Night Falls in the Blink of an Eye
Night had arrived before they knew it. Time waits for no one, but even so, this darkness felt abrupt. The surroundings plunged into shadow in an instant. A little ways from the crumbled walls, a single campfire peeked out, asserting its presence.
Marhal skewered the prepared meat on an iron rod and planted it near the flames. As the fat dripped with a sizzle, sparks popped and danced with each drop.
"Really... you're a monster in your own right."
Rebella stared at Strekl with a look of utter dismay. He was tearing into meat that wasn't even fully cooked. Blood—not juices—dripped from his jaw in thick rivulets. With a cloth spread on the ground and a mountain of meat piled atop it, watching Strekl devour it killed any appetite, even though they knew they had to eat. How could anyone call that human? A beast in human skin fit better.
Strekl finished one hunk in short order and reached for the next as he spoke.
"Not leaving?"
"Why would we?"
"I'm a high knight of the duchy. You're the imperial princess and her guard. It's weirder that you're still here together."
"Then why haven't you left? You seem recovered enough to move on your own."
Rebella had seen plenty of knights while living in the palace. The empire's high knights were the elite of the elite among superhumans. Given the right conditions, they could fell a castle single-handedly. Even to her experienced eye, Strekl's recovery was unnatural.
Recovery speed and combat prowess are different things, but...
Strekl had already proven his battle skills. He didn't seem inclined to attack now, but if he did—could they stop him?
Three exchanges at best. And that was optimistic.
That made it all the more baffling. A war hero abandoned by his own country, the kind who could snap and do anything out of spite—yet here he was, docile as a lamb.
Did Her Highness see something we missed?
With Strekl and Marhal away, it had been their chance to slip out. The city inside was surely a bloodbath under the flags by now; finding horses wouldn't be hard. Rebela had urged they leave while the men were gone, but Bayola insisted on waiting.
'Our status is worlds apart from theirs. If Strekl decides to kill or capture us, I can't hold him off alone.'
'We've lost everything anyway. Dying back home or here—same difference.'
'But...'
'That's an order.'
'Understood.'
Bayola was imperial royalty. Born special, with history others could never accumulate in a lifetime thrust upon her from birth. That meant fiercer competition than anyone else. If Bayola saw something they hadn't, her judgment—at least—wasn't the worst.
The one who'd made the call was now crouched low, head bowed, trembling at the blood dripping from the meat.
* * *
The meat was done. Wrapping the hot iron rod in cloth, Marhal sliced the meat with a dagger and served it on wooden plates. Only once the blood had cooked out could Bayola finally open her eyes. She grabbed a piece by hand, crammed it into her mouth, and grimaced.
She didn't spit it out only because of her imperial training: never waste food. Staring at the plate like she'd found something that shouldn't exist in the world, the fishy aftertaste clawed up her throat to her nose, and each chew brought an indescribable foulness.
"This is... food?"
"Your Highness. Eat if you want to live."
Strekl shot a disdainful look at the pair eating the horse meat like it was poison.
"Nobles will be nobles. Out west, this is a feast."
"This... a feast?"
"Not wrong. Only village festivals serve this much meat."
"Then what do you eat normally?"
"Whatever's around."
"...?"
Of course you eat what's available. Did that mean some ate what wasn't?
Strekl sighed. It was the sigh of a man facing days in this wasteland with these two. How much fuss would these hothouse flowers kick up until they reached the village? He played along as their guard, but to him, Rebela and Bayola were much the same.
"Means there's no food at all. If there's anything edible, you eat tree roots."
"...!"
"Not that bad these days. Bugs over roots. Get lucky, a few make a meal. Meat spoils fast in this weather. Shall we scout a nest early?"
"...!!!"
Even Rebela froze mid-chew, stunned. Their shaken eyes turned to Marhal. Please deny it. Say it's a lie.
"You didn't know either? Inns and taverns sell 'em as delicacies."
"No... you mean... not some euphemism, but actual bugs... as food?"
Rebella stammered. She'd offered Bayola spicy stir-fried bugs or bug porridge now and then while preparing meals—always as novelties. Knight training had mentioned eating bugs in famine, but only as a last resort before starvation. Cooking and eating them? Unthinkable.
"Demons leave no animals behind. They turn into demons too. The west is barren except for fertile soil—no wild game to be found. Bugs it is if you want to live."
The nobles turned to stone at the thought. While the full-bellied pair stalled, the hungry duo shoveled away. They'd brought plenty, but a high knight's superhuman body demanded superhuman portions. Marhal had learned the hard way: eat big when you can.
As the meal wound down, Marhal spoke.
"Now, let's plan how to claim some land."
"Joining the land race?"
"Isn't that why you're here?"
"Don't care either way. But these bug-phobic ladies?"
Rebella glared at Strekl. Bayola, face pale from forcing down the distasteful meat, spoke up.
"We're going too."
"You can keep up?"
"Better than some doddering old fossils."
"Entertaining. An imperial princess puking up bugs—worth watching."
"Enough bickering. You know the land race rules?"
"Plant a flag where another flag's visible. That's it, right?"
Rebella had questioned the absurdity herself at first. Land was at stake—vast tracts, enough to sustain a village of a hundred households at minimum. More than a petty noble's tenant farm. And the rules boiled down to that? She'd double-checked with Union reps.
"One catch. Plant inside there—what's visible?"
Marhal gestured to the rubble-choked ruins of the shattered city. Crumbled wall chunks loomed before them; deeper in, even more chaos.
"Nothing."
"Surveyors count only flags 'planted in the ground' and 'visible.' Fight all you want inside—no good."
"Knights I know are in there."
"They've got their plans. Visibility's all that matters. Can't copy knights? Or just impossible?"
"Clear a path by shoving them aside?"
"If you can't, say so."
"I can. I can."
"For real? Dawn to dusk, sweat-soaked, dust-caked, clearing all that before surveyors arrive?"
Bayola couldn't confidently say yes. Marhal's face tempted her to spitefully agree, but she'd be hauling rocks till nightfall if she did.
Ah.
A wave of disillusionment hit her.
I've changed nothing.
It was night. The campfire crackled before them; stars filled the sky with a glance aside. Under that vast expanse, she felt utterly alone—and utterly powerless.
The realization struck like a blade. In the palace, maids handled everything. Outside, Rebela managed her needs. No faith in curing her hemophobia, she'd fled via "wake quickly from fainting." No confidence against palace siblings—better history-accumulators, per Strekl—she'd mastered ancient imperial tongue none bothered with. When it became key to the throne, she'd fled west, beyond imperial reach.
Bayola Muesilrigo's life was flight. Her history was one of escape.
And now, she was fleeing again. Not from monstrous siblings or mortal peril. Just... physical labor.
Just moving her body? Knights would rage at the insult, but reality didn't care. Born superhuman, exertion had always been easy for her. Never once hard.
Strekl and Marhal waited silently for her to pull herself together. Enlightenment needs no time or space—it crashes in unannounced, uprooting lives. Knowing this, they let the hothouse flower bloom.
Clueless Rebela approached with worry.
"Your Highness?!"
"I'll do it. Mud-rolling, rock-hauling from dawn to dusk."
"If milady insists, we follow. Flag visible that way... start with those rocks? Too early to sleep—clear a bit first?"
Marhal pointed to a massive rubble pile from the collapsed wall. Bayola swallowed hard. Her body rivaled palace knights', but even they clear that?
"Kidding. Even if possible, inefficient's not my style. Set watches and crash. Dawn start tomorrow."
"I'll take first."
"I'll do middle. Wake me when it's time."
Marhal spread scavenged hides, wrapped himself, and bedded down.
Bayola, Rebela, and Strekl sat in silence across the fire for a long stretch.
"Sleep. Miss my wake-up, you're dead."
"How can I trust you?"
"Imperial blood and ducal knight face-to-face, no blades drawn. We both know this is abnormal."
True enough. A temporary alliance until the Bachea relic—demons slain, relic claimed, only blades left. One real clash had happened, yet here they sat, unharmed. Bizarre standoff.
The man enabling it slept there, self-proclaimed mercenary. He insisted on the title, but no merc sways an imperial princess and high knight.
"That was a miracle, wasn't it."
"Yeah. A miracle."
"Holy Empire won't sit idle."
The Holy Empire thrived on healing miracles for ills and wounds. Top priests allegedly defied lifespan limits. They monopolized magic-like miracles for healing. Anyone else with such power? Heretic—extermination squad dispatched.
"Said even holy knights and inquisitors can't touch him. Crazy if anyone else said it. But I believe."
"Yeah... Rebela. Sleep."
"You really trust him?"
"Yeah. I do."
Bayola laid out a hide. Too thin for bed-raised her, hard ground agony against her back—but tonight, no nightmares.