Theudifara: The Adventurer's Ambition is to Become the Empress

After fifteen days of bone-rattling travel, Tiel's walls rose before us—titanic slabs of granite veined with quartz, their battlements clawing at a sky choked with chimney smoke. My backside had officially turned to stone.

"Gates!" Manfred pressed his nose to the wagon's slats. "They're bigger than Elder Harken's barn!"

Henry chuckled, handing me two scrolls. "Aureo's street grid," he tapped the first, "and Tiel's underbelly." The second map bore coffee stains and cryptic symbols. "Stick to Hirzula Inn. Tell the receptionist lady there I sent you."

Fleda hovered close, her shoulder brushing mine as we joined the Dawngate queue. Merchants hawked spiced almonds and wool socks; guards in polished breastplates barked orders. The air smelled of horse dung and ambition.

"Stay alert," Fleda muttered, eyeing a peddler who dared meet her gaze. Her fingers twitched toward her dagger—a reflex since the wolf attack.

Henry's name worked like a charm. The guards waved us through with bored nods, barely glancing at our travel papers.

Tiel unfolded like a storybook. Cobblestone streets gleamed underfoot, flanked by timber-framed shops with stained glass windows. Laughter spilled from taverns, their signs painted with grinning satyrs and crescent moons. After Ercangaud's deathly hush, the noise was... glorious.

"Look!" Manfred pointed at a street performer juggling fire. "Can we—?"

"Later." I steered him away as Fleda scanned the crowd, cataloging threats. Her paranoia had spiked since we'd left the wolves behind—or maybe since we'd left home.

The inn revealed itself at dusk like a whispered secret—a narrow, three-story structure wedged between a cobbler's workshop and a boarded-up apothecary, its wooden beams groaning under the weight of centuries. Only the swaying iron sign betrayed its purpose: a chipped plate cradling a painted fish so lifelike, I half-expected it to flip its tail. Hirzula Inn, proclaimed the peeling letters below. Manfred squinted up at it, breath fogging the twilight air. "Looks... cozy?"

A bell tinkled—three crystalline notes—as we pushed through the oak door.

"Welcome!"

The voice rolled through the dim foyer like warm honey, belonging to a creature that froze Fleda mid-step. The woman—if "woman" applied—had the head of a goat: velvety black ears framing amber eyes slit with horizontal pupils, curved horns polished to an ivory sheen. Her human-like body stood erect in a crisp linen apron, cloven hooves peeking beneath the hem.

"First timers?" Adriana—according to the brass nametag pinned above her left udder—tilted her head in a disturbingly caprine gesture, nostrils flaring as she inhaled our scent. "Check-in first! Then food!"

Fleda's fingers dug into my sleeve like talons. "Sis," she hissed, "the Purge Edicts—"

"Hush." I pried her grip loose, heart hammering. "We were sent here by a merchant named Henry Maas."

"Oh, Henry's friends, huh! Come, come! What's your name?"

"Adele. Ermenfleda. And the small one here is Manfred."

Adriana's hooves clacked rhythmically behind the reception desk as she processed our stay, her movements precise yet unnervingly fluid. "Room 007!" she announced, sliding a tarnished key across the counter. "Third floor, leftmost door. Dinner's hunter' pot—guaranteed to revive even the dead!" Her pink tongue darted out to moisten leathery lips.

My stomach answered with a guttural growl.

Adriana's ears swiveled forward. "Ah, hunger's sweet symphony! Leave your packs here—" she gestured to a staircase flanked by oil paintings "—and feast!"

We obeyed, shoulders brushing as we navigated the cramped foyer. The staircase walls bore portraits that halted my breath—not of elven lords, but humans: a knight in gilded armor, a maiden clutching a lyre, a child astride a pony. At the landing, a larger canvas dominated: an old elven king with golden-leaf crown stood arm-in-arm with a goat-headed man in paint-splattered smock. The inscription read Siegmar & Francesco, 212 Zea. A painting more than 70 years old.

"Odd," I murmured, tracing the king's amused smirk.

"Dangerous," Fleda corrected, steering me toward the common room. "That's the previous King, hailed as a madman. Why would—"

"Later."

The dining hall defied all expectations of roadside inns. No sawdust littered the flagstone floor. No ale stains marred the oak tables. Even the cutlery gleamed as if freshly forged. Manfred dragged a finger across a chair back. "Not a speck! How?"

Adriana materialized beside us, balancing three steaming bowls. "Hunter's pot!" She set them down with theatrical flair, the steam carrying notes of juniper and smoked venison. "Twenty herbs, three days' simmering in Grandmama's iron cauldron. Eat!"

As Manfred shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, Adriana lingered, amber eyes reflecting the firelight. "Moonhair," she breathed, goat pupils dilating as she studied me. "High Elf, yes? Strands like starlight spun to silk."

Fleda's spoon clattered against her bowl. "We're just passing through."

"Relax, wolf-pup." Adriana pulled up a stool, the wood creaking under her weight. "Curiosity nibbles, but doesn't bite." Her nostrils flared again. "Where'd they unearth you, Moonhair? High Elves haven't graced Ingvaeon since the founding of it."

I stirred my stew, watching root vegetables swirl in the rich broth. "A nameless village. And before you ask—no, I don't know why I'm the only one."

"Lineage laws are tedious anyway." Adriana gestured to the royal portrait visible through the archway. "Great-Great-Grandfather Francesco painted King Siegmar's coronation. Family's been royal artists for four generations, especially him. Matilda Juva-Branca—" she gestured again to a portrait of a severe woman in brocade "—paid him in gemstones for that one. Two hundred masterpieces in his lifetime, all while half-blind from pigment fumes!"

I nearly dropped my spoon. "That Francesco Goat? Creator of Dusk Over Vallencia?"

Adriana's ears flicked. "You know his work?"

"Only from Father's moldy art tome." I'd spent rainy afternoons tracing those pages—swirling Aragonese citadels, landscapes that breathed. "But how did your family end up here?"

She shrugged, cloven hooves scraping the flagstones. "King Siegmar admired Grandfather's talent. Offered sanctuary when Aragon's purges for non-human nobles began." Her voice lowered. "We've painted Ingvaeon's royals ever since. Quietly, especially since the new King also barred non-elves from court by passing the Purge Edicts. One after another, I guess."

Manfred gaped, stew dribbling down his chin. "That means, you can paint like your grandfather too?"

Adriana's laugh rang out—a melodic bleat that made Fleda flinch. "Haha, no! These hands—" she flexed slender, ink-stained fingers "—are better suited for ledgers. But blood remembers." Her ears flattened.

Fleda's gaze narrowed on a nearby painting—an elven lord with a striking blue eye. "Dangerous heirlooms to display."

"Tradition doesn't harm," Adriana countered. "Besides, the guard always turn blind eyes to Hirzula. Old debts"

Anyway, the stew proved as rich as its lore—tangy pomegranate cutting tender mushrooms, root vegetables caramelized to perfection. Manfred mopped his bowl with rye bread. "Better than roasted beetles!"

Adriana laughed, a sound like wind through barley. "Grandmama's recipe. Secret's in the—"

"—twenty herbs, three days' simmering," we chorused.

She grinned, revealing flat herbivore teeth. "You learn fast."

The tea arrived next, steaming in clay mugs. Not the pine-needle brew we elves favored, but something darker—roasted dandelion root, maybe, laced with foreign spices. It bit my tongue pleasantly, a smoky earthiness lingering like a half-remembered dream.

"Sipsang leaves," Adriana explained. "From Portus Aurelia. Smuggled, obviously."

Fleda sipped warily. "Illegal?"

"Only if you're boring."

As night deepened, Adriana lit oil lamps. Their amber glow softened the goat angles of her face, making her almost... elven. Almost.

"Your people," I ventured. "Centurias in Ingvaeon—are there others?"

Her tail swished. "A few. But we're... discreet." She traced a claw along the table. "Siegmar's descendants tolerate us. So long as we don't flaunt our horns."

Manfred yawned, stew-induced euphoria waning. "Bed?"

Adriana rose; her shadow monstrous on the wall. "Rest well. Dawn comes swift."

Upstairs, Fleda paced our room. "She's too forthcoming. A trap?"

I unlaced my boots, Francesco's landscapes dancing behind my eyelids. "Or lonely."

The mattress swallowed me whole. Somewhere below, Adriana hummed an Aragonese lullaby—her family's true heirloom, passed through exiled throats.

***

Dawn clawed through the attic window, its pale fingers prying my eyelids open. For the first time in weeks, my body refused to leave the featherbed's embrace. Five more minutes, it pleaded. My bladder disagreed.

The outhouse was a glacial hellscape. I stumbled back upstairs half-frozen, only to find Fleda and Manfred still tangled in their shared bed. Fleda's arm draped protectively over her brother, her face smoothed of its usual sharpness in sleep. Manfred grinned at some dreamt feast, drool pooling on the pillow.

Knock-knock-knock.

"Adele! Ermenfleda! Manfred!" Adriana's voice pierced the door. "Breakfast waits!"

The scent hit me then—caramelized onions, smoked paprika, something earthy and unfamiliar. My stomach overruled all protests.

Fleda jolted upright, hand flying to her dagger. "Intruder—?"

"Just hunger," I said, tossing her yesterday's tunic.

Manfred sniffed the air like a hound. "Eggs!"

Adriana awaited us downstairs, her goat eyes crinkled in amusement. Three clay dishes steamed on the table: golden egg custards flecked with crimson spices, crowned with roasted greens I didn't recognize.

"De Saluiat!" She announced it like a royal decree. "Grandpapa's recipe—Aragonese refugees brought it here during the—"

"Purge, yes." Fleda eyed the dish suspiciously. "Is that... cheese?"

I forked a trembling bite. Fire bloomed—smoked chili, tangy fermented curds, the sweetness of charred leeks. The eggs dissolved like cloud silk.

"Gods," I breathed.

Adriana's tail swished. "Told you."

Manfred shoveled his portion with abandon. "Better than beetles!"

"Everything's better than beetles," Fleda muttered, though her rigid posture softened with each bite.

The tea arrived next—a murky brew that smelled of burnt caramel. "Sipsang," Adriana winked. "This time, stolen from a Republican merchant."

I sipped cautiously. The bitterness shocked, then soothed—dark chocolate meeting wild mint. "Illegal?"

"You know it."

"Great."

As we ate, sunlight gilded the portraits around us. Francesco Goat's brushstrokes seemed to dance—Matilda Juva-Branca's stern gaze softened by morning rays, King Siegmar's smirk warming into something almost kind.

Fleda nudged an empty dish. "We should—"

"Seconds!" Adriana declared, already ladling more custard. "Growing girls need strength!"

Manfred's eyes widened. "You're the best goat-lady ever!"

Her laugh echoed off copper pots. "Flattery earns extra honey cakes!"

Later, as we repacked, Fleda paused by the attic window. Tiel sprawled below—chimneys puffing, guild banners snapping in the wind.

"We'll reach Aureo by the next two days," she said, fingers brushing my sleeve.

I nodded, Adriana's spices still singing on my tongue. Somewhere beyond those walls, the Nito Trials loomed. But here, now, with honey cakes warming my pocket and Adriana's lullaby humming through floorboards, the future could wait.

***