The wagon wheels creaked to a halt at the edge of Millbrook village, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled over the already dreary landscape.

Aldrin Thorne, a merchant whose reputation once commanded respect across three counties, sat hunched over the reins with his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"Fucking hell," he spat, wiping sweat from his balding forehead. "This godforsaken shithole."

Behind him in the wagon bed sat rows of carefully packed goods—silk cloth from the eastern trade routes, spices that cost him a small fortune, iron tools crafted by skilled blacksmiths. All worthless here.

All rotting away in this poverty-stricken backwater.

He'd spent the entire morning trying to sell. Not a single copper coin to show for it.

"Dad, you're gonna break your teeth grinding them like that," came a voice from beside him.

Aldrin glanced at the petite figure lounging against the wagon's side—short cropped hair, dirt-smudged face, wearing a tunic two sizes too large and trousers held up with rope.

To anyone looking, just another scrawny young man. But Aldrin knew better.

"Don't call me dad in public, you idiot," he muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

The young woman—Lady Elara Vance, though she'd sooner die than use that name now—just shrugged and took another bite of the rock-hard bread in her hand.

Aldrin began wrapping his unsold goods with sharp, angry movements. Each fold of cloth felt like a personal insult.

This was supposed to be a simple trip to Irongate, maybe two weeks of travel, sell his inventory at triple the price, return home wealthy enough to tell his bastard brother to shove the Merchant Guild's conspiracy up his ass.

Instead...

"Worst fucking day of my life," he growled, tying a knot with unnecessary force. "The day I decided to come to this filthy shitstain on the map."

It had all gone wrong at Crosshaven. His brother—that conniving weasel—had convinced the Guild that Aldrin was undercutting prices, stealing contracts, gods knew what else.

All lies, but enough to make traveling the main roads dangerous.

Merchants were a petty lot; they'd hired thugs to "teach him a lesson."

So he'd taken the back routes. The forest roads. The paths where bandits ruled.

"We should've just fought them," Elara said, picking at her teeth with a splinter of wood.

"Oh yes, brilliant plan. You, me, and what army? There were twelve of them, girl. Twelve armed men who would've slit our throats and sold the wagon for firewood."

"I could've taken three."

"And died after two."

Elara snorted but didn't argue. The bandits had been the second disaster. Half his money, gone in "tolls" to avoid getting robbed properly.

He'd thought—foolishly, stupidly—that he could recoup the losses in Millbrook. Just a small village, sure, but villages needed supplies. Villages had coin.

Not this one.

"These people are poorer than dirt," he said, yanking another rope tight. "I've seen beggars in the capital with more money than this entire village combined."

He'd tried selling a copper pot for half its value—no buyers. Offered spices at cost—no buyers. Finally, out of desperation, he'd attempted to trade cloth for food.

The villagers had looked at him like he was mad.

What use was silk when you couldn't afford grain?

"My goods are going to waste," he muttered bitterly. "Waste. And I'm—gods damn it—I'm hungry."

As if on cue, his stomach growled. He couldn't remember the last decent meal. Days ago? A week?

That's when he heard it. Voices, drifting from down the dirt road. Two villagers, scraggly men in patched clothing, walking past with the shuffling gait of the perpetually exhausted.

"—heard it from Miller's boy. Arrived just this morning."

"A nobleman? Here? You're pulling my leg."

"Swear on my mother's grave. A baron or some such. He also hired someone and saved a villager from bandits."

Aldrin's head snapped up. His hands froze mid-knot.

A nobleman. Here.

"At the old manor house, they said. The one that's been empty since Lord Blackwell died decades ago."

The voices faded as the villagers moved on, but Aldrin's mind was racing. A baron. Money. Someone who could actually afford his goods.

Someone who would have food, wine, a proper kitchen...

"No," Elara said flatly beside him.

He turned to her. "What?"

"I can see that look on your face. We're not doing it."

"Doing what? I haven't said anything."

"Come on, dad." She took another bite of bread, speaking around the mouthful. "You already know how those nobles are. Corrupted bastards, every one of them. He's not going to buy your shit. He's going to demand you give him 'gifts' for the honor of being in his presence, then probably shake you down for road taxes you don't owe."

Aldrin clenched his jaw again. She wasn't wrong. Nobles were... well, noble in name only. Most were parasites. But what choice did he have?

"I have to try," he said quietly.

"You really don't."

"Are you not going to give me that bread?" he snapped suddenly, gesturing at the rock-hard loaf in her hands.

Elara looked down at it, then shrugged and tossed it over. Aldrin caught it, felt the weight of stone in his palm, and immediately threw it to the ground in disgust.

The reaction was instant. Three children—two boys and a girl, all barefoot and hollow-eyed—darted out from between buildings.

They descended on the bread like starving wolves, the girl snatching it first and the three of them running away in a tangle of limbs.

"Filthy little beasts!" Aldrin shouted after them. "That's what you raise here? Thieves and beggars?"

None of the villagers even looked at him. A woman carrying water passed by without breaking stride.

An old man repairing a fence kept hammering. They'd heard it all before, their faces said. Insults, contempt, judgment.

What did it matter? They were poor. They knew it. His opinion changed nothing.

Aldrin felt his frustration spike into rage. How dare they ignore him? He was Aldrin Thorne, a merchant who'd traded in four kingdoms, who'd dined with governors and negotiated with guild masters!

And here he was. Invisible. Irrelevant. Poor.

"Fuck this," he snarled, climbing back onto the wagon seat. "Fuck this all. We're going to visit that baron."

He grabbed the reins, his hands shaking with anger and hunger.

"He better have something for us to eat, or I swear to every god that exists, I'll rob the bastard myself."

He snapped the reins. The horses, as tired and hungry as their owner, reluctantly started moving. The wagon lurched forward, wheels creaking.

Elara sighed and hopped off the wagon with the easy grace that always gave away her noble breeding—not that anyone here would recognize it.

"I'm not going," she said, still using that toothpick. "I hate those bastards."

Aldrin pulled the horses to a stop. Turned in his seat.

"Get. In. The. Wagon."

"No."

"Girl—"

"Don't call me girl. I'm supposed to be your son, remember?"

Aldrin climbed down from the driver's seat, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. He approached her, and despite himself, his voice softened.

"Please." The word tasted like ash in his mouth. "I can't leave you here. This village—bandits could attack anytime. You saw what it's like on these roads."

Elara's jaw tightened. She looked away, that toothpick working between her teeth.

"You're safer with me," Aldrin pressed. "At least near the baron there will be guards. Soldiers. Some semblance of law."

She didn't answer for a long moment. Just stared at the village with barely concealed contempt. Finally, she exhaled hard through her nose.

"Yeah, alright. Fine."

"Thank you."

"That gay bastard was already poking at me too much anyway."

Aldrin blinked. "What? Who?"

Elara's face darkened as she climbed back onto the wagon. "One of the bandits. The one with the scar on his neck. When we were paying them off."

The memory came back.

Aldrin had been focused on counting out coins, trying to minimize the loss. He hadn't noticed one of the bandits had moved closer to Elara, hadn't seen the way the man had leaned in, putting a hand on her shoulder...

"He tried to kiss me," she said flatly. "Called me pretty. Said I had soft skin for a boy."

"What happened?"

"I kicked him in the balls." She said it without emotion, like reporting the weather. "Hard. He dropped like a sack of shit."

"And?"

"And his friends laughed. Then stopped laughing. Then said we'd have to pay double to make up for the insult." Her hands clenched. "So not only did you lose money, but I had to stand there and let that piece of human garbage grab me, and we still had to pay more to not get our throats cut."

Aldrin felt something cold settle in his stomach. He'd been so focused on the money, on the loss, that he hadn't fully processed how close they'd come to disaster.

Elara wasn't just disguised as a man for convenience.

She was Lady Elara Vance, daughter of a disgraced house, fleeing from an arranged marriage to a man three times her age.

She'd cut her hair, stolen her dead brother's clothes, and convinced Aldrin—who owed her late father a life debt—to let her work as his assistant.

He'd agreed because he thought it would be temporary. Safe. A few months on the road, then they'd figure out a better plan.

Instead, she'd nearly been assaulted by bandits. And even in her disguise, even pretending to be male, this world wasn't safe. Men here got robbed, beaten, killed just as easily as women.

Maybe easier, because people expected men to fight back.

"This place isn't safe," Elara muttered, echoing his thoughts. "Even for men. Especially for... whatever I'm supposed to be."

Aldrin swallowed hard. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just get me somewhere with walls and guards and food that doesn't require chewing practice."

He nodded and climbed back onto the driver's seat.

Elara settled in beside him, arms crossed, that toothpick still working with her eyes glancing at people outside living a life worse than death and muttering:

'And those with food and houses say... their life is worse than anyone else...'

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