Chapter 62: Chapter-62

Elara raised one eyebrow. “Go on.”

“We’re not saying you were wrong,” he continued, knights nodding behind him. “But it wasn’t right either. We’re your guards. You don’t need to treat us like… people who need coddling. We’re swords. Wield us to protect or strike. We don’t break easy. Throw us away if needed. Knights are replaceable. Your safety isn’t. Even if we all died here, it wouldn’t equal one scratch on your finger.”

Elara set the plumbing tools down with deliberate calm. Her eyes turned icy—cold enough that several knights visibly shivered, heads ducking.

“Enough.”

The word landed like a blade. Silence swallowed the hall.

She scanned the group, noting the ones who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You think I’m weak? Fragile? Need your expendable bodies as shields?”

Fox knight swallowed but held position.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” she said, voice low and edged, “I’m one of the strongest mages alive. Behind my father and a few unknowns, sure. But strong. I let palace attackers walk because it was their territory—my sisters’ game. Killing there meant war I wasn’t ready for.”

She stepped closer, presence sharpening. “This is *my* territory now. Anyone attacks me here? They don’t leave breathing. And if I kill without reason? No explanations owed. Palace rules don’t bind me anymore.”

Knights shifted uncomfortably, but she wasn’t done.

“A sword you toss around, break, discard? That’s no sword. That’s a practice stick.” Her gaze pinned fox knight. “Real swords get cared for. Oiled. Honed. Because they save your life. Neglect them, and you’re unworthy to wield one.”

She straightened, surveying them all. “I’m not coddling you as ’humans.’ Basic decency is the baseline. Cleaning the house? Trivial for me. Last night I was tired—couldn’t overtax magic after the barriers. You think I’d wait for you to wake, then scrub while you watch? Three, four days of your ’efficient’ manual labor?”

Lyra opened her mouth, closed it.

Elara turned back, eyes narrowing as she swept the group. “You think I have four, five days to waste? While my people scrub floors instead of working?”

Knights stiffened. Administrators shifted.

“Do we have that luxury?” she pressed. “One task I handle in five hours—why drag it three days with brooms and buckets?”

Fox knight opened his mouth; she cut him off. “Silence isn’t agreement. Doesn’t mean you climb over me. Palace rules? Previous masters’ words? I don’t care.”

She pivoted to administrators. “And you—don’t care what you think of me either. Perfection in your roles. Work done fast, flawless. That’s it.”

Pause hung heavy. Her gaze hardened. “Think I’m soft? Try betraying me. See how ’soft’ plays out. Idiots.”

She dusted hands sharply, strode past. Then stopped. “Dimitri!”

He jolted, eyes wide. “Yes, Your Highness?”

She fished a heavy pouch from her pocket, tossed it. He caught it awkwardly. Pulled a folded list from her sleeve, flicked it at him.

Dimitri unfolded the paper, scanned. Jaw dropped. Pages of meticulous lists—mattresses, cookware, food staples, repair tools, fabrics, basics for thirty-two. Quantities precise, costs estimated.

Pouch clinked open. Rubies gleamed. Princess jewelry—necklaces, rings, heirlooms they’d assumed decorative. Now currency.

“Holy—” He stared at Elara’s retreating back. “This is… everything we need.”

She didn’t turn. “Don’t waste it. Go.”

Dimitri clutched pouch and list, rooted. Group gawked—knights chastened, administrators stunned.

Dimitri clutched the heavy pouch and the impossibly detailed list, staring at Elara’s retreating back until she vanished into the kitchen. The rubies inside caught stray sunlight, winking like they knew their fate.

He looked at the list again. Pages of it—mattresses (quantities for 32, with notes on firmness and cost per person), cookware sets (pots sized for group cooking), staple foods (flour, rice, dried meats for a week), cleaning supplies, basic tools, fabrics for curtains to block drafts. Costs penciled in margins. Alternatives listed for haggling.

She’d planned this overnight. While fixing pipes.

“Damn,” he muttered. Mira sidled up, peering over his shoulder.

“That’s her handwriting?”

“Yep. Princess-level thoroughness.”

Captain Lyra approached, knights clustering. “Funds secured?”

“Her jewelry collection,” Dimitri said, hefting pouch. “For supplies.”

Fox knight whistled low. “Personal heirlooms. Just… handed over.”

“Practical,” Lyra noted. “But markets here gouge newcomers. Watch your back.”

Dimitri nodded, steeling himself. “Marcus, you’re with me. Two knights for protection—fox knight, hawk? We hit the bazaar before prices climb more.”

Group mobilized fast. Dimitri pocketed pouch and list. Knights flanked. Marcus trailed with a cart requisitioned from the garden shed.

Port Crestfall’s market district was a riot three streets over—stalls crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, hawkers bellowing, smells of spice and fish and sweat colliding. No palace deference here. People shoved past without bowing.

First stop: bedding merchant, a squat woman with shrewd eyes.

“Mattresses for thirty-two,” Dimitri started, consulting list. “Firm, clean, affordable.”

She cackled. “New in town? Wool-stuffed doubles at eight silver each. Sixty-four silver total.”

Dimitri blinked. “Eight? List says four max.”

“Market rates. Supply chain. Take it or sleep on splinters.”

Fox knight leaned in, voice silk over steel. “We’ve coin. But we haggle.”

She eyed pouch bulge, smirked. “Six silver. Final.”

“Five-five,” Dimitri countered, channeling Elara’s precision. “Bulk buy.”

“Five-eight. Delivered.”

Deal struck. Marcus noted it down.

Next: cookware. Ironmonger with soot-black hands quoted double list price for group pots.

“War prices,” he grunted. “Steel short.”

Hawk knight: “Print more steel? We wait.”

Bluff worked—down to list price.

Food stalls worse. Bread vendor wanted triple for bulk loaves. Dried meat guy claimed “scarce imports.” Dimitri flashed a ruby once—eyes widened, prices dropped fast.

But shortcuts crept in. Cheaper fabrics for curtains (thinner, draftier). Off-brand cookware (heavier). Bare-minimum staples to stretch funds.

…..

In market

Port Crestfall bazaar assaulted senses immediately. Narrow alleys choked with stalls—canvas roofs sagging under rain stains, paths slick with fish guts and spilled ale. Hawkers bellowed over donkey brays and steel-on-steel clangs. No cobblestones like capital markets; mud sucked at boots. Locals shouldered past without apology—dockworkers, fishwives, urchins darting underfoot.

Dimitri gripped pouch tighter, list flapping in breeze. Fox knight scanned rooftops. Hawk knight cracked knuckles. Marcus wheeled empty cart, eyes wide.

“Stay tight,” fox knight murmured. “Pickpockets love fresh faces.”

First clash at spice stall—needed bulk salt, pepper, herbs for Elara’s list.

Vendor, gap-toothed with tattooed arms: “Salt? Two copper pinch for newcomers. Guild tax.”

Dimitri checked list. “Sack for week. One silver max.”

Laughter from nearby stalls. “Capital boy thinks he haggles? Three silver!”

Fox knight leaned close, voice velvet threat. “We buy big. Or walk. Your call.”

Vendor squinted at knight’s fangs. “Fine. Sack for two. No more.”

Score. Marcus loaded first sack.

Bedding next. Squat woman, apron stained, arms like hams. Mattresses piled behind—lumpy, suspicious stains.

“Thirty-two doubles,” Dimitri said. “Firm stuffing. Clean.”

She snorted. “Clean? In port? Eight silver each. War shortages.”

List said four. Dimitri flashed pouch edge—ruby gleam. Her eyes sharpened.

“Six. Delivered by dawn.”

“Five-five. Bulk discount.”

“Done.” She spat in palm, shook. Marcus scribbled.

Cookware ironmonger sweated over forge. “Pots for thirty? Iron’s scarce. Twelve silver set.”

Hawk knight: “Forge more. We got time.”

Bluster worked—down to eight. But pot hefted heavy. “Compromise,” Dimitri noted. “Elara specified lighter.”

No choice. Loaded.

Worst: food row. Bread vendor, flour-dusted beard: “Loaves tripled. Grain ships sunk.”

Dimitri: “Bulk for week. List price.”

“Four silver dozen!” Shouts drew crowd.

Fox knight bared teeth fully. “Pay half. Or we eat your stall.”

Crowd laughed—half menace, half approval. Vendor folded at two silver.

Dried meats: wiry importer with salt-crusted coat. “Empire cuts? Twenty silver pound.”

“List says ten.” Dimitri showed quantities.

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