Chapter Text
The tavern at the edge of the Sunken Vales smelled of wet dog, stale ale, and desperation. It was exactly the kind of place where a runaway prince should never set foot.
For Jude, however, it was the sweet scent of freedom. He sat in the darkest corner of the taproom, a heavy, moth-eaten wool cloak pulled low over his face to hide his striking features and the silver streaks in his dark hair—the undeniable mark of the Royal House of Bellingham.
Beneath the rough fabric, he still wore a silk tunic he hadn’t had the foresight to change, and his boots were crafted from leather too fine for the muddy roads of the Vales. He was a beacon of wealth in a room full of cutthroats, playing at being a common traveler.
He took a sip of the bitter ale, wincing at the taste, but a thrill raced through his veins. He had done it. He had slipped past the Royal Guard, scaled the Ivy Wall, and left the suffocating gold-caged life of the palace behind. No more politics. No more arranged betrothals. No more King Mark dictating his every breath.
"You're drinking that like it's poison, boy." Jude froze. Three men had boxed him into his corner. They wore rusted chainmail and carried weapons that looked well-used. The leader, a man with a jagged scar across his nose, slammed a dirty hand onto Jude's table.
"Those are awfully nice boots for a lad traveling alone," the scarred man sneered, his eyes dropping to Jude’s feet, then back up to the silver clasp holding Jude's cloak together.
"Why don't you hand over the clasp, the boots, and whatever coin purse you’re hiding under there? We’ll let you walk out with your skin." Jude’s hand instinctively drifted toward the short sword at his hip—a ceremonial blade, sharp, but he had never used it in a real fight. His heart hammered against his ribs. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and entirely out of his element. Before Jude could draw his weapon, the heavy wooden doors of the tavern kicked open with a deafening *crash*.
The freezing wind howled into the room, but the cold was nothing compared to the silence that instantly fell over the tavern. A giant of a man stood in the doorway. He was clad in dark, battered leather armor reinforced with blackened steel plates. A massive broadsword was strapped to his back, the hilt worn smooth from years of use. Ice clung to his blonde hair, and his pale blue eyes swept the room with the casual, terrifying indifference of an apex predator.
He was a mercenary. A sellsword. And by the sheer size of him, a highly lethal one. Erling stepped inside, pulling the doors shut behind him, cutting off the howling wind. He didn't look at the bartender. He didn't look at the patrons scrambling to get out of his way. His eyes locked directly onto the corner where Jude was cornered.
Under his armor, hidden in a secret leather pouch, sat a king’s ransom in heavy gold coins, bearing the seal of King Mark. His orders had been absolute: Find the Prince. Do not bring him back. He will only run again. Travel with him. Keep him breathing. And if he discovers who sent you, you will hang.
Erling walked slowly across the creaking floorboards, his heavy boots echoing in the dead silence of the tavern. He stopped right behind the three bandits threatening Jude.
"You're standing in my light," Erling said. His voice was a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. The scarred leader turned, puffing out his chest to compensate for the fact that he had to crane his neck to look the mercenary in the eye.
"We're busy here, northman. Find another table." Erling didn't draw his sword. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply reached out with terrifying speed, grabbed the scarred man by the leather straps of his armor, and hurled him across the room like a ragdoll. The bandit crashed through a wooden table, splintering it into a dozen pieces, and didn't get back up.
The other two bandits stared at their unconscious leader, then looked up at Erling, who was now casually cracking his knuckles. They didn't wait for an invitation. They scrambled over the wreckage and bolted out the back door into the freezing night.
The tavern remained dead silent. Erling turned his pale gaze down to Jude, who was still gripping the hilt of his ceremonial sword under his cloak, his dark eyes wide with a mix of awe and lingering adrenaline. Erling pulled out the chair opposite Jude and sat down, making the wood groan under his weight.
He signaled the terrified bartender for a drink, then leaned forward, resting his massive, calloused hands on the table.
"You hold your sword like a nobleman who's never had to use it," Erling observed dryly, his accent thick and northern. "You wear silk under a beggar's cloak, and you carry silver in a tavern where men cut throats for copper."
Jude swallowed hard, trying to project a royal authority he no longer technically possessed. "I didn't ask for your help."
"I didn't offer it for free," Erling lied smoothly, accepting a mug of ale from the trembling bartender. He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving Jude's face.
"The roads ahead are crawling with raiders, monsters, and worse. A stray noble like you won't last three days in the Vales before ending up in a ditch." Jude bristled at the word 'stray', pulling his cloak tighter around himself.
"I am not a stray. I know exactly where I am going."
"Good. Then you can pay me to make sure you actually get there," Erling replied flatly, setting his mug down. "My blade is for hire. You need a guard dog, and I need coin. Seems like an easy arrangement."
Jude hesitated, studying the scarred, dangerous man sitting across from him. Every survival instinct told him that traveling with a ruthless mercenary was a terrible idea. But as he looked at the shattered table across the room, another instinct told him that traveling alone was a guaranteed death sentence.
He had no idea this 'chance encounter' had been orchestrated weeks in advance in the war room of his own father.
"Fine," Jude said, raising his chin defiantly. "But I give the orders. And you walk five paces behind me." A faint, mocking smirk touched the corner of Erling's mouth.
"Whatever you say, Your Highness." Jude's blood ran cold.
"What did you just call me?"
"A figure of speech," Erling replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his massive arms. "Don't flatter yourself, kid. We leave at first light."