Freya’s camp was nestled in a small clearing within the ghostly forest—a curious blend of practicality and misplaced extravagance. The sturdy tent, though slightly askew, bore modest embroidery. Neatly arranged silver cookware gleamed beside the bonfire pit, while the firewood, stacked haphazardly, had a few pieces about to roll free. A cooking pot swayed precariously on a crooked tripod, one of its legs threatening to buckle at any moment.


    Alice’s gaze lingered on the camp’s relative comforts—embroidered cushions, shining utensils, and an assortment of spices arranged neatly in jars. She seemed enchanted to a degree, her eyes betraying a flicker of nostalgia before she caught my gaze.


    Her expression hardened, and the nostalgia in her pink eyes turned bitter as she looked away, tucking some loose hair behind her ear.


    Freya turned to us with a wide smile. “You’ve arrived at the camp of Freya Hughes, future knight extraordinaire!”


    Right, this was her thing. To-be-knight, Freya Hughes, noble daughter of Count Hughes. She never appeared in the novel—despite her father being a recurring side character—because she abandoned her name (though she still uses it, so I don’t know) in search of ‘Greatness and Glory’.


    I reckon her family never brought up her name because she left them with nothing but scandal and disappointment.


    Truman, standing beside me, seemed less charmed. His nose scrunched briefly, and he mumbled something under his breath about a stench as we entered the clearing. His gaze swept the treeline, taking in the open arrangement and its lack of defensive measures.


    Freya caught the puzzled look in Truman’s eyes, and she tensed up, her arms falling to her sides. “Ah, y-y-you’ll have to pardon the disarray of the-the firewood stack—it’s a trifle untidy, but it is quite dry! I s-spent ages h-hunting for the right logs. And the tripod…” She stuttered, stepping closer towards us and glancing at the lopsided contraption. “Not m-my finest work… I-I shall get it right next time...”


    She didn’t seem as much of a threat as I initially thought.


    Freya clapped her hands together, resolve returning to her expression. “Ah yes, I-I had nearly forgotten! I have yet to introduce you to the one keeping me safe out here.” She brightened up, eager to change the subject.


    “There’s someone else--?” Before Alice could complete her sentence, her eyebrows pulled into a frown, as if she clocked something, and she froze.


    Freya crossed the clearing to a spot behind a tree, her armor clattering as she moved. She reached into the shadows.


    “Meet my guardian angel.”


    Freya pulled out a grisly trophy: the severed head of a Vamlin. Its grotesque features were unmistakable: red eyes rolled back in its sockets, black grease, and congealed blood streaking its face.


    Truman, ever composed, let out a low, “Oh. That’s why.” He discreetly covered his nose with his hand, though his face betrayed no other reaction.


    The camp fell deathly silent.


    My breaths hitched, as chills ran down my spine. My gaze fixated on the head, unblinking as I simultaneously attempted to push down the memories threatening to rise back and the wave of tears that rushed to my eyes.


    I couldn’t escape it. I was about to cry again. This body, so weak, so unprepared to deal with anything, not even its own emotions...


    Once the stench of the monster’s remnant hit my nostrils, the screeching cries of those creatures echoed in my mind, sending nausea roiling through my stomach.


    My eyes shot up to Freya, tears dissolving as I channeled my anger instead. She had been rambling words I couldn’t register.


    “Why would you…” I glared.


    My words made Alice flinch. She turned to me as if awoken from a daze.


    “Why would you be keeping that?” I asked, discreetly putting my trembling hands in my pockets.


    “As I said, this token of a fierce struggle proves far more useful than you might imagine. You cannot possibly comprehend the difficulty of slaying such a creature!” She glared back at me. “It wards them off—the Vamlins!”


    Alice moved to sit by the bonfire without another glance towards Freya, her expression tense and unreadable.


    She clicked her tongue at me, turning to Truman. “Are better understood by seasoned warriors, would you not agree, Sir Truman? I came across it during a visit to the royal library, how could you possibly doubt it?” She huffed back to me.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    I glanced over at Truman. He appeared entirely unfazed by the grotesque sight of the Vamlin, or by any memories it might have stirred.


    “The information is welcome,” Truman said coolly, “but it would be preferable if you put your angel away, Miss Freya.” He gave a neutral glance at the creature before turning his attention elsewhere, his demeanor more focused on the surrounding security than any further discussion.


    “Right,” she nodded with a smug smile. “Of course. My information is valuable.” She confirmed with herself.


    She walked over to throw the head back behind a tree.


    “It’s Dame Freya, by the way,” she said from behind the tree, though Truman didn’t seem to hear. He was on his way to Alice, who busied herself with starting the fire. “Ah, right! I never did inquire about your names, my new companions!” Freya skipped lightly over to join them. “Yours must be Truman, as I’ve heard the blue girl call you. And you, miss?”


    “Ali, no surname,” Alice responded.


    Their conversation faded, the words blending into a dull hum in the background. I stood there, still, trapped under the long shadow the Vamlin’s head had cast on the clearing. For a time, my eyes remained on the remains hidden behind the trunk; I could not pull them back.


    White dots appeared within my vision, carried by the soft, steady flow of the wind, landing by tree trunks, on the ground, and then in my palms. Fragile and graceful.


    My gaze naturally drifted upwards, drawn by the snowflakes’ gentle call. The chill of the winter season crawled down my spine, pulling me deeper into a daze.


    It had been a while since I last felt so lonely.


    From the corner of my eye, I caught faint movement. Alice had succeeded in lighting the fire, and the flames danced to ward off the cold. The three sat around it, exchanging idle words and food, perhaps having forgotten I was there.


    Attracted to the warmth, I walked toward the strangers, resisting the temptation to observe the tree longer, in case the Vamlin came back alive, in case I forgot all that occurred, just in case…


    “What’s yours?” Truman asked, as soon as I sat next to him on the cushion.


    “Hm?”


    “Tell our new companion your name,” he told me with a curious look.


    I turned to Freya, who was not looking my way, distracted by the loaf of bread she was to bite into.


    “Pen,” I simply said. “That’s my pen name.”


    I gave Truman a wink, and he nodded, turning to Alice, who had overheard.


    She gave a slight nod, then muttered under her breath. “So funny.”


    ~


    It didn’t take much observational skill to confirm that Freya Hughes was not fond of me.


    “Here,” She said, extending me a silver bowl with maybe five spoonfuls of soup.


    She stood before me as I sat upon a cushion, her crimson tunic loose about her form and her hair disheveled, far more so than when we first met.


    “This is all that remains.” Her brown eyes were squinted, her grin charming as usual. “As you well know, our provisions are scant. Times are harsh, and the unyielding snowfall has left the plants dormant.”


    I nodded in agreement. It had been snowing in moderate intervals since we met her. The shadow of the storm that was headed straight at us, and which we had been racing for the past few days was catching up to us.


    And these people still barely have a plan.


    “… That’s fine, I’m no stranger to hunger” I muttered, the bowl''s warmth melting the frost off my fingers. I looked up at Freya to give her a thankful nod but noticed her smile faltering at my agreeableness. Her brow twitched ever so slightly, and a decision seemed to be made behind her lively browns as she took in a sturdy breath.


    She turned away, surveying the surroundings with an air of fake preoccupation.


    I sipped the broth—a bitter concoction of herbaceous tang and dirty water—Freya’s gaze lingered on our companions. Truman was scouting the perimeter, striding steadily down the hillside. He’d finished his meal as soon as it was ready and left. As for our organizer and camp setter, Alice, she was fast asleep, too tired from today’s hike to even eat.


    Freya turned to me again, her once-bright smile had dimmed considerably. She sat down on the cushion next to mine.


    “You must understand,” she began, her tone measured. “Truman and I consume larger portions due to the demands of our labors, and Ali is so reliable that no matter how much we give her it would not be enough.”


    I nodded, agreeing with her reasoning. ‘You don’t do much; you should eat less.’


    She waited a moment, maybe for some response she didn’t get.


    “And you… you must now be accustomed to doing with little, huh.”


    I turned to her with this half-confused, half-accusative look. “Are you perhaps remarking on my physique?”


    “No no no, not that…” She chuckled.


    Just get to the point…


    I waited for her to explain, but she just turned to look at the fire and began to hum, the tune faltering slightly against the rasp of her voice. I couldn’t help the confused look.


    Throughout this journey, Freya had gone out of her way not to acknowledge my presence. Whether it was because I disapproved of her presence, or because she sensed my waiting for her to show weakness, I couldn’t tell.


    I admit I had thought her intimidating. After all, barely a single person in this world seemed disinterested in the notion of fucking me over. So, I had decided to observe her. Be passive. Fade into the background.


    But the more I watched, the less I was worried.


    It was the small thing she did, like trying to test me by speaking about me as though I wasn’t there, or so obviously snooping about my background from Alice or Truman.


    ‘I suspect her father was a merchant.’ Or, ‘Did she flee an arranged marriage, and you two took pity on her?’ Or, ‘Her hands—have you noticed how soft they are? I doubt she has ever wielded a blade.’


    “If anything, you should do it for our sake. Do you understand?” She said, patting my thigh with an air of casual authority.


    “… do what?” I asked, pushing her hand away. I gritted my teeth to keep my expression neutral against the disgusting sensation that touch had given me.


    “I’m not sure what you’re talking ab-”


    “Food. You eat too much for a freeloader.” She shot back, putting her hand on her thigh.


    My eyebrows shot up, and I slightly frowned.


    “It is not a jest. I have been patient with you, even though my companions seem oddly attached to your presence. Yet, here you are, clutching the map within your belongings as though it were your birthright, and even offering Sir Truman counsel on patrolling the perimeter. I mean, what do you know about perimeters? Have you ever held a blade before?”


    Oh, she’s mad about that lie.


    “Not really,” I said


    Her smile vanished, replaced by a steely look. “Exactly. You know why I could tell? Cause I know a noble when I see one.”