutching his chest. "Can't you use a door? Or are they just too peasant for you?"
Erika flipped herself into the room with practiced ease, landing silently on the carpet. She was dressed in her "thief" disguise again—the baggy trousers and the gray cloak—but she had added a splash of color: a bright red sash tied around her waist.
"Doors are for people who want to be announced," she said, dusting off her hands. "Windows are for people who want to have fun. I heard Richard put you through the grinder."
"He's a sadist," Arthur rubbed his sore shoulder. "He made me hold a squat for an hour while he lectured me on the philosophy of pain."
"Richard believes pain is the only honest teacher," Erika laughed, walking over to inspect a bowl of fruit on the table. "But you survived. That's more than most. Come on. Get dressed."
Arthur blinked. "Dressed? It's midnight. I can barely stand."
"Exactly," Erika tossed him his tunic. "The best cure for sore muscles is movement. And ale. Mostly ale. I know a place in the Upper District. The Golden Gryphon. They have a bard who actually knows how to tune his lute."
Arthur looked at the bed, calling his name. Then he looked at Erika, her eyes bright with mischief and a hint of loneliness she tried to hide.
The hum in his blood gave a little flutter.
"Fine," Arthur sighed, grabbing the tunic. "But if I collapse, you're carrying me back."
The Golden Gryphon was loud, warm, and smelled of spiced wine and roasted nuts. It was a high-end tavern, filled with wealthy merchants, off-duty knights, and travelers with coin to burn.
Arthur felt out of place, but Erika navigated the crowd like a shark in a reef. She found a secluded booth in the corner, shielded by a heavy velvet curtain.
"Two tankards of your finest honey-mead!" she shouted to a passing barmaid, slapping a silver coin on the tray.
"You spend money like water," Arthur noted, sliding into the booth.
"It's my money," Erika shrugged. "Technically, it's the Kingdom's money, but since I am the Kingdom, it's a gray area."
The drinks arrived, and the music picked up. It was a lively, stomping folk tune played by a band of musicians from the Sylvara Jungle Kingdom, using wooden drums and flutes. The rhythm was infectious.
"Dance?" Erika asked, eyes gleaming.
"I don't dance," Arthur said quickly. "I plow fields. Sometimes I chop wood. Dancing is not on the list."
"Liar," Erika grabbed his hand. "I saw you tapping your foot."
She pulled him onto the floor. Arthur was stiff at first, terrified of stepping on the Queen's toes, but Erika was a good lead. She spun him around, laughing at his awkwardness until he finally relaxed. The soreness in his legs faded, replaced by the adrenaline of the music and the warmth of her hand in his.
For a few songs, they were just two teenagers lost in the rhythm. Arthur spun her, and she laughed—a genuine, unburdened sound that cut through the noise of the tavern.
Later, they walked back toward the castle along the high ramparts of the city wall. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of rain from the distant mountains.
The mood had shifted. The laughter of the tavern felt far away.
Erika stopped at a crenellation, looking out over the sleeping city. Her smile faded, replaced by that mask of regal exhaustion Arthur hadn't seen before.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what? Stepping on your feet?"
"For treating me like a person," Erika turned to him, leaning her elbows on the cold stone. "Everyone down there... they see the Crown. They see the daughter of Alaric. They don't see Erika."
"It must be hard," Arthur said, standing beside her. "Being alone in a castle full of people."
"It's suffocating," she corrected. She traced a crack in the stone. "My father... he wanted to change things. He wanted to unite the regions again. Not by conquest, like the First King, but by trust. He invited the leaders of the other kingdoms here. He opened the borders."
She paused, her voice tightening.
"Eighteen years ago. The night of the Blood Moon."
Arthur watched her, seeing the way her shoulders tensed. He knew the history, of course—every child in Aethelgard knew the story of the King's death—but hearing it from the daughter who was left behind made it real in a way the bards never could.
"An assassin slipped into the palace," Erika continued, staring at the moon. "They say he used shadows to bypass the guards. He killed my father. And my mother. I was just a baby, sleeping in the next room. Conrad saved me. He was the only Guardian who survived that night."
She gripped the stone ledge, her knuckles white.
"The peace died with them. The other kingdoms pulled back. The walls went up. And I was left to rule a broken dream."
Arthur felt a pang of sympathy wash over him. He didn't know much about politics or ancient wars, but he knew about loss. He knew what it was like to grow up looking at an empty chair at the table.
"You aren't just a ruler of a broken dream, Erika," Arthur said softly, breaking the silence.
She looked at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"You're the one holding it together," he said. "That takes more strength than swinging a sword."
Erika let out a shaky breath, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "You have a way with words for a farmboy, Arthur."
She reached out and placed her hand over his on the stone ledge. Her skin was warm, grounding him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For listening. For being... a friend."
"Always," Arthur said.
They stood there for a long moment, watching the moon climb higher, two lonely souls finding comfort in the silence.
"We should go back," Erika whispered eventually, though she didn't move. "Richard will have you running laps at dawn."
"Don't remind me," Arthur groaned.