Chapter 4: Tight-Lipped Women

The horse ride was killing me so I didn't have much space in my head to think about other potential problems. And if I ever thought about anything besides my sore ass, it was this ridiculous Law of the Road thing.

 

But there was another issue that from time to time pushed to the surface of my thoughts just from being around them constantly.

 

My party members.

 

Corinne and Vashira.

 

The issue was: are they even capable?

 

Garreth paired me with them, but to whose benefit? Clearly theirs—no question about it. They're his daughters in the end. I'd relied on his expertise when it came to mercenaries since he was one, or used to be.

 

The bottom line was: he knew my worth. He knew I'd be an asset. The untested question was whether his daughters were the best option for me.

 

I watched them.

 

Vashira rode ahead, and every time she pulled the reins, the muscles in her forearms rolled under sun-browned skin—thick, roped. CrossFitter vibe, if I had to put a word to it.

 

Corinne was taller—my height—and even nimbler than her sister. She handled the horse automatically, effortlessly, one hand on the reins while the other rested loose on her thigh. I caught her hands when she adjusted her grip. Calluses. Minor scars across the knuckles. Fingernails like a manual laborer's—short, blunt.

 

Absolutely no makeup in any shape or form on either of them.

 

I'd still fuck them if I were a straight man, no question.

 

I'd fuck them if I were a lesbian.

 

I could still fuck them if they were lesbians and there was any merit in fucking them.

 

To me, they looked like the real-deal adventurers.

 

But who was I to actually judge it? What if they're just dumb bitches waiting to get mugged by the first real bandits?

 

Well, I suppose then I'd join those bandits and rethink my options.

 

Got some answers that very same day.

 

Dusk hit and the road went quiet.

 

Nothing felt out of the ordinary to me, but Corinne's inhuman ears flickered—like a cat or a deer catching something on the wind.

 

Vashira tensed and drew her sword and shield.

 

She was so loud.

 

No—not that she was loud. Everything else was just quiet.

 

Wrong quiet. I got it then. The birds stopped. The insects stopped.

 

The horses heard it before we did.

 

Both mares screamed simultaneously—sharp, terrified. Vashira's horse reared so hard it nearly flipped backward. Corinne's spun sideways, hooves cracking against stone.

 

Then the chittering started.

 

From everywhere.

 

I spun. Couldn't locate it. Sound bouncing off trees, off the road, off my own skull. Like static layered over screaming.

 

Corinne's horse snapped its tie. The rope shredded like thread and the mare bolted straight into the tree line—branches cracking, gear bouncing off its flanks.

 

"Gibberlings," Corinne said it the way someone says "fire" in a crowded theater. Calm. Flat. But absolutely fucking terrified underneath—I could sense it, because I felt that myself!

 

Vashira was already wrestling her horse sideways, trying to keep the thrashing mare from crushing her against a tree. The horse went wild—rearing, slamming its hooves down, nearly catching Vashira in the shoulder. The mare broke free and bolted down the road, saddlebags bouncing.

 

Then I saw them. A mass of pale flesh and black hair pouring out of the tree line.

 

Dozens.

 

Grinning faces with black eyes that had no right to look that happy. Long arms dragging on the ground, some of them clutching crude weapons—knives, daggers, a short sword, maybe. Or just clubs.

 

Fucking monkeys! Furry little shits!

 

They fucking swarmed us! A wall of screaming meat coming at us from three directions.

 

I might have pissed myself a little.

 

But I had this. This was it. You were either a fantasy witch in a magical world, or you were dead.

 

And I wasn't keen on dying.

 

Not now. Not ever!

 

I was already incanting my own atomic bomb, the most powerful magic I'd managed to learn during my months at the Keep.

 

The words and hand gestures needed to be exact or it would never happen.

 

So no pressure. Just a horde of little motherfuckers storming me!

 

I spilled a pinch of fine sand at the exact moment to complete the incantation. It poured out of me. Not a whisper, not a scream—a current. The spell had shape and I gave it direction, pointed it at the center mass like aiming a hose. The energy knew what to do. I just had to let it.

 

The wave hit the center mass.

 

Bodies dropped. One moment they were shrieking, the next they were collapsing mid-stride—pale limbs folding under them like puppets with cut strings. Fifteen, maybe twenty. I couldn't count. They just went down, piled on each other, twitching in sleep they didn't deserve.

 

Brad, you small-dick, manchild, useless piece of shit motherfucker—you were right. Sleep spell was the fucking best AOE in "early game."

 

Well. Game on.

 

And the rest of this apelike filth didn't stop.

 

Didn't even slow down.

 

That was the horror. No pause. No "oh shit, half the swarm just dropped." The remaining ten—or fifteen, or however many—kept coming with the same mindless, grinning frenzy. They stepped over their sleeping kin. Some stepped *on* them.

 

Waking some up!

 

Vashira met the first wave head-on. Her sword came up and down, up and down. No wasted motion. She caught a gibberling mid-leap. The blade took it through the chest. She kicked it off her sword without breaking stance.

 

Thank god. Gods. My angel. Whatever. She actually knew how to fight!

 

Another one lunged. She pivoted, cut downward, removed the motherfucker's arm. It kept crawling toward her with the one it had left.

 

She didn't flinch. Just bashed its skull with her shield.

 

*Okay. She's capable.*

 

I'd cast Mage Armor on myself earlier that day. It probably still held.

 

Hard to track time without a clock!

 

So after Sleep, I was out of big guns.

 

A gibberling-thing broke from the right. I hit it with the same power I killed Borys.

 

They had a name for it here. Mind Sliver.

 

It was actually a minor spell, a cantrip.

 

Not because I was less powerful in this reality than on Earth, but because magic was a thing here, so all creatures were more used to it.

 

And more resistant.

 

Made sense, I supposed.

 

Didn't help my victim, though. The psychic spike lanced out and its skull rattled—that barely-there brain scrambling inside bone. It stumbled. Kept coming. Stumbled again. Dropped.

 

One down. Too many left.

 

Corinne was on it.

 

She sidestepped a charging gibberling, let its own momentum carry it past, and opened its throat in a single backhand stroke. Two more came at her together. She gave ground—one step, two—then drove her pommel into the first one's face and cut the second across the belly.

 

Guts hit the dirt. The thing kept trying to crawl.

 

Corinne stomped its skull open. She was already tracking the next one.

 

I hit another with Mind Sliver. It shrieked and collapsed.

 

I'm not gonna lie. I was getting more and more into it.

 

They weren't even people. I mean, not like people. Or, I don't know. Elves, I suppose?

 

They were just annoying animals. Pests.

 

I fucking hated pests.

 

But putting them down?

 

That was actually invigorating.

 

My head was pounding. I could taste copper.

 

That D&D nonsense about magic users shooting magic without any downsides beyond burning through their slots for the day? Bullshit, straight out the bull's ass!

 

The last three rushed Vashira together. She batted aside one sword, took a claw across the forearm that opened her sleeve and the skin underneath, and buried her blade in the lead gibberling's throat. Corinne came in from the side and took the second. The third threw itself at me.

 

I flinched.

 

Mage Armor held. The impact bounced off the invisible barrier like it had hit a wall. The gibberling rebounded, stunned for half a second.

 

Corinne's sword took its head off.

 

Vashira wiped her blade on a dead gibberling's mane. Blood ran down her forearm from the claw wound. She didn't seem to notice.

 

Corinne scanned the treeline. Sword still up. Still ready.

 

*They're capable,* I thought. *They're very fucking capable.*

We stood in the dark surrounded by twitching bodies and the stink of gibberling blood. My head was splitting, but I cast Light anyway.

 

Because we needed it.

 

And because I wanted to see how sleeping motherfuckers would die when I finished them off one by one with my spells!

 

"We need the horses," Corinne said, as she and her sister joined me in finishing off the unconscious gibberlings.

 

No shit.

 

Didn't find them that night.

 

Didn't find them the next day either.

 

We actually walked to the nearest town on foot.

 

So Ostwick happened to be the first city I'd visited in this world.

 

Without money. And in the company of two horseless women who, even if they'd had any cash yesterday, today were as broke as I was.

 

But at least my companions were capable muscle. They could really swing those swords, I supposed.

 

So it could've been worse.

 

It shouldn't have surprised me that Ostwick's market was a bazaar-style affair—dozens of merchants hawking their goods, encouraging potential buyers, screaming over each other.

 

"Silk! Pure silk from the southern coast!"

 

I stopped. Touched the fabric. The sheen was wrong—flat, single-toned, more like cheap satin than real silk. I bunched it in my fist. Let go. The wrinkles stayed. Real silk bounces back. This stuff had the drape of a lining fabric. Back home I'd use it to wrap a gift, not wear it.

 

Six gold for a scarf.

 

Undergarments. A woman selling linen shifts, properly cut, with stitching that wasn't garbage. I held one up. Soft enough. Eight silver.

 

A tailor's stall with fitted dresses. A leatherworker selling women's gloves. Bone combs at one silver each.

 

I touched everything. Bought nothing. Every merchant's smile faded when I moved to the next stall.

 

Perfumes. An old man with tiny glass vials of rosewater and something musky. I uncorked one. Closed my eyes. For a second I was back in my bathroom. My real bathroom.

 

Five gold. For rosewater.

 

Next stall—pigments. Berry wax lip color in a clay pot. Two silver. Almond kohl. Three silver. A woman grinding something with a mortar and pestle, selling it by the pinch. I tested the lip color on my wrist. Streaky. Under-pigmented.

 

Still fucking wanted it.

 

I needed my own gold. Fast.

 

A girl brushed past me at the pigment stall—young, pretty, with kohl already smudged under her eyes. She dropped three coppers on the counter, took the same berry wax lip color I'd just been fondling, and disappeared into the crowd.

 

I watched her go. The direction she walked. Toward the south side of the market, where the upper-floor windows had red cloth hanging.

 

Brothels. Of course.

 

Ostwick had maybe a few thousand people. For me it was a village. By this world's standards it was a town—a trade town. And a trade town like this probably had more than one brothel. All those merchants, all those caravans, all those men with coin and nowhere to spend it.

 

Locals wanted a piece of that.

 

Local girls wanted a piece of that.

 

And merchants wanted a piece of ass.

 

Open free market at its finest.

 

Every working girl needed lip color, kohl, perfume, linen shifts. And they were the ones who could actually afford it.

 

That's who this market was really for. Not noblewomen. Not merchant wives.

 

Well, I wasn't a fucking spellcaster, a fucking sorceress, to be outdone by common village whores!

 

I looked around for my companions.

 

My party members.

 

Found them near the south end of the market, at a cart stacked with traveling gear—saddlebags, rope, flint, waxed canvas.

 

Vashira was doing the talking. Arms crossed, weight on one hip, head tilted like she was sizing the man up for a fight.

 

Like she was constantly trying to die a virgin.

 

She was a virgin. That much came out when we'd discussed the whole Law of the Road debacle again. Trying to hit on Garreth Vane's daughter meant you had to get through him to get at any of his little princesses. Whatever daddy issues blondie might've had, it was clear Garreth had been cockblocking every guy in her life since she was young.

 

Obviously the same Garreth Vane had no moral qualms about getting some from any other man's daughter.

 

Men are men. Simple as that. Abandon all logic.

 

Corinne wasn't so open about her experiences, which made sense. No point in telegraphing. I kept having to remind myself she only looked twenty-ish, but she was older than me. A grown woman in a world of swords, sorcery, unshaven pubes, and armpits.

 

And Road marriages.

 

"The eastern pass. How far to the mines from the fork?" Vashira continued to interrogate a guy who just wanted to sell her some gear.

 

The merchant held up fingers. "Three days if the weather holds. Four if the mules bog down."

 

"Bandits?" Corinne leaned in.

 

He shrugged. "Seen fewer carts coming back than going. Draw your own conclusions."

 

The sisters hadn't shut up about the mines since we left the Kindly Rest. Every cart, every merchant, every poor bastard within earshot got the same interrogation.

 

Not once had either of them stopped at a perfume stall.

 

Fucking tomboys. I wouldn't be fucking surprised if I caught them pissing standing up.

 

"I'm sure we can get work as escorts for some merchant heading in the direction of the mines," Corinne filled me in as I joined them.

 

That had legs. The sisters had been in this trade for some time—Corinne especially.

 

But if we traveled from here without cash, I wouldn't be able to buy anything.

 

I didn't argue. I nodded, but also added: "We could also look for some local work."

 

Corinne considered, then inclined her head. Vashira rolled her eyes. "Fine."

 

What the fuck was wrong with that girl?

 

Anyway.

 

Ostwick had a substantial hospitality sector due to being a vital trade hub for the local economy. Multiple taverns. All geared toward visitors—locals drank elsewhere without fancy liquor and inflated prices.

 

Even places that weren't brothels had working ladies freelancing.

Because the town was so saturated with whores, no one tried to catcall my companions. With options like that, harassing armed women didn't seem like a good idea.

 

Plus, considering our predicament, our sweat-stained asses weren't standing out so much in a room full of professionals offering their services.

 

But on the other hand, that meant if someone actually wanted to approach us, it wasn't because he wanted a piece of something we weren't about to sell.

 

Well, if not for my tomboy escort, I'd easily get myself a drink and dinner on someone else's dime. I was sure of that.

 

"Um… Yuna, I don't think we can afford this place," Vashira said conspiratorially when we entered the fanciest tavern in town.

 

"I don't think we can afford any place," Corinne clarified, but kept it cool.

 

I gave them a confident look, as a true leader should.

 

They didn't show the slightest sign that they opposed my position right now.

 

They also wanted a solution.

 

And leadership was just that—the ability to project a path to a solution.

 

But a leader didn't just need to sell her followers on the plan.

 

She also needed to be shameless enough to believe it herself.

 

And I believed it.

 

I'd wasted enough evenings of my past life on boring D&D sessions to know that a tavern floor was the best place for potential quests.

 

Some jerk slapped the waitress's ass so hard she stumbled…

 

Tray full of drinks and all…

 

Looked like they'd land on me and the sisters.

 

Not on my fucking watch.

 

I cast Shape Water—yet another cantrip I'd mastered during my months at the Keep. My angel was right. I was a natural-born magician, and doing magic felt natural.

 

So right.

 

Ale and wine froze solid midair—ruby and amber shards that bounced off our clothes and shattered on the floor.

 

Not only did the liquid freeze—the whole fucking tavern froze, staring at us.

 

I smirked.

 

Now that's an entrance.

 

We sat down.

 

And lo and behold, some kid zeroed in on us from across the tavern like we had a sign over our heads.

 

I knew what he saw. Three women who'd walked into town looking like they'd been dragged through a hedge, fought something in it, and lost their horses in the process.

 

Vashira's sleeve was still crusted with dried blood from the gibberling claw.

 

Corinne's cloak was torn at the hem.

 

As for me, I'd freshened up with a Prestidigitation cantrip, but God knows I needed a bath!

 

We looked like people who'd killed something recently and hadn't bothered to clean up after.

 

Apparently that was exactly what this idiot was looking for.

 

He crossed the room with a grin that had no business being that confident.

 

Young. Maybe twenty. Clean hands, clean nails. 

 

He smelled like perfume. Actual perfume.

 

A sword at his hip that was too ornate, too well-maintained. Riding boots that had never seen mud.

 

Handsome little shit. I'll give him that. Dark hair swept back, a jawline that belonged to a Vogue cover.

 

A privileged playboy type.

 

Wait… is that a noble?

 

He swept into a bow. Actual bow.

 

I glanced at the sisters. Vashira was impressed, Corinne not a fucking bit.

 

Ok, he is a noble.

 

"Ladies," he started politely. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but I find myself in desperate need of three women who look like they could ruin someone's evening."

 

He was a smooth fucking talker. I'd fucked so many boys like him that I wanted to vomit right then and there.

 

The waitress brought the wine I'd already ordered to our table before I'd figured out who would pay for it.

 

She didn't raise the issue when I ordered it. Not after our grand entrance.

 

But that was behind us now, since a sponsor had just graced us with his presence.

 

His eyes moved between us. Lingered on Vashira, Corinne's ears, and my cleavage. Back to my eyes. He grinned like he'd been caught stealing.

 

I took a sip.

 

"Is this a foursome proposition?" I smirked.

 

Vashira choked on her drink.

 

Corinne cleared her throat.

 

The boy opened his mouth, closed it, and then smiled.

 

Such a slimeball.

 

"I'm Dallin Lockley, and… I need protection. Stunning, intimidating, armed protection."

 

He looked at the three of us like we were exactly what he'd been praying for.

 

"What's the job?" asked Vashira.

 

"My friend is in a spot of trouble—misunderstanding with the local establishment. Three men are hunting her. Armed men."

 

Oh, so he was just a simp.

 

"What's the pay?" Corinne inquired.

 

"Three hundred gold."

 

I smiled.

 

Dallin led us through the back streets of Ostwick.

 

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Vashira snorted.

 

"'Cause this kind of pay for protection always means trouble," Corinne replied.

 

I did the math in my head myself. Something was fishy about it. I knew it. The sisters knew it. Dallin knew we knew it.

 

I didn't comment—didn't have to. Vashira and Corinne voiced their concerns but didn't argue about taking the job. They were adventurers, and that was the mindset. Take a big risk to earn big bucks. Work hard, play hard, that kind of thing.

 

Not exactly what I preferred in my past life, but I understood it well enough. In the end I'd been about to get killed in my mid-thirties, and only my magic powers had saved me before my angel snatched me out of there.

 

So in this life, I'd decided to be more proactive. Take more risks. Besides, my girls and I had just swept three or four dozen gibberlings yesterday. We were capable.

 

We found Dallin's sweetheart outside a boarded-up warehouse near the east gate. Leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting for hours and wanted us to know it.

 

Tall, raven-haired, sharp-jawed. Late twenties maybe, but working hard to look early twenties. She wore a dress that was trying to be elegant and landing on "available." Rings on three fingers. None of them matched.

 

Her eyes went to Dallin first. Warm. Proprietary. The way you look at something you own.

 

Then her eyes went to us. First the sisters, then me. Back to Dallin. Her jaw tightened for exactly one second before she caught it and rearranged her face into something pleasant.

 

"Dallin. I see you've found your… protectors," she said, looking at me again.

 

"I have! This is—"

 

"I didn't ask for names." She cut him off without looking away from me. "I asked for swords."

 

Her eyes stayed on mine. Assessing. I knew that look. I'd given that look. She was calculating whether I was competition for the resource she was milking.

 

And I was.

 

I smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

 

"You hired women," she said to him. Flat.

 

"You have a problem with that?" Vashira asked In no-bullshit fashion. Being a female adventurer, she probably got this kind of crap a lot, and her tone indicated she wasn't going to take it from anyone—especially not another woman.

 

Obviously Vashira totally misread the situation. Dallin's chick wasn't doubting our capabilities—on the contrary, she instinctively viewed us as competition.

 

Me in particular.

 

As she should.

 

Because small-tits gals like her should know their place in the pecking order!

 

I watched her work through it. The jealousy was real—sharp, instinctive. She didn't want other pussy near her meal ticket. I'd seen it a hundred times in corporate wives at Christmas parties. The way they'd circle their husbands when a new secretary walked in.

 

The tight smile—If their other lips were that tight, they wouldn't have to worry!

 

But this one was smart enough to recalculate. She knew Dallin's weakness because she'd exploited it herself. Pretty women made him stupid. If three pretty women were standing here, it was because Dallin's dick had done the hiring.

 

Not a threat to her gig. Just more tools in the box.

 

Her shoulders relaxed. The smile came back. Real this time.

 

"Well." She pushed off the wall. "I suppose I should explain the situation."

 

She looked at the three of us like a manager briefing contractors.

 

"Three men are coming for me. Merchants. They claim I wronged them—lies, of course. The ravings of bitter, grasping men. They will arrive soon, and they will threaten me. Your job is simple: dispose of them when they do."

 

Vashira snorted, looked at me, then at her sister. Our read of the situation was identical. This was assassination work. Dark alley, evening—somehow merchants were going to 'arrive' here to 'threaten' her.

 

Definitely not her setting up an ambush on them in a dark alley. No, no.

 

I inclined my head, smiled at her and Dallin. "We will act as your guard, with all that it involves—such as 'disposing' of threats to your life. For the agreed price." I said it calmly and looked at Dallin. The sisters nodded slowly. It was clear to me they weren't happy with straight murder.

 

The woman smirked. "Good. And I would advise you—strike fast. Whatever you do, don't speak with them." She paused. Let that sit. "One of them is a mage. His mystic words can sway even the most wise of men. Or women."

 

I raised an eyebrow. So recruiting me in particular made even more sense now. Fight fire with fire, I supposed. That was Dallin's idea.

 

And yeah, that made sense. Don't let a mage get a word in. Obviously.

 

But then.

 

But then I'd said that exact phrase to Brad's lawyer once, before a meeting with a competitor's CFO. "Don't let him talk. Just get the signature." You say that when you know the other side's explanation will fuck your narrative.

 

I looked at her. She looked at me.

 

She knew I knew.

 

She didn't care. She thought I was just another greedy adventurer who'd take the money and swing the sword or spell.

 

I smiled at her again.

 

She smiled back.

 

We were both lying.

Chapter 3: The Law Of The Road

The road was a dirt track with ambitions—hence the name: The Drakeroad.

 

Wagon ruts carved deep by centuries of wheels, filled with mud that sucked at the horses' hooves with every step. I sat on a sack of grain in the back of the merchant's cart, bouncing on every rut like the sacks themselves.

 

The fat, red-faced merchant talked too much. But he had a wagon and was heading to my destination. So I made him feel like my favorite person in this world.

 

Forests pressed close on both sides of the road. Thick, dark, no hiking trails or park rangers. Real wilderness. The things that lived out there could eat you.

 

Real deal.

 

"Bandits have been hitting the trade road more and more," the merchant said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Used to be safe. Now? Not so much. Iron's worth blood now, lady. Literal blood." He winked as a horsefly bit him on the neck. He smashed it with the palm of his hand.

 

I couldn't help but smirk. No insects for me.

 

Another useful spell in A Lady's Companion to the Arts of Flesh and Bloom was Vermin's Last Favorite. A cantrip that worked a bit like a first-circle Shield spell.

 

Well, not exactly a shield from insects—more of a redirection of their appetite. As long as there was any other living creature next to me, flies, mosquitoes, bedbugs, lice, fleas—they'd prefer it. Him or her instead of me.

 

Horseflies preferred the merchant now.

 

By late afternoon, the trees thinned. Then a roof appeared above the treeline.

 

"That's the place," the merchant announced. "The Kindly Rest."

 

The most prominent building around this shithole—I mean, 'hamlet'—was a stone keep which housed the titular inn. This establishment was apparently a popular stop for people traveling on the Daggershore Road.

 

Daggershore—the region I was in, as I'd learned some time ago.

 

Apart from the inn, a wall surrounded a temple, a handful of houses, stables, and an accompanying horse pond.

 

A temple in the fantasy-world sense. The merchant explained that there was actually some witch-doctor—presumably a real magical practitioner—who could heal.

 

Not for free, though. It was a business, after all.

 

A sign hung above the door, painted with a faded pictogram of a tankard. Most common people in this world were probably illiterate, so signs with written words wouldn't make much sense, I supposed.

 

I hopped off the cart before it fully stopped. My legs ached. My ass ached. My everything ached.

 

But I was here.

 

Got inside the inn. Smoke, noise, the stale greasy warmth of too many bodies in a stone room.

 

Getting my clothes soaked by tobacco smoke—or whatever passed for tobacco here—wasn't fun for a lady. But then, when you're lacking every basic hygiene product, reeking of this instead of sweat, rot, or piss was probably better. I suppose.

 

I scanned the room.

 

Merchants at two tables near the hearth, their escorts clustered nearby—armed, drinking, not mixing with the locals. A handful of hamlet folk.

 

Then some types in the far corner who carried themselves like they'd killed things for money and would again tomorrow.

 

I'm not saying that was a fact—couldn't verify it, and it's not like I'm speaking from experience walking into fantasy taverns. Just speaking from the experience of being alive for over three decades and having seen some shit. People who want to look a certain way look that way. Simple as.

 

They could be adventurers—they could be cutthroats—hell, they could be one and the same.

 

Hotel lobby. That's what this was. Some generic chain near a major airport, the kind where businessmen in cheap suits drink overpriced beer while waiting for delayed flights. Except here the flights were caravans and the suits were armor.

 

Without being humble, I could fairly assume that even after months of luxury deprivation at Wickhold Keep, I was probably still the hottest specimen these guys had ever seen.

 

I was never humble, by the way.

 

I did what I could with my own hands and wits, with some help from my favorite title, A Lady's Companion, again. My hair was done up as well as I could manage after hours on the road. Robes open enough to give a decent preview of the cleavage, belt tightened to emphasize the round ass.

 

So. Considering my limited resources, I was dressed to kill.

The bartender was busy with men at the bar. But damn sure he noticed me the moment I entered. That was his job.

 

He was a big guy. A hot barista type.

 

How do guys in this world even get hot like that? Seriously. Even brushing your teeth was a challenge—I knew because I'd done it every day since I ended up in this world. And yet the scribes I fucked, this guy—they still managed to be hot.

 

A bit too hairy, but hot nevertheless.

 

He was too hot to be just a bartender here. The way he carried himself, scanning the place like he owned it. He probably actually did. I'd heard the owner of this place had been some adventurer himself back in the day. Apparently this was some "evil-doer" den he and his party had rescued.

 

That's some Western shit, but I dig it. Wouldn't mind "rescuing" a vital establishment for myself that way.

 

The guy had a sexy snow-white, decently trimmed beard and mustache. Damn, he was giving silver fox vibes.

 

Going by Earth logic, I'd say he was a fit, lean sixty-ish, maybe even sixty-plus. But hey, this was a medieval-ish world. He could be my age.

 

I walked over and addressed the guys gatekeeping access to the bar with their bulky frames.

 

"May I squeeze in?" I chirped in my heavily accented local—yes, it was actually called "Common." Couldn't be any other way, could it?

 

The one on the left turned. Eyes went straight to my face, then south, then back up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. His drink stopped halfway to his mouth.

 

His buddy was less subtle. Leaned back on his stool, looked me up and down like he was appraising livestock at auction. Slow. Thorough. Grinning the whole time.

 

A perfectly normal reaction, I'd expect. To be honest, the one I deserved after all the hard work I'd put into my look.

 

"Buy you a drink, love?" he said.

 

I let the corner of my mouth curl up.

 

"And what do you think I should drink, handsome?" I lied. As good a time as any to start building tolerance for whatever passed for a buzz in this world.

 

The first one laughed—loud, eager. His buddy stayed cool. Held up two fingers to the bartender without looking away from me.

 

The bartender chuckled.

 

"Someone's gonna pay for that," he promised, and pulled a bottle of something different from what those two had been drinking.

 

Which showed promise, since I really didn't fancy drinking something that smelled like urine.

 

I was kinky, but I had limits.

 

He poured me a glass of deep red liquid. Decent wine—I could smell it before the glass even touched my lips.

 

"Where you from, beautiful?" my sponsor pressed, smiling.

 

"Far away, no doubt," the bartender added in passing.

 

"You wouldn't believe me," I said, touching the glass to my lips and taking a sip.

 

That was actually more than decent wine.

 

"Wouldn't have lived this long if I believed every word from a beautiful woman's mouth," the bartender responded, polishing a tankard with a cloth.

 

"Need a travel companion?" asked my sponsor.

 

I smiled.

 

"And where would you like to travel?"

 

He grinned.

 

"Got a room upstairs. What do you think?"

 

I laughed.

 

"Good sir, I just arrived, and you're already asking if I'm up for an all-night ride?"

 

Now his friend laughed.

 

"I think you came on a little strong with that one."

 

"That's gonna be one gold," the bartender said simply to my sponsor. The other man choked on his drink with laughter.

 

I'd already figured out the local economy enough to know that was well above average for a drink—expensive territory, especially for a bloke who'd probably gushed himself in some one-silver or couple-coppers-worth ale.

 

Well. Me, myself, and I had no money. But I also wasn't about to fuck a guy for a drink. Not this guy, not his friend. So I decided this was a good time to flex some magic.

 

I slid my hand into my pocket to touch some phosphorescent moss I always kept there. I was about to cast Light—I could've used fireflies instead of moss, but I wasn't big on bugs, especially touching them!

 

I cast this spell damn near every day. It was that useful in a world without electricity. I wasn't about to kill my eyes and lungs with candlelight and smoke—fuck no.

 

Because of that, I was pretty proficient at pulling this trick off. A flawless gesture and a quick incantation, and my glass lit up with a glow colored red by the wine inside.

 

"Worth it," I said in passing, like I was just commenting on the drink price.

 

My sponsor's hand froze halfway to his ale. His buddy straightened on his stool.

 

The guy's eyes went from my chest to the glass to my face. Back to the glass. Processing.

 

He reached into his pouch. Dropped the gold on the bar without a word. His hand stayed on the bar after—not getting accidentally touchy-touchy this time. The perimeter had been redrawn.

 

His buddy picked up his own drink. Took a long pull. Eyes forward now, not on me.

 

The bartender chuckled and collected the coin. The tankard he'd been polishing went back on the shelf.

 

"That was a nice flex," he commented, picking up another. Started wiping. Watching me in the reflection of the glass behind the bar.

 

I took a sip.

 

The other guy finished his ale and slammed the tankard on the bar. Dropped a few coppers as well. He put a hand on my benefactor's shoulder.

 

"I've had enough. Marsh, see you tomorrow." He excused himself.

 

Marsh stayed until he finished his drink—he needed to save face. Then he fucked off too. I didn't object, since I had no use for that face. Not to look at, not even to sit on.

 

When he was gone, the bartender sighed.

 

"Poor sods."

 

I raised my glowing glass.

 

"Not that poor," I pointed out.

 

He laughed.

 

"The ladies they can afford don't look like you," he said calmly, then added, "ma'am."

 

Was this motherfucker calling me a whore? Regardless, I put on a feigned, sanctimonious, outraged face.

 

He didn't budge.

 

Cocky.

 

I took a sip. He smiled.

 

"Yeah, no point rushing it, I suppose," he teased. "Not until someone's paying for another drink."

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

"You think I can't pay for my drinks?"

 

He chuckled.

 

I finished my wine.

 

"I'm sure you can pay. But is it gold?" He raised an eyebrow too.

 

"Would you prefer another gold coin, if you could choose?"

 

He refilled my glowing glass.

 

"So…" he started casually, in passing. "You into the iron crisis?"

 

"In a sense," I answered, taking a sip.

 

"Been in the adventuring trade myself. But you already knew that," he said, working with glasses. I didn't know it—I'd deduced it. The inn was supposedly run by an ex-adventurer, and he was behind the bar looking like he owned it.

 

"Obviously," I said.

 

"Met some folk from the Sunrise Lands before. You're really far from home."

 

I'd read that term during my time at the Keep. It was the equivalent of "here be dragons" for the eastern part of the known world map.

 

"Map" was doing some heavy lifting there. These weren't actual blueprints—filled with symbolism and nonsense, scale totally off.

 

"Anyway, you're in luck," he continued. "There's a group arriving in a day or two. Decent souls," he explained.

 

I sipped my drink.

 

"That's a long time," I said. "You want me to burn money in your place, don't you?" I asked. Of course, I had no money of my own to burn—something he might or might not have known.

 

"Don't worry about it," he said.

 

"I'm not worried," I smiled.

 

He chuckled.

 

So the bartender was in fact the owner of this place—and by this place, I meant the whole Kindly Rest hamlet.

 

Garreth Vane was his name.

 

And he was a great fuck.

 

After the first night I could still chalk it up to being sensory deprived after months of playing with nerdy scribes who I had to teach everything and take the lead in everything. So when I was actually, for once, really taken, I could say it was just a body response.

 

So I fucked him a second night too.

 

He didn't disappoint.

 

Garreth was a yummy piece of meat—on the older side but still manly and bulky. He hobbled, thanks to some nasty injury that forced him to retire from adventuring, but he was no cripple.

 

Not at all.

 

He manhandled me and carried me in his arms like I was nothing—fucking me against the wall or in midair.

 

He was on the average side in the dick department, but he damn well knew how to use his tool. He fucked like a pro—playing with my tits, thumb in, all that good stuff.

 

And he knew how to eat pussy.

 

Somewhere between the first and second night in his bed, I had one of the best fucks of both my lives.

 

My silver fox was a true gentleman—always pulling out.

 

I took some other measures, following advice from A Lady's Companion. But after months spent with horny, selfish scribes, it was refreshing to have a mature partner.

 

So I rewarded my silver hunk with tit jobs and head, finishing with messy facials.

 

"You sure you're not a working girl?" he asked as I rested my head on his sweaty, hairy chest.

 

"Don't be an asshole, darling," I purred and bit his nipple. He laughed and slapped my ass. I huffed and put up minimal resistance as he manhandled me and fucked me doggy one last time.

 

The day after that night, the group Garreth mentioned arrived.

 

"Group" was generous. It was a pair. Two young women.

 

Armed women with real swords and gear. The blonde one walked like she owned whatever room she entered.

 

The other…

 

Pointed ears.

 

Not costume. Not prosthetics. Actual, real, slightly swept ears poking through copper hair.

 

I knew from the books and conversations at the Keep that this world had inhuman fantasy races like dwarves and elves, but seeing one was something else entirely. I tried not to stare.

 

Was she an elf or a half-elf?

 

"Hi, dad," the blonde said.

 

Dad.

 

Garreth smiled and looked at me. "Yuna, these are the adventurers I told you about—Vashira," he nodded at the blonde, then to the other, "and Corinne."

 

So she was half-elf. Garreth dipped his dick in nonhuman pussy. Of course he did.

 

"Oh, I'm sure 'talking' wasn't all you did," Vashira said mockingly.

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about, girl," Garreth lied.

 

He was shit at lying.

 

"Father…" the half-elf started carefully. "Your neck is covered in lovebites. Like… from last night."

 

Garreth bit his lip.

 

"Oh? That's bedbugs," he lied again, then shrugged. "Anyway—stop it, will you? Yuna is a magic user looking to join a fair group. I vouched for you."

 

"I'm sure you did, dad," Vashira rolled her eyes, but then focused on me and inclined her head in a nod.

 

"It is our pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Yuna," her half-elf sister said politely.

 

"Likewise," I nodded back, then looked at Garreth.

 

"So… pulling out wasn't always the case," I smirked.

 

Garreth cleared his throat.

 

"Oh, can you spare me the details?!" Vashira snarled with more annoyance than actual anger. She apparently knew her father well.

 

They both did.

 

"My sister is not wrong," Corinne looked at me calmly, then half-smiled at Garreth. "However, father, I'm relieved that you at least made an effort. I love my sister, but I'd rather not raise another sibling. Again…"

 

Sweet. There were some serious daddy issues here.

 

Marvelous.

 

I looked at them. They both looked about twenty-ish, but Corinne was apparently old enough to look after Vashira—probably due to some elven blood longevity. The half-elf could be my age or even older.

 

"Don't you worry," I said to them, and rolled my eyes hearing Garreth breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Asshole.

 

We moved out the same day.

 

Riding double was an education in suffering.

 

On the second day, my thighs screamed. My ass ached worse than the cart ride to the Kindly Rest. Every goddamn trot step sent a jolt through muscles I didn't know existed.

 

Vashira was behind me now—her turn to share a saddle. I'd been on Corinne's horse that morning, switching at midday to keep the animals fresh.

 

"You really can't ride," Vashira said.

 

We'd started talking today. The first day had been awkward—nothing but business, negotiating how we could help each other. Me being able to cast Light was already a dealmaker.

 

I wasn't thrilled. I knew what that meant—dungeons.

 

Well, we were going to the mines, so there was no other way, I suppose.

 

"Where I'm from, women of my station didn't ride," I said. "Carts, sedan chairs, carriages. Horses were for soldiers and messengers." I bullshitted my answer.

 

Corinne, riding alongside, tilted her head. "Truly? In all the Sunrise Lands?"

 

I pretended to look surprised. "Is it not like that here?"

 

They exchanged a look. Vashira shrugged.

 

"Fair enough."

 

I focused on not falling off.

 

"So," I said. "You're half-sisters. Care to share that story?"

 

"You met our father…" Corinne chuckled, then continued. "My mother was a young elf back then—well, a bit younger than now, I suppose," she clarified. "Father couldn't have been more than twenty, I think. They traveled together, and she was his Road Wife, so he kept collecting what he was entitled to take. And kept doing that… until I came along."

 

That made sense.

 

"He and my mother traveled for a few years, then he provided for me and her. When I was six or seven, she left—went back to her people."

 

Corinne said that like it was the most normal thing in the world. If I read the situation right—and I probably did—a halfbreed like her wasn't welcome among elves, and her mother was considered young even now.

 

But I still felt like I was missing something, so I pressed further.

 

"So she left Garreth and you?"

 

"She didn't leave. I mean… she just stopped adventuring with father. Went back to her people."

 

"Road marriage terminated. Simple as that," Vashira explained, then continued. "My mom was adventuring with dad when Corinne was already like…" she gave her sister a questioning look "Dunno, twenty?"

 

"I think I was just eighteen when she joined us. You were born a year and a half later."

 

"Yeah," Vashira nodded. "I remember Mom from when I was little. She died adventuring. Corinne looked after me since. Dad is… well," she chuckled, "not parent material."

 

"So… he never married since?" I asked.

 

"What? No—dad's a lawful guy, great adventurer. He married every woman in his party, every time," Vashira stated from behind me with some pride.

 

I was really missing something here.

 

"Wait, like… every single one? What if there's more than one woman in the party?"

 

"What about it?" she asked, confused. I looked at Corinne riding next to us, who was already giving me a confused look.

 

"Your father was married to multiple women at the same time?"

 

"He's an adventurer."

 

"So?"

 

"What do you mean, 'so'? He was married under the Law of the Road. I'm confused, Yuna," Vashira said honestly.

 

"Me too," Corinne added.

 

I was confused as fuck myself, so I asked:

 

"Never heard of this Law of the Road. Is it some local thing?" I turned on the horseback to look Vashira in the face, then at Corinne too.

 

They were dumbstruck.

 

"The Law of the Road," Vashira said slowly. "You don't have that where you're from?"

 

"No."

 

Corinne pulled her horse closer. "We assumed it was universal. Known everywhere adventurers travel."

 

"It isn't where I'm from."

 

Vashira exhaled through her nose. "Alright. The Law of the Road is how adventuring parties handle… relationships. A man and a woman—or a man and more than one woman—bond on the road. He's her Road Husband. She's his Road Wife. It gives her standing. Protection. Legitimacy. If she gets pregnant, the child is recognized as legitimate. Born in wedlock."

 

Okay.

 

Okay…

 

What the actual fuck?!

 

"He had obligations," Vashira continued. "Provision, protection, child support if it came to that. Couldn't abandon a Road Wife while she was pregnant—hardest rule there is. Break it, and you're an infamous—an oathbreaker. Social death. No guild contracts, no tavern service, no one parties with you. Your name is poison."

 

Okay. At least that. It made some sense. This was a pretty standard patriarchal, Dark Ages-style world, and women who took up adventuring were on the hook. That was actually kinda neat, in a way.

 

"And the ladies?" I asked.

 

"Fidelity," Corinne said. "Operational loyalty. Don't betray the party, don't take a second Road Husband behind his back. Don't desert him in the field."

 

Okay, so this was some fucking harem heaven for manchild fuckboy dickheads. This was where my "guardian" asshole angel dumped me.

 

Great.

 

Fucking great!

 

After a short rest, I was on Corinne's horse again.

 

We were still discussing the Law of the Road.

 

I was flabbergasted that I'd completely missed this in my readings at the Keep.

 

No—I didn't miss it. It was just never mentioned, not even in passing. Not because it wasn't important, but because it was so fundamental it went without saying. Like breathing.

 

It was like that… what did they call it in that Netflix show my boss watched on the bedroom projector after we fucked? The Law of Surprise. Something that passed as common knowledge for all inhabitants of the world.

 

That was total fantasy bullshit, of course.

 

But… I was in a fucking fantasy world now.

 

"Road marriage," Vashira was explaining. "It's not permanent like a household marriage. It dissolves—formally, before witnesses. Clean break. Both our mothers were free to."

 

"What if there's only one girl in a party full of guys?" I asked.

 

"Adventuring party has a leader. He takes it upon himself to be the Road Husband," said Corinne.

 

"And the rest? Just not fucking that girl?"

 

"Not if she's not into it. That would be rape, wouldn't it?" Vashira pointed out simply with a shrug. "Who would travel with a party like that?"

 

I processed that.

 

"What if the woman gets knocked up by another guy?"

 

Corinne shrugged.

 

"If a Road Wife gets pregnant, by law the father is her Road Husband."

 

"Yeah," Vashira smirked. "That's the reason you get some half-orc adventurers."

 

"Oh, shut up, little sister!" Corinne scoffed at her.

 

I didn't get the context.

 

Until I got it.

 

Oh fuck…

 

That wasn't such chauvinist dog shit after all. I mean, it was—but it had some actual use. The guy—party leader, merchant employer, mercenary commander, you name it—could have a harem of wives among his group. But if anything pregnancy-related happened to them…

 

Apparently anything.

 

The Road Husband was not only a legal father but also a cover. A way out with a face, without the stigma of shame.

 

And in many cases you never even fucked this guy—especially if you weren't hot or just didn't end up with someone like Garreth Vane.

 

That's what the sisters told me.

 

I was surprised when they said most guys weren't jerks about it. It wasn't a private harem first and foremost—it was a mercenary arrangement. Business. Involving people with weapons who knew how to fight and killed for a living. You didn't want to make enemies of your work colleagues or staff, I suppose.

 

I smirked.

 

I… kind of dug it.

 

Corinne looked at me sideways. "So… how do people where you're from handle it? Women traveling with men, adventuring?"

 

I didn't have a good answer for that. What the fuck should I say? We're civilized?

 

"Where I'm from," I said carefully, "we handle things differently."

 

Vashira chuckled.

 

"Well, here we're civilized.”