The world blurred around the edges. They were sitting close, side by side. A warm fire painted their faces in gold.

  She laughed softly, rubbing her hands together to chase the cold away.

  “Your question is a hard one.” Elowen bit her lip. “I think I’ve grown afraid of wanting—afraid of disappointment. I don’t bear it well.”

  Roderic lowered his gaze, sadness flickering there for a second. Then he turned back to her and braved a smile.

  “Don’t be lazy, Elowen. We all aspire to something.”

  “All right, then.” She knit her brow in concentration. “When I was little, I wanted dresses with long trains, and I wished my hair wouldn’t be so unruly.” A shy smile began to form on her lips. “I also wanted to be strong like Theron—though truth be told, what I really wanted was to beat him at swordplay.”

  Roderic’s gaze held her.

  “And now?” he asked quietly. “What is it that you want most?”

  She turned toward the fire and fell silent for a moment.

  “Well…” she murmured. “I would like to feel safe.”

  Cherished. Cared for.

  Her voice trembled slightly. “I wish I didn’t have to struggle just to stay alive.” She swallowed, then steadied herself. “I would also like a white horse to ride each morning—and a large orchard of fruit trees, so I could pick from them as the seasons changed.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  When she looked back at him, Roderic’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. She returned her gaze to the fire.

  “Your turn,” she said, turning to him with feigned mischief. “What would you rather be if you were not anointed king of Aurendal?”

  Roderic met her gaze with quiet gentleness.

  “I wouldn’t be anyone else,” he said. “And I wouldn’t be anywhere but here.”

  A splash of water shattered the memory.

  Her cracked lips were forced apart. Water spilled over her mouth.

  “Basim—we’ve got a live one. Bring the wagon.”

  Elowen pried her eyes open, just a sliver.

  A tanned man. A filthy turban pulled high over his face. Amber eyes watching her.

  She let her eyes fall shut again.

  She didn’t have the strength to care.

  ___

  Her hands guided the brush down and back up again. Down. Up. The motion smoothed into a rhythm she could follow without thinking.

  Elowen had grown used to the thick smell of the huge animal, and admittedly, this was not the worst task she’d ever been given. The beast was old and grumpy, but tame—and by now, she had grown quite attached to him.

  “Come on, Sabr. Off we go,” she said, guiding the camel back toward the caravan.

  “Good. We move soon,” Fadil said, by way of a morning greeting.

  Elowen nodded.

  “Here,” Basim said, catching up with her and holding out a clean turban. “Take this. Your scent’s starting to mix with Sabr’s.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, Basim.” She dipped her head slightly. “I appreciate it.”

  He smiled, bashful, and cleared his throat.

  “Um. I could clean after Sabr again—like I used to.”

  “You’re kind,” she said, smiling genuinely. “But Fadil was clear. If I want to travel with the caravan, I earn my keep.” She adjusted the brush in her hand. “I don’t mind this. Or any of the other work.”

  Basim shrugged.

  “So,” he said, hurrying to keep pace with her, “have you killed your fig tree yet?”

  Elowen lifted her chin. “It’s very much alive, mind you.”

  She crossed to where her saddle blanket lay and lifted the small pot, a brave little fig sprig pushing up from the soil.

  “See?” she said, unmistakably proud. “Still green.”

  Basim’s grin widened, yellow teeth showing. “And this is your fourth try, right? Were the others figs too?”

  “Pomegranates,” she said reluctantly. “And an olive.”

  “An olive?” He let out a short laugh. “That was ambitious.”

  Elowen sighed. “I know.”

  She looked down at the pot again—and smiled.