Arrival
The bard rolled into camp lean with dust, a lute strapped to his back and arrogance in his stride. He had survived on wit and words, never once lifting more than his own ego.
Then he saw her: A queen of mules and kitchens, crowned in sweat and survival, her hat tilted like a sovereign’s decree.
She looked him over like a horse too lame to keep. “Sing me something worth my time,” she said. “And if I don’t?” he asked. “Then I work you till your bones crack.”
And the bard smiled, because at last someone wasn’t charmed.