The meat was roasted to perfection. Which was suspicious.

The wine? Chilled and sweet, the kind that teased the tongue and burned the throat in the most satisfying way.

Also suspicious.

I eyed the wooden tray before me like it might sprout legs and dance. It was lavish—too lavish. A full leg of boar, honeyed root vegetables, toasted flatbread still warm from the fire, and a generous jug of what smelled like a blend of elderberry and apple wine. Nyx was already helping himself to the meat like he hadn't just ruined my entire hunt not hours ago. 

Useless, infuriating, majestic idiot.

"You know," I mused aloud, taking a thoughtful bite of the boar, "this feels like a trap."

Nyx snorted, mouth full, then promptly drooled onto his own leg.

"Disgusting," I muttered, wiping my hand on the grass. "You're royalty-adjacent, act like it."

We were camped in a clearing that felt too perfectly chosen, the fire already crackling and the air too clean. A faint breeze curled through the trees, tugging at my hair. Erra Asherah had left us alone.

Me, Nyx, a suspicious guard who looked constipated with distrust, and about three too many platters of roasted meat.

Oh, and wine. Plenty of wine.

A very generous amount for someone who had caught me snooping in his enemy war camp. He'd said something about "tending to important matters of warfare" before disappearing into his tent with all the intensity of a man about to rearrange empires. I, meanwhile, was two goblets deep into irresponsibility and steadily approaching the third.

Nyx stood beside me, chewing on someone's saddlebag. It seemed he had recovered already.

"Nyx," I called, swirling my wine like I knew what I was doing, "that's not food."

He paused, blinked at me, and went back to chewing with a little more flair.

I sipped, watching him destroy leather like a connoisseur. "You're a menace."

He sneezed violently and knocked over a water bucket. Then stepped into it. Then stood there like a marble statue of regret.

Behind us, the suspicious guard let out a deep sigh. That man hadn't stopped glaring at me since I got here. I suspected he'd been trained in passive-aggressive breathing and eyebrow intimidation. I waved at him. He flinched.

"Do you think he'd kill me if I danced on the table?" I whispered to Nyx.

Nyx didn't answer. He just dropped a bit of half-chewed rope on my lap and stared with the eyes of a beast who'd seen me make worse choices.

Fair.

The thing is, I'd meant to behave. Erra had been oddly... not horrible. Kind, even. He hadn't yelled or threatened or even chained me up. He'd just handed me food, wine, and said "stay here." That was dangerous. Because it made me want to misbehave just to see if I could crack his legendary calm. Oh, to annoy your enemy. 

So I wandered over to the map table. Now, in my defense, it was right there. Covered in parchment and little wooden soldiers and tiny arrows arranged in formations that screamed important political doom.

I leaned over it, sloshed a bit of wine on a battalion, and frowned. So this was how warlords played with toys.

Nyx wandered behind me, snorting and shoving his nose into a crate of rations like an unsupervised toddler. The suspicious guard took a threatening step forward, only to trip over Nyx's leg.

I tried very hard not to laugh. That lasted three seconds.

"Oops," I said, not sorry at all.

Then something on the map caught my eye. A winding stretch of blue ink near the enemy camp lines. A riverbend — narrow, fast, practically hidden. Huh. The Ravaryn Pass, it was. I leaned closer, squinting. The supply line was drawn dangerously close to it.

"If you hit from here," I mumbled, nudging a wooden piece sideways, "and block the exit there... you could box them in."

Nyx whinnied, then promptly sat on a log, looking pleased with himself. I stared at the map, then at him.

"No. Absolutely not. I am not helping the enemy. I'm just... being nosy."

Nyx farted in response. That little-

And then, naturally, that was when Erra reappeared. Silent, towering, unimpressed. "Should I be worried?"  He said holding a scroll, arms crossed, war-beast of a man with the patience of a saint and the energy of a man about to commit war crimes just to shut us up.

He looked between me, the wine-soaked table, Nyx sitting like a deranged philosopher, and the suspicious guard now limping slightly from his horse-related accident.

"What," Erra said, voice low, "are you doing?"

"Critiquing your décor," I said sweetly, gesturing to the chaos.

He walked over, glanced at the map, and stilled. His eyes flicked to the wooden piece I'd moved. Then the riverbend. Then to me.

"You noticed this?"

"Noticed is a strong word. I drunkenly pointed at it with a bone and made sound effects."

His jaw ticked. "It's... actually viable."

"Of course it is," I beamed. "Accidental genius is my specialty."

Nyx tossed his head and flopped over onto his side with all the drama of a dying opera singer. The suspicious guard muttered something that sounded like a prayer to whatever gods hated me.

Erra pinched the bridge of his nose. I could practically hear his thoughts.

Why? Why did I not throw her in a dungeon? Why is she useful? Why is the horse licking the tent post? Why do I exist?

I took another sip of wine and leaned closer, putting on my most innocent face.

"So, when this works and you're crowned victorious warlord of doom, do I get a castle or a statue or..."

"You'll get nothing," he said flatly.

"Rude," I said, "but fair. Just give me your kingdom."

Erra didn't speak. He just stared. Long enough that I thought perhaps I'd gone too far. Or perhaps he'd finally realized poisoning me would be easier. Then—

"That plan... might actually work." He said ignoring the joke.

"You sound surprised." I said hilariously.

"I am." He raised his eyebrows.

"You're welcome." I smirk.

"You're also intoxicated." He gave me the most tired-but-entertained glare I'd ever seen.

"I do my best work that way." I add in smug.

Another long pause. Then something dangerous flickered at the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you, Princess," he said, voice low and far too amused. "I'll be sure to credit your military brilliance when I send you back to your father wrapped in a blanket of stolen glory."

"You'll do no such thing," I sniffed. "You need me."

"I need silence." He sighed.

"You need therapy," I muttered.

He turned away, but not before I saw the way his mouth twitched again—just barely. Not quite a smile. But dangerously close.