Outskirts of the Shattered Waste
Dust swirls around the hooves as a lone rider dismounts outside a ramshackle brothel on the edge of town. Lanterns sway in the dry wind, casting flickering shadows across cracked wooden walls.
"I'm paying," the man grunts, tossing a coin pouch to the madam. She smiles thinly and gestures inside.
Moments later, a slim girl—quick as a shadow—snatches the pouch from his belt while he's distracted. She bolts, laughing under her breath. The man roars and charges after her, his companions stumbling behind.
She darts through narrow streets, weaving between barrels and laundry lines, until rough hands yank her into a dark alley.
"You're going to get yourself caught one of these days," a boy hisses, pinning her against the wall.
"Where's my cut?" he demands, breathless.
"Your cut?" She smirks. "I did most of the work."
"Pay up. I showed you the easy targets. Remember—my mum's ill. She needs medicine."
Her expression softens. With a sigh, she presses a handful of coins into his palm.
"See you later," the boy mutters. They part ways without another word.
The girl—Charlotte—slips through the market, buying bread, dried herbs, and a small vial of feverfew. Then she climbs the winding path up the hillside, away from the town lights, toward the desolate ridge where Hidenheim fall. The Shattered Waste stretches below like cracked glass under the moon.
**The Cabin**
Inside the small, weathered cabin, Garon stirs awake to a familiar voice drifting through the walls. He presses his eye to a knothole in the plank.
Charlotte stands outside, speaking softly to the old man.
"It's been too long since I checked on you. Hope you're doing well. I brought you something."
"You were here yesterday, Charlotte. You look tired."
"I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Can I come in?"
Garon, half-naked and suddenly aware of it, scrambles for his tunic. He fumbles, nearly knocking over a stool.
The old man's voice carries inside. "Help me carry this in, girl."
The door creaks open. Charlotte steps forward, basket in hand—then freezes. Garon stands there, trousers half-on, shirt dangling from one arm.
She drops the basket. In an instant her dagger is out, gleaming.
"Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?"
Garon's eyes widen in panic.
Then Charlotte bursts out laughing, doubling over.
"Got you!" She wipes a tear from her eye. "Really have small balls, don't you?"
Garon yanks his trousers up, face burning. "Charlotte. Long time no see."
"Long time no see, *Your Highness*." She drops into an exaggerated curtsy, voice dripping mockery.
"Come on. It's time."
Garon dresses quickly and follows her outside.
"Don't be too long," the old man calls after them. "He'll need his medicine soon."
"I promise I'll bring the baby back home safe," Charlotte replies with a grin. She laughs again as she swings onto the horse.
Garon climbs up behind her, arms around her waist. They ride back toward town.
"I got you, didn't I?" she teases.
"Jerk," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile in his voice.
**Flashback – Several weeks earlier**
Charlotte enters the inn wearing boy's trousers, her hair cropped short, She carries a tray of bread and a small pouch of medicine.
"Hey! Who are you, boy? Can't you knock? Don't you know I'm highborn?" Garon snaps from his bed, chin high.
"So you're the prince I've been hearing about." She smirks. "Should I bow, Your Highness?"
"If you must, I'll allow it," Garon says, ego swelling.
"Where I come from, Your Highness, princes stand while the lowborn kneel."
"I'll honor your customs." Garon rises grandly, chest puffed.
Charlotte steps forward as if to kneel—then drives her fist straight into his groin.
Garon doubles over with a strangled scream. "Ahhhh!"
Charlotte grins wide. "Jerk."
**Present day**
They reach a small clearing on the edge of town. A crowd has gathered around a simple wooden stage. Lanterns hang from ropes, illuminating a traveling puppet show.
"Here. Sit," Charlotte says.
They settle on a low rise, far enough to watch without being noticed. On stage, carved wooden figures act out the fall of man: greed, betrayal, fire raining from the sky, families torn apart. The puppets weep, embrace, then burn.
Charlotte watches in silence. What she truly sees—what she always comes for—is the fleeting moment before the destruction: the way the figures hold each other, the tenderness in painted eyes, the quiet promises whispered between them. That love, fragile and soon lost, is what she craves most.
She has been an orphan since birth. No one cared for her until the old man took her in. She swore then—never again would she let him go.
Without thinking, she rests her head on Garon's shoulder. Her cheeks flush pink in the lantern light. Garon stiffens, confused, but doesn't pull away.
The show ends. They stand to leave.
"Was fun, wasn't it?" Charlotte asks.
"Same show every time," Garon replies.
She snatches his belt in one swift motion. His trousers drop to his ankles. He stumbles, cursing, and chases after her laughing form into a narrow alley.
"I'm here, silly prince," she calls from the shadows.
Garon catches her wrists. His trousers slip completely. He glares, half-undressed and flustered.
"It's not funny."
"Aww, come on. You're no fun."
"I *am* fun. Just not like this."
He releases her. She steps closer, rises on her toes, and kisses him—deep, sudden, her face burning red.
Garon freezes, then pulls back sharply.
Charlotte's smile falters. Hurt flashes in her eyes. She turns and runs.
"Wait!" Garon calls.
She doesn't stop. When he catches up, she's already mounting the horse.
"Get on," she says, voice flat. "And let's never talk about that again."
They ride in silence back to the inn. She drops him off without a word and turns the horse toward town.
In the distance, orange light blooms against the night sky. A house is burning—the boy's house, where his sick mother lies.
Charlotte spurs the horse harder.
She reaches the flames just as rough hands seize her from behind. The bandits she robbed earlier—eyes wild with revenge.
"Don't touch me, you jerk!"
"I'm going to have fun playing with you," one snarls, dragging her toward the shadows. "Just like I did your little friend. I'll burn the inn you always visit too. My men are already on their way."
Charlotte screams as the man unbuckles his belt.
**The inn, same moment**
The old man shuffles inside, stirring a pot of soup over the fire.
"How was the show?" he asks mildly.
Garon sits frozen, speechless, cheeks still flushed from the kiss.
"She's really grown fond of you," the old man continues. "Hasn't had a real friend her whole life."
Garon looks up. "What happened to her parents?"
The old man keeps stirring. "What always happens to orphans' parents. War took them. They were knights—for a kingdom called Valdrik. You could say they died with honor."
"What honor is there in leaving your only child behind?" Garon says, voice hard.
"My, how you've grown."
A sharp knock at the door. The old man tenses, hand drifting toward the sword leaning against the wall.
Garon rushes to open it, hoping it's Charlotte.
"No—" the old man starts.
The door explodes inward. Wind snuffs the fire. Three bandits step through, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
"What do you want?" the old man demands.
"Come outside," one growls. They grab Garon and hurl him into the dirt.
The old man draws his sword in a single fluid motion.
"Where is she?" he asks, voice low and lethal.
"Probably dead by now," one sneers.
The old man's face hardens. He tosses his sword—Skógrimr—to Garon.
"Find her."
Garon's hands shake. Old terrors flood back—PTSD clawing at his throat—but he catches the hilt. He scrambles onto a horse and gallops toward the burning town, the weight of the blade heavy in his grip.
To be continued