The Ruins that Remain

{4} The Royal Ball

Ileane Slaone Aldine POV:

The hay itches incessantly throughout the night, and sleep eludes me. I toss and turn, the rustling straw a constant reminder of the unrest outside the stables. Every creak, every distant murmur has me jolting up, my hand instinctively seeking the reassuring grip of the dagger concealed beneath my makeshift pillow.

Morning brings a sense of relief, and I eagerly seize the opportunity to escape the confines of uneasy slumber. I reach for the tin bucket, its cold touch grounding me as I make my way to the well nestled near the stables. Drawing water, I drink deeply, the cool water, a balm to my parched throat.

Returning to the barn, I savour the fleeting luxury of a makeshift bath. The rag, though worn, proves to be a reliable companion as I cleanse myself in the dim light filtering through the stable walls. The morning air, tinged with the scent of hay and damp wood, embraces me as I air-dry, my skin absorbing the refreshing moisture.

Taking a moment to tend to my wounds becomes a ritual, a careful dance to avoid aggravating the injuries acquired in battles past. I unwrap the cloth covering my wounds, the makeshift bandage stained with the evidence of countless struggles. With meticulous care, I cleanse and inspect each wound, ensuring no infection festers beneath the surface. Once satisfied, I rewrap the cloth tightly around my torso, a shield against the outside world that threatens to breach the sanctity of my battered form.

Concealing my dagger beneath layers of hay in the corner, I embark on a quiet quest for sustenance. The village, an unknown entity beyond the stable walls, beckons with the promise of stolen provisions. The market buzzes with life as I slip into the shadows, my every step calculated to avoid detection. The stalls, adorned with an array of goods, become my hunting ground.

I move with practised grace, weaving through the labyrinth of stalls like a phantom. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the air, drawing me closer. Crisp apples glisten in the morning light, a tempting prize. A canteen, filled with clear water, beckons from a vendor's display.

My nimble fingers work in tandem with the shadows, liberating the coveted items without a trace. The bustling market remains oblivious to my presence. Each stolen item is a testament to my survival instincts honed through battles untold.

Retreat becomes an art, a silent dance through the heart of the market. I navigate the intricate tapestry of the village, avoiding prying eyes with every step. The stolen bounty clutched securely; I slip back into the welcoming darkness of the stables.

Within the sanctuary of hay and shadows, I revel in the success of my clandestine mission. The stolen bread, apples, and canteen are shared with the silent company of the stable, a quiet celebration of my resilience in this unknown village.

I approach the well, its cool water beckoning, and I fill the canteen with refreshing clarity. Glancing around, I spot a bag of hay hanging conveniently on the stable wall. Swiftly, I liberate it, ensuring a hearty lunch for the horse later.

Taking a moment, I deftly remove a handful of hay from the centre, creating a snug space. This improvised compartment becomes the vessel for my pilfered treasures. I carefully place the crisp apples, a loaf of bread, and the water-filled canteen inside, ensuring their concealment.

With practised hands, I tie the rope securely once more, the makeshift bundle now a secret repository of sustenance. The horse's lunch secured, my stolen provisions tucked away, I survey my handiwork before continuing with the day's challenges.

I securely tie my dagger, my sword and my hay bag onto my back. I need to find a good horse for my travels into the desert. I haven't spotted a single camel so a horse shall do. Out of all the horses standing in the stalls of the barn, I find a majestic black stallion, its sleek coat glistening in the sunlight, exuding an aura of power and grace as it stands with an elegant and muscular presence.