The Princess’s Bodyguard Can’t Say No

Later

They moved through the crooked stalls slowly. Smoke from burnt firewood curled through the air, thick with the scent of stale bread, copper, and the faint tang of sour ale.

The market of Eelry was a patchwork of desperation—canvas tarps sagging under morning dew, merchants hawking dented pots or wilted herbs, their voices hoarse from years of shouting into indifference.

A woman with a scarred cheek offered "blessed" amulets carved from bone, her eyes darting nervously toward a group of loiterers by a boarded-up tavern.

Overhead, frayed prayer flags fluttered, their faded glyphs invoking gods no one seemed to believe in anymore.

Asthia paused at a weaponsmith's table, her fingers brushing a chipped dagger with a hilt wrapped in cracked leather.

The blade was dull, its edge pitted from years of neglect, but she turned it slowly, as if weighing its worth.

Reth stood close behind, his scarf pulled high over his chin, eyes scanning the crowd through the haze.

Beneath the market's clamor, he caught fragments of conversation—bartered prices, whispered curses, a child's wail cut short by a sharp word.

Behind them, two scrappers leaned against a crumbling wall, their voices low but careless, haggling over a rusted breastplate pitted with age. Their clothes were mismatched—leather patches sewn with fishing twine, boots caked in gray mud from the roads beyond Eelry's gates.

"—I'm telling you, it's real. Silver hair. Red eyes. Hard to miss," the taller one said, scratching at a scab on his knuckles.

"You sure? What's she even doing in Graykeep?" the other replied, his voice skeptical but greedy. He clutched a clay pipe, its bowl unlit.

"No idea. Got sent here by imperial order. But the bounty just went up this morning. I see a pattern."

Reth stiffened, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak. The [System] pinged faintly, unprompted:

[Threat Perception Lv. 1.2 – Hostile Intent: Low but Rising]

[Environmental Note: Public Sentiment – Anti-Imperial, Volatile]

The second scrapper scoffed, spitting into the dirt. "You mean that witch? The Ninth Flame? You'd have to be suicidal. What's the price?"

The first leaned closer, voice dropping to a rasp. "Hundred fifty thousand. Dead or alive. And she's not alone. Traveling with some thrall—no name, no crest. Fifty grand if you drag his corpse in."

Asthia's hand paused on the dagger, her grip tightening for a fraction of a second. Reth caught the subtle shift in her posture—not panic, but preparation. Her thumb brushed the edge of her cloak, where one of her daggers was hidden. She set the blade down with deliberate calm, her red eyes flicking briefly to the weaponsmith, who was too busy sharpening a cleaver to notice.

"Time to leave?" Reth murmured, his voice barely audible over the market's din.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Quietly."

They slipped into a side street, their pace quickening but not rushed, blending into the flow of foot traffic.

Reth kept close, hand near his blade, eyes scanning every face. "We should leave the town."

Asthia didn't answer right away. She led them through a narrow alley lined with broken crates and old bedding, past a drunk slumped against the wall, snoring into his own vomit.

Then she said flatly, "No."

He looked at her. "No?"

"There's more here. You heard them—Graykeep's crawling with scum. I want to see how deep this hole goes."

"We're being hunted. You want to take a tour?"

She turned, eyes sharp. "A hundred and fifty thousand. For me. Fifty for you. You think this bounty came out of nowhere? Someone in the capital wants us gone, and badly. I want to know who's watching."

"You want to flush them out."

"I want leverage."

Reth cursed under his breath, but didn't argue.

They moved deeper into the alleys, turning left where a dead dog lay stiff under a sheet of burlap, then right through a crumbling arch where the stone turned damp. The ground sloped. The noise faded.

Soon, they came to a rusted iron grate. One half was pried open, just wide enough to slip through. The passage beyond was dark, lit faintly by the orange glow of torches hooked into wet walls.

The smell hit first—stale piss, wet iron, and the sour stink of too many people packed too tight for too long.

"Underground market," Asthia said, matter-of-fact.

"You've been here before?" Reth asked.

She shook her head. "But I know the signs."

They stepped inside.

The place was low-ceilinged, stone and brick eaten away by time and rot. Makeshift tables were set up between pillars.

Some sold weapons—cheap, stolen, or cursed. Others sold powders, vials, or faded relics of gods no one worshipped anymore.

One stall had a crate of rotten books with wards burned off. Another offered cages—rats, birds, even a scrawny imp with its mouth sewn shut.

Everyone here looked like they'd kill for half a loaf. Or maybe already had.

Reth kept his head down. Asthia didn't. She scanned faces like she was memorizing them.

A man with no nose tried to offer her a "protection talisman"—really just a coin nailed to a scrap of leather. She didn't even slow down.

"You looking for anything specific?" Reth asked, low.

"No," she said. Then, "Yes. Information."

They stayed for another hour.

Asthia poked through shadowed corners and back stalls, traded a few quiet words with sellers too paranoid to give straight answers, even offered a few silver pieces for names that didn't exist. But nothing useful came. No mention of the bounty. No talk of High Houses or traitors or Smiling Hosts.

Just old blood and desperation.

Eventually, she stopped at the edge of the market, eyes narrowed, jaw set tight.

"Waste of time," she muttered, wiping her hand on her cloak like she wanted to rid herself of the place's filth.

Reth leaned against a cracked column, watching a rat skitter across a stained wall. "You expecting more rats with manners?"

She didn't smile.

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then tilted his head. "How about something else, then? I heard a few locals talking—there's an auction house up near the east end of the quarter. Aboveground. Cleaner air. Real seats, even."

She shot him a look. "You want to buy junk now?"

"No," he said. "But I hear they bring in weird stuff. Could be nothing. Could be worth the walk. Or…" He shrugged. "Could just be better than watching you scowl at rats."

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

She sighed. "Fine. If it's boring, I'm throwing you in the next barrel I see."

"I'll take my chances."

They turned back through the tunnel, steps quicker now. The stink faded as they climbed, until the streets above greeted them again with cracked stones and cold morning haze.

Reth pulled his scarf higher.

"Where exactly is this auction house?"

"East wall," he said. "Some broken manor with a green flag. The guy I overheard said 'look for the one guarded by people who don't smile.'"

Asthia arched a brow. "Sounds charming."

He grinned. "That's why I thought of you."