Braizen looks at his friend sharply, then chuckles. “Even more so than I remember.” For a fleeting moment, he seems almost forlorn. Then one of his men strides toward him and offers him a drink. Instantaneously, he’s back to broad smiles and cocky laughter. He doesn’t look at me again for the rest of the night.

My stomach growls as I toss and turn, trying to find comfort on the hard ground. The coarse woolen cloth Torrent threw over me falls to one side, and I can't pull it back up because I’m tied up like cattle. Braizen was right about the cold. I’m in a frozen daze despite my struggles. I’ve grunted and produced dozens of muffled pleas to whichever guards are on watch, and they’ve all blatantly ignored me. Some even mocked me.

“Pretty princess isn’t used to the dirt now, is she?” “What’s the matter, Your Highness? No servants to answer your every beck and call?”

Others opt for shorter insults. I hear that I and all Verdana are the enemies of Baelliles. That my people deserve an icy death for the suffering we’ve caused.

How moronic these brigands truly must be to believe such lies. Twelve years ago, Baelliles started the current war, the latest in the centuries-long conflict that brings our kingdoms nothing but pain. They solidified a barbaric course that no diplomacy could ever change. They’re monsters, all of them. And their rulers, the Brader line, are the worst of all.

Braizen must be deep in the woods that lie across the clearing. He replaced Lorna about an hour ago, and I suspect he won’t return for a while. Torrent and his friend are watching me now. The friend is called Lin. Or Speck. I’m not sure.

They whisper to each other, laugh every few minutes, and then gaze at me only to laugh harder. I hate feeling so weak. How much weaker are these people, though? There must be ten of them and only one of me, and yet, they act as if I’m an entire army by myself. I straighten my shoulders against the rough ground. I shuffle again, and the cover completely drops away. I groan and curl my fingers underneath me. Gathering strength, I flip myself onto my side, push my rear back, then thrust forward. I inch along like a pitiful worm, determined to get the blanket. The men are now howling, but I don’t care. I’m enraged, and I’m cold. I inch further… further. I touch the cloth.

My fingers stop as I hear a distant crack. I arch my head and peer past the firelight, past the clearing, and towards the distant dark tree line. The trees stand silent and still. The men continue to hurl insults my way. I squint into the dark for a long moment but don’t hear anything. I lower my head, trying to relieve the pressure on my neck. Once again, I contort myself in my vain attempt to cover myself. I concentrate all my will on my fingers.