Chapter 3: A Gold Coin for a War Hero

The carriage rattled over cobblestone until the capital's glittering rooftops disappeared behind the hills.

Elowen rested her chin on her hand and watched the scenery blur past, a sharp, satisfied smile on her lips. By now her absence had surely been discovered. She hadn't said goodbye in person — just two sealed letters, one on her father's desk, one on her mother's vanity, and a shorter note slipped to Cassian by palace messenger, half-apology for leaving him to face Aunt Evelyn alone, half-promise of a postcard.

He's going to curse my name for a week, she thought, almost fondly. And miss me for the rest of the year.

Her father would rage through the halls for exactly one day. Her brother — born, unlike her, for ledgers and politics — would handle the estate without missing a step. Everyone would land on their feet.

That was the beauty of a well-timed exit.

Her destination was Bellmere: a lakeside town under snow-capped mountains, small enough that no one there had ever heard the name Elowen Rose.

Two weeks later, the air in Bellmere smelled like pine and wet earth and roasted barley — nothing like the suffocating amber wax and rosewater of the capital. Elowen knelt in the dirt behind the church clinic in a faded green tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a streak of mud drying on her cheek and her braid coming loose at the end of a long morning.

"Sister Beatrice!" She held up a gnarled root like a trophy. "The valerian by the lakebed's thriving. Dry this, blend it with chamomile, and Old Man Gable sleeps through the night without dreaming about flying pigs."

"Bless you, child." The old nun shook her head from the doorway, more fond than surprised at this point. "I still don't know where you learned all this."

"A girl picks up things when she spends her youth skipping embroidery lessons."

It was, without question, the best decision Elowen had ever made — mornings in the dirt, afternoons at the clinic, evenings wiping down tavern tables just to listen to people talk without an agenda. Her mind finally had real problems to chew on instead of which duke to smile at during a waltz.

Which was exactly why the last two days had bothered her so much.

A "curse" had hit Bellmere — villagers collapsing with stomach cramps, fever, sudden paralysis. The town doctor, a man who'd bought his license rather than earned it, was calling it a water demon's wrath and charging terrified families for prayer beads.

Elowen had examined three patients that morning and reached a different conclusion. Nightshade alkaloids. Slow dosing, high potency. That's not a curse — that's a plan. Someone was poisoning the reservoir above the lake, deliberately and carefully.

Proving it meant reaching the reservoir near the mountain pass. Reaching the reservoir meant getting past whatever bandits were using that pass this month. Which meant she needed muscle.

The Lakeside Inn was loud and full that evening — fishermen, off-duty guards, travelers passing through. Elowen swept a rag across a table, scanning the room for anyone who looked like they could hold a sword without fainting.

The door opened, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop.

Three men in plain traveling cloaks stepped in — no medals, no gold filigree, nothing to mark them as anything but hired swords. And yet the room went quiet around them anyway, the particular quiet that follows people who are dangerous and don't need to announce it.

The one in front pushed back his hood. Silver-white hair, a blue-jeweled earring, a jaw like it had been carved with the same precision as a blade.

Elowen paused mid-wipe. Where have I seen those eyes— She shrugged it off. Half the mercenaries out of the northern border probably had white hair and permanent scowls. Coincidence.

Valerius's gaze found her across the room and stayed there. Behind him, his two knights — Kael and Gerald — traded a look, already sensing where this evening was headed.

He crossed to a corner table, cloak settling around his boots, and raised two fingers. "Ale. And whatever food this place can manage."

Elowen dropped a mug in front of him hard enough to slosh foam over the rim. "Three coppers for food. Five if you want today's fish."

"Three coppers." Valerius leaned back, one hand loose on the hilt of his sword, taking in the dirt on her cheek and the fire in her eyes with open interest. "You don't look like a tavern maid."

"Excuse you." She planted her hands on her hips. "I am a woman of many talents. Cleaner's assistant, carrot planter, church clinic botanist, potion mixer, and — yes — master table-wiper. Of course I don't look the part. I'm overqualified for this rag."

He nearly choked on his ale. "My apologies, Lady of the Table-Rags."

"Careful, big guy, or you get yesterday's fish." She spun on her heel and disappeared through the kitchen doors, braid swinging.

The second she was gone, Kael leaned across the table. "Your Grace. Tell me that isn't Lady Elowen Rose."

"She's dirty," Gerald muttered, squinting after her. "The rumors say porcelain skin, silk dresses worth a fiefdom. Untouchable. That woman just threatened me with fish."

"It's her." Valerius swirled his ale, certain. "The same woman who cornered Crown Prince Cassian in his own study and made him sign a decree declaring her insane, just so she could disappear."

Gerald pressed two fingers to his temple. "She blackmailed the heir to the throne, and now she's bragging about her rag-wiping resume in a lake town."

"Precisely." Valerius took a slow sip. "Which makes her considerably more interesting."

Near midnight, Valerius leaned against the courtyard wall outside the inn, Kael and Gerald a few paces back in the dark. Gravel crunched, and Elowen appeared from the shadows in a hooded cloak, a satchel of glass vials at her hip.

"A girl with your mind," Valerius said, pushing off the wall, "shouldn't be wandering border towns at midnight. Come to the capital with me. Grand estate. Silk. Tea parties, if you like that sort of thing."

Elowen stopped dead, staring at him like he'd offered her a live snake. "The capital? High society? I would rather eat glass."

"Most women would jump at the offer."

"Then most women have terrible judgment." She threw her hands up. "Corsets you can't breathe in. Waltzing with lords who smell like stale cologne and can't do arithmetic. Tea parties where 'what a lovely shade of pink' means 'I hope you fall in the punch bowl.' Out here I dig up carrots. I fix people. I use my brain. Out here I can breathe."

Behind him, Kael turned a laugh into a cough.

Valerius tipped his head down, close enough that she had to hold her ground not to step back. "You know an unusual amount about high society for a tavern maid."

Elowen went very still.

Whatever calculation ran behind her eyes finished fast. She straightened her collar, cleared her throat, and produced her answer with total, unearned confidence.

"My cousin. Cassian. Poor boy scrapes horse manure in the palace stables twelve hours a day — hears all the gossip from the other stableboys, writes it all to me. Terribly bitter about the smell, but very informative."

Valerius made a sound like he'd swallowed his own tongue. Behind him, both knights clapped hands over their mouths.

"Your cousin," he said, carefully, "the stableboy."

"Hardworking. Whines constantly." She dug in her satchel and pressed a gold coin into his palm before he could recover. "Now. Business. Someone's poisoning the reservoir above the lake — the whole 'curse' is nightshade in the water. I need to get up there, take samples, and find whoever's doing it. The pass has bandits."

She tapped the sword at his hip. "You three look like you know how to use those and keep your mouths shut after. One gold coin, four hours, my back stays uncut. Deal?"

Valerius looked at the coin. Looked at Kael and Gerald, both of them one breath from losing it entirely. The Commander of the Northern Legion had just been hired for one gold piece by his own runaway betrothed, who thought the future emperor mucked out stables for a living.

Something in his chest that hadn't moved in years shifted loose.

"One gold coin," he said, closing his hand around it, "to guard a fugitive investigating a poisoning in bandit territory. My men and I accept."

Elowen grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, leaving a dirt handprint on his tunic. "Good. Stay quiet, keep up, don't step on loud twigs. Let's go solve a crime."

She turned and marched toward the tree line without a backward glance.

Valerius looked down at the print on his sleeve for a moment before following.

"Your Grace," Kael whispered, wiping his eyes, "should we tell His Highness his new title is Head Horse-Dirt Scraper?"

"Absolutely not." Valerius fell into step behind her, something almost helpless in his voice. "Let him suffer in mystery. Cassian — your cousin is perfect."