“One second… I’m hitting the ATM,” I mumble.

  I punch a generous amount into the keypad and hit confirm. A golden light flashes in my palm, followed instantly by a solid weight. A heavy leather pouch, filled to the brim, physically drops right into my hand. Cosmic Gold is basically medieval crypto.

  I drop the bag onto the counter. CLING-CLANG. The heavy jingle of gold coins instantly makes the landlady a whole lot friendlier. She reaches out a massive hand, pops the pouch open, and eyeballs the contents with an expert gaze. The gold shines in the torchlight.

  “We want to sleep. And we want no one to know we’re here.”

  She snaps the pouch shut and makes it vanish under the counter with the speed of a street magician. Silence purchased.

  “I’ve got two rooms left at the end of the hall,” she grunts. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  I turn to the team. “Okay. Two rooms.” I look at Kim, then at Nectarine making puppy-dog eyes at me from under her hood, and finally at Chris. “Chris, you’re bunking with me. Kim, you take the Princess.”

  Chris nods, visibly relieved he doesn’t have to deal with the crazy lady. “Works for me.”

  Nectarine lets out a theatrical sigh of relief, pressing a hand over her heart. She practically hides behind Kim, pointing an accusing finger at me like I’m the Devil himself.

  “Thank God!” she cries out in her trembling little voice. “I would not have slept a single wink with that… that lecherous barbarian in the room! He already defiled me with his eyes in the bath. I do not want him near me ever again! Protect me, noble warrior!”

  Kim rolls her eyes, a look of infinite weariness permanently painted on her face. “Move,” she orders dryly, shoving her toward the stairs. “Before I change my mind and let you sleep in the hallway.”

  I grab the keys off the counter. “Let’s go. Upstairs. And we barricade the doors.”

  We climb the worn stone stairs. Kim shoves Nectarine into the first room, checks the lock, and shoots me a look that clearly translates to: If I hear a noise, I’m shooting through the wall.

  Chris and I take the second room. The door barely clicks shut before the kid dumps his gear in a messy pile.

  “Shower. Bed. Sleep,” he summarizes, making a beeline for the bathroom. Five minutes later, he’s already snoring, a drool bubble expanding at the corner of his mouth.

  I grab a quick shower. The water is hot, even if it reeks of sulfur. It strips the grime off, at least. I scrub until the smell of swamp mud finally washes down the drain.

  Once clean, I sit on the edge of the bed. I should sleep. My body is screaming for rest. But my brain is still stuck in overdrive. The combat adrenaline, the escape, the absolute madness of Nectarine… I let out a heavy sigh.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  I throw my yellow vest back on and head downstairs.

  The common room is still packed to the rafters, but the vibe has shifted. The simmering violence has drowned in cheap booze. The laughs are rougher, the talk is blunter. Nobody pays any attention to me. I blend right in.

  I weave my way to the bar, order a mug of whatever greenish sludge passes for the local specialty, and find myself a dark corner. I lean against a stone pillar in the shadow of a moth-eaten tapestry, channeling my inner Aragorn.

  I take a sip. It tastes like cheap beer cut with dishwater, complete with a lingering mushroom aftertaste. It’s absolutely disgusting. I love it.

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  I close my eyes and keep my ears open.

  Over on my left, two pot-bellied merchants in silk tunics are shooting the breeze while snacking on grilled worms.

  “My wife wants us to move to the Crystal District,” the first one complains around a mouthful of food. “She says the air is better. Yeah, right! She just wants to be closer to her mother.”

  “Same old story,” the other grunts. “Mine wants us to buy a racing beetle. Like I can afford that with the Palace taxes!”

  Useless chatter.

  Further down the bar, a group of mercenaries covered in ritual scars are talking loudly, their voices constantly drowned out by the clatter of dice.

  “Did you see the daughter of the blacksmith?” a guy with an eyepatch throws out. “Her ears are… whew! This long!”

  “Forget it, Meathead,” his buddy laughs. “She doesn’t look at guys who’ve got more scars than teeth.”

  Still useless.

  I shift my focus to a fancier table near a round window. Two courtesans in spider-silk dresses are sipping fluorescent nectar out of cut-crystal glasses. They’re discussing bedroom politics, their voices low and venomous.

  “It’s so tragic about the Duke,” the first one whispers with fake compassion, twirling a necklace of black pearls. “Dying so young… A horseback riding accident. So stupid.”

  “Tragic, yes,” the other sneers from behind a feather fan. “But awfully convenient for the Second Daughter. Official mourning hasn’t even been announced yet, and they say she’s already ordered her coronation dress.”

  “You really think she’ll dare?”

  “She’s been waiting for this. With her husband out of the picture and her older sister exiled… The runway is completely clear. She’ll seize the title of Heir by the end of the week.”

  At those words, a guy sitting at the neighboring table—a merchant rocking an old claw-mark scar across his face—spits on the floor in pure disgust. He heard everything.

  “Good riddance,” he grunts loud enough to kill the conversation around him. “If she’s dead, then justice actually exists.”

  A young royal guard leaning against the bar whips around, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Watch your mouth, citizen. We’re talking about the Eldest Daughter here. Royal blood.”

  “I’m talking about a Royal Slut!” the merchant flares up, his eyes bloodshot. “Don’t try to tell me you actually buy the official bullshit about the Duke falling from a horse! The whole damn kingdom knows the truth!”

  He slams his fist onto the table, making his mug jump. “The husband of the Second Daughter… He didn’t die in some accident. He died because they found him first thing in the morning, buck naked, dead in the bed of the Eldest Daughter!”

  A shocked murmur ripples through the tavern.

  The merchant presses on, totally disgusted, throwing in a few obscene gestures to paint the picture. “She was lying right next to him, smiling, acting like nothing even happened. The royal doctors said the heart of the Duke just gave out. She drained him of every last drop of his vital energy until he croaked! She literally rode her own brother-in-law to death!”

  He waves a dismissive hand toward the door. “That’s exactly why the Queen kicked her out of the Palace and served her up to the Orcs. You can’t wash away that kind of shame any other way. Nectarine isn’t some victim. She’s a maneater.”

  I set my mug down, letting the info sink in.

  Ah. So Nectarine isn’t just “a bit perverted” or “bipolar.” She’s a walking scandalous legend. She slept with the husband of her sister and literally killed him through sheer excess of enthusiasm. Well, that completely explains why she got banished and why absolutely no one is crying over her disappearance. She’s a Royal Black Widow.

  I strain my ears toward the fireplace corner. Three royal guards, clearly higher up the chain than the kid at the bar, are having a hushed, dead-serious conversation.

  “…Is it confirmed?” the youngest asks nervously.

  “The report just came in an hour ago,” the veteran answers, a gray-skinned colossus of a man. “The Surface scouts are absolutely certain. The Northern camp has been wiped off the map.”

  “Wiped off the map?”

  “Annihilated. Nothing left. The Porci King and his entire army… butchered. We found the shattered throne and blast craters everywhere. That wasn’t a conventional attack.”

  A heavy silence settles over their table.

  “And the Princess?” the third guard asks. “The Eldest Daughter? Any trace of her?”

  The veteran shakes his heavy head. “Nothing. The pink tent was completely empty. No blood, no body. If she was in there during the assault… She’s more than likely dead. Digested by a Titan or crushed in the melee.”

  “So it’s really over,” the young one breathes out. “The lineage officially passes to the younger sister.”

  I down the rest of my drink in one go. The puzzle is complete. Nectarine is officially presumed dead, wiped out by the mysterious “monsters” who flattened the Orc camp. Her younger sister, an incredibly ambitious widow whose husband croaked in the bed of Nectarine, is gearing up to seize power right over her supposed corpse.

  I set my mug down on the table with a soft clack.

  “I’m not even surprised,” I muse with a grimace. “Given the sheer energy she puts into trying to mount anything that moves, she must have sucked the guy dry to the very last drop. The poor Duke ended up like a squeezed-out juice box. What a way to go…”