Chapter 78

I know that I should probably get some sleep when I begin worrying about whether or not the assassins will burn down the several hundred-acre cornfield I’ve disappeared into. Every rustle, buzz, and flap of a wing has made me jumpy, winding up my nerves without any release. My jaw is tensed, causing the muscle to ache as the first tinges of a headache begin to make itself aware to me.

It would not be logical for them to burn down the field so close to the army base camp, I eventually realize, as the possible evidence of arson could lead to serious blowback on the empress. She wants to kill me discreetly, but hiding in here and constantly moving as the sun goes down, I’m a near impossible figure to discover. This maze of a field has become my blessing.

I complete my next moves on autopilot, moving westward despite hunger and thirst. Before the sun has completely set, I finally happen across a road cutting straight to the army base camp of Belhelm, the unpaved road still covered in hoofprints and deep gorges from heavy wheels carrying supplies and rations.

In the dusty backroads of the duchy of Avernall and just outside the reportedly stunning city of Belhelm, this pathway shines like the golden road to Oz. It’s late at night when I see common foot soldiers with the now comforting livery of the Erudian phoenix hanging from their armored shoulders in a half cape. It’s like I’ve reached the finish line.

Crass jokes and the crackling hearth the soldiers are seated around keep the crunch of grass under my foot practically inaudible. In fact, I’d wager my salivating gulp at the scent of the wild chicken they’re cooking over the fire was louder than my footsteps. But something else preoccupied my attention soon, the military wagon carrying the rations.

“Come to mama,” I mutter before I can help it, my short legs barely making the leap onto the side of one of the covered wagons. At the same time my arms and legs securely connect with the side of the wagon almost 5 times my diminutive size, a burst of raucous laughter erupts around the fire and covers it.

Slipping under the tarp is child’s play afterward. “I’m in,” I smirk victoriously as if I’ve hacked into a firewall rather than broke into my own nation’s military rations. The underside of the tarp is mind-numbingly dark as it’s evening and the light of the fire can’t penetrate the tanned, animal skin tarp. But it’s not so bad. The scent of bread is heavy underneath and I simply follow my nose like a bloodhound, my hands feeling out cautiously until they meet something soft.

.....

It’s a crate, stacked high with uncut paan, a traditional simple bread dish often consumed across the land that Bianca couldn’t ever afford. The uncut piece is twice the size of my head while being soft and airy in my hand. Yet there’s a denseness to it that promises fulfillment. Tearing into the cold piece, a burst of olive oil and dried veggies found within meet my tongue and I have to stop my eyes from rolling back in my head.

It’s official. This has to be the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.

After nearly finishing off the entire uncut piece, I pat my stuffed belly and feel around to try to discern what other goods are in here. I manage to discern a few barrels of potatoes, dried slabs of jerky meat, and an alcohol barrel that manages to take up a majority of the space under the tarp. Go figure. Even in war, these men have their priorities straight.

Did I enjoy a little ale for myself before tucking in for the night? I suppose you’ll never know.

The brief levity of a filling meal doesn’t distract me from the upcoming day’s events. I know that Emma, Jack, Tommen, and Emmet must be fine because my break for the cornfields drew away the assassins that were chasing us. But now comes the question of how I am to present myself at the military front.

Camped right before the Dredgen Woods that separate the Erudian Empire and Sarsaval, being mistaken as a thief could have much more dire consequences than cutting off a hand. My eyes and hair are a calling card of the oft mentioned but rarely seen imperial princess, but even I wouldn’t believe it if a filthy urchin tried to pass themselves off as the daughter of the esteemed supreme commander and emperor, Emperor Helio.

I don’t even consider trying to appear before my father. His icy glare at my small person that day in the throne room and his lack of punishment to Empress Katya spoke volumes.

“Why keep me alive, Helio?” I muse to the potatoes in front of my curled-up body.

It’s a redundant question as I already know why. When my father finally sat down upon his bloody throne years ago, he killed a slew of distant and immediate imperial family members to do so. Distant cousins who inherited the famous golden gaze? Dead. Ancient doddering aunts and uncles in distant provinces still carrying the imperial bloodline? Sayonara, forever.

According to the webnovel, he was smart enough to kill them off through mostly natural and subtle means. For the rest, Helio successfully beefed up crimes to the point that only imprisonment or death could follow. Thus, during my wonderful retreat to the Tower, I was in close familial company for the entire duration.

Empress Katya had a funny habit during my many visits to her lavish sitting room. She spoke, a lot. Sometimes it was about politics. Sometimes it was about the many etiquette skills I lack. But once in a while, with a dazed look in her eye as she soothingly applied salve to my stinging calves, she’d talk about my father.

And for once, I could get another perspective of Emperor Helio outside of the rose-colored lens of being the male lead’s father within the webnovel or my own cynical point of view after too many poor encounters with him.

“He won’t ever love you, you know,” she had begun without preamble. I had turned to look at her, tendrils of her unbound blonde hair tickling my cheek. But it was as if she were on autopilot, her eyes trained on the rhythmic movements of her hand on my legs.

“He just needs you. You don’t need to be happy, well-fed, or even in one piece. You just need those beautiful golden eyes.” It was then she had looked at me, a hand stroking the corner of my eye as if they were truly precious. “Beautiful eyes which are so rare these days. Do cherish them and be a good girl, Winter.”

I disagree with her. They may be as bright and shiny as real, authentic gold, but in my heart, they’re worth less than a penny. But I understand the underlying message. The lack of living imperial descendants lends importance to my otherwise unmentionable bastard identity.

It was after that meeting that I had gone to the royal library, putting the poor librarian Henry to work as I’d fetched registry after registry of the imperial family members. Hundreds of people, just like me, who had grown up in the opulent sprawl of the palace in the pinnacle of wealth and power. I read of princesses who had married out to esteemed noble families and distant kingdoms, carrying away with them, the new title of Archduchess. I read of a prince who traveled the land incognito as a minstrel before marrying a commoner and settling down. So many stories from hundreds of years, all written eloquently with elaborate swirls of aged ink.

The most recent stories from the past 50 years all end within the same 2 years though, the year before and after my father came to the throne. Archduchess Medina, heart attack at age 42. Grand Prince Peter, suffered a grievous wound during a duel for the hand of a woman and died 48 hours later. The Duke of Provoth, the lord of an old duchy now carved up into various noble territories in the south, was accused of selling off ‘good’ citizens into slavery for extra coin and beheaded. The registry even mentions how popular this move made the emperor to the common people.

You are allowed to sell yourself into slavery when you can’t make ends meet, when you’re captured as a war slave, or if you’re born into it from your parents. It makes for booming business in the east and south of the Erudian Empire, where manufacturing and construction are a prominent industries and requires many hands on deck.

It’s all hypocritical, my father, the imperial lineage, this empire, and Peppermint. It’s almost laughable how this mysterious author managed to paint my father as a tough-hearted but lovable dad who was incredibly supportive of his son pursuing true love with a low ranked noble while his vicious stepmother tried to tear them apart. On the Discord, fans had proclaimed their love for Emperor Helio, not at all unlike the throngs of citizens who are in love with him and bring his popularity to new heights.

And yet, the true portrait of my father is far uglier and underhanded than his handsome, yet unapproachable visage would suggest. Perhaps the Holy Church, as corrupt and dishonest the institution may be, is right not to trust him.

I only realize that I’ve nodded off into my chaotic thoughts and slept through the night when the rumbling of the rations wagon bumps over the oft-treaded path to the military front.

“Oy, I’ve got quite the crick in my back after last night. I can ‘ardly turn my head to the left,” someone complains outside the tarp, startling me fully back to life.

“Eheheh, John, are you certain it’s not your age catchin’ up with you? I could’ve sworn I’d seen a few grays last evening.”

“Grays? I’ve scarcely touched 30, you jest too much!”

My mouth feels like thousands of grains of sand are stuck in it and I’m forced to drink a few tepid sips of ale to wash the taste and sensation from it. I’ve been rejuvenated by a night of food and sleep, but it costs me the early wake-up plan I had to sneak out of the military wagon and track it from a distance.

I silently applaud myself for once again coming up with a detailed plan only to mess it up on a minor detail.

“Hey! Manuel! We’ve got the rations!” John, I suppose, bellows outside. He wacks at the tarp near my head and sends my soul right out of my body with shock.

“Finally! We’ve been watering down the ale until it’s practically undrinkable. Angry, sober men have been getting into rows left and right without any drink to keep them calm,” jokes the sentry at the mouth of the military camp.

The sounds outside are what one would expect of a military camp. Horses whiny, weaponry clangs against one another as male voices dominate the air. I exhale, my heart pounding suddenly. If they had paused for a break, I’d have had a chance to escape but of course with my bad luck, even without Peppermint’s handiwork, I woke up too late to do anything.

The wagon rolls to a stop way too soon. I scarcely have time to sit criss-cross apple sauce and don my cutest expression before the hooks tethering the tarp shut are undone and the cover is flung off. Light comes flooding in, causing my eyes to water slightly but there’s no time to wipe them off. It’s game time.

“H-How do you do, gentlemen?” I chirp with a bright smile as if I, an unknown, strange-looking child, wasn’t caught in the most precious military supply during a war. I used spit to wipe the dirt off my face the best I could and the belladonna has completely worn off by now. I know the power of my adorable appearance and max it out its rosy-cheeked fullest.

This half-assed plan works as well as one would assume it would.

“Hey, hey, hey! We can talk this out! Seriously! I’m just... well technically, I’m a princess but I know you guys won’t believe me. But, I was chased here by assassins and hid in the wagon last night! I promise!” I yell as John keeps a tight hold on the scruff of my neck. Dark expressions surround me, practically dimming the sunlight with their intensity.

“Hmmm... she doesn’t look like someone from Sarsaval,” someone muses, his helmet practically wedged on his chubby head.

“That’s because they’re thinking several moves ahead. A child who doesn’t appear to be from the enemy country would be an effective weapon.”

“Oh, that sounds about right, John. Seems like that crick in your neck made you more clever than usual.”

“An enemy spy is on our territory. Now is not the time for humor!” John barks back.

“She’s already in our clutches. What can she do now?”

That’s a question I’d like to ask myself right now.

John and his friend aren’t speaking loudly, but nonetheless, it’s an odd sight for the early morning that draws many onlookers.

A fine tent of burnished red stands before us, a gold phoenix pole propping the spacious bedroom up from the center. Without a doubt, I can figure out whose tent I’m about to enter, even before the chubby soldier reveals a pair of sturdy lungs and bellows,

“Sentry unit guard, Colson Bracken, reporting to his highness, Prince Augustus, about an enemy intruder!”