When news came that my dear mother Selena Leto had passed on to the splendid afterlife she deserved, I steeled myself to reclaim what was rightfully mine. My cousin Nephele and brother had already fled to Runeheim to seize my inheritance: chests brimming with gold, sapphires bright as stars, silks finer than whispered secrets, porcelain cups fit for kings, and above all, cellars of rare Etruvian wine awaiting my arrival.
The sea voyage was a trial of endurance. Gray skies stretched endlessly, icy winds tore through my golden Sha’ran silk brocade coat that shimmered like liquid sunlight even under the dullest clouds. Sailors whispered of sea serpents trailing our ship, and I fancied glimpsing their shadows beneath the waves. I was poised to faint elegantly should one surface—an exit worthy of a lady of my stature.
Upon landing, I joined a caravan bound for Frosthearth, where I met Knut—a battle-worn man still licking the figurative wounds of losing his army and right hand in a fierce campaign. His eyes bore the weight of countless hardships, yet when I unveiled my plans, he listened with a steady gaze and sighed often enough for a symphony.
“Just imagine, Knut,” I said one evening beneath a sky smeared with pale stars, “a marble bath the size of a ballroom, filled with rose petals imported fresh from Hestralia. Heated floors, so my slippers never meet cold stone.”
Knut sighed long and slow, then sank onto a log and facepalmed, murmuring, “A vision worthy of a queen.” His voice, thick with mock exasperation, I interpreted as the shy adoration of a man secretly enchanted by my grandeur.
As we trudged through biting wind and clinging mud, I declared, “Two servants will be required just to carry my hatboxes—and a personal sommelier, naturally, to taste my wines and ensure only the finest grace my lips.”
His eyes rolled with such theatrical flair I could barely suppress a smile. “A sommelier, my lady? Naturally. Shall I add ‘court jester’ to the list?”
I knew such teasing was the language of a devoted admirer, masking his affection beneath humor.
Meanwhile, Knut meticulously tracked every hardship in his mental ledger, to be presented as a bill to Nephele upon my safe arrival:
• Laborious escorting fee (1 copper coin per mile, doubled for extra whining)
• Hazard pay for bandit attacks (one silver coin per assailant subdued)
• Emotional fatigue surcharge (to compensate for my frequent speeches on opulence)
• Mud-stained coat cleaning compensation (especially for the golden Sha’ra silk brocade)
• Lost glove retrieval fee (twice, when I demanded we turn back)
• Extra luggage handling charge (for the two trunks, hatbox, and precious wine crate)
• Surprise goat chase surcharge (because apparently even goats plot against me)
• Late-night storytelling exhaustion tax (for the times I regaled him with my future soirées)
The road was no less dangerous than it was tedious. When bandits attacked on the second day, I leapt behind Knut, shouting tactical advice: “Aim for the arms! And please, try not to soil my coat!” He dispatched the scoundrel with swift efficiency, sighing so deeply it seemed musical—a lament and a love song all at once.
A few days later, a gang of cutthroats ambushed us. I dove into a snowdrift, offering muffled encouragement: “Don’t let them see you sweat!” Knut fought silently and skillfully, grunting and sighing between blows. When the last foe fled, he dusted snow off his battered cloak as if it were merely a nuisance rather than evidence of his loyalty.
On a lighter note, a suspiciously malevolent goat stalked me like a silent assassin. Knut chased it off with a sigh that plainly said, Why me?—but I knew it was a sigh of heartfelt devotion.
Through all this, Knut bore my burdens—and my endless fantasies—with exaggerated sighs and dry wit. I chose to interpret his sarcasm as rapt attention and secret admiration.
At last, as the ragged gates of Runeheim loomed, Knut let out a sigh so long I swore it stirred the icy wind itself. He looked at me and said, “Good luck, my lady. I’ll be here, polishing your throne—and keeping a detailed invoice for Nephele.”
I smiled serenely, certain that soon all of Runeheim would know: Aurelia Leto, rightful heiress, had come to claim her birthright—and perhaps, a reluctant admirer’s heart as well.
