Yolanda stirred at the sound of hushed voices. Drowsy but alert, she raised her head and looked around. Then, as memory returned, a pleased smile spread across her lips. She inhaled deeply, stretching languidly—careful not to wake the baroness still sleeping beside her.


    Satisfied, she gently pulled the arm she’d been holding tighter against her body. Its warmth pressed against her skin, sending ripples of pleasure through her, subtle and thrilling. Unable to resist, she began planting soft kisses on the exposed shoulder before her, slowly working her way toward the chest.


    Lores stirred, then let out a soft laugh.


    “Ju, stop that! It tickles!”


    A storm of emotions swelled in Yolanda’s belly as the baroness shifted, their bodies briefly pressing together. For a moment, it overwhelmed her—but with superhuman effort, she composed herself.


    “The maids are here... to help us with the morning toilet,” she whispered, barely containing her breath.


    “Oh!” Lores said, lifting her head to glance around.


    It was clear that Lores was still adjusting—coming to grips with the reality that it wasn’t the real Ju beside her. But for Yolanda, that brief moment of confusion was already a victory. The fact that, even for a few seconds, Lores had believed she was Julietta Trachenorma was enough to make her heart flutter with pride. And the four softly whispering maids aligned at the door, their eyes lowered in deference, clearly thought the same.


    It hadn’t started this way. At first, Lores had refused to share the bed with her. It was only when Yolanda quietly laid out a blanket on the floor that Lores, hesitatingly, invited her up. The bed was wide enough, after all.


    And now—now she was basking in it.


    Teleporting to her master last night had been a stroke of brilliance. In one night, she had gone from slave to princess.


    Because deep down, Yolanda knew she was the real princess. Not that imposter running through the woods. Hopefully that pathetic ‘original’ would meet her end out there soon enough—or at the very least, stay lost. Permanently.


    Yolanda would be here to fill the void.


    Lores had wanted to send the maids away, but she managed to convince her otherwise.


    “You don’t want to chase the poor girls off,” Yolanda said gently. “They’ll think they’ve disappointed you. Then they’ll be chastised, and we’ll get a whole new set of nervous maids to replace them. Let me help you with that instead.”


    It was both amusing and deeply satisfying to watch the baroness’s cheeks flush with embarrassment as Yolanda assisted her. The blouse had gotten caught on one of her horns, and Lores was visibly flustered as she freed it.


    Yolanda adored the revealing outfits they were required to wear during Kargath’s holy days. She embraced the look with enthusiasm, adding even more colorful ribbons to her hair and convincing Lores to do the same.


    She’d wanted to decorate Lores’s horns with pom-poms and floral ribbons—something to really enhance her charm—but the stubborn girl had refused. A shame, really. She would’ve looked so much more appealing.


    Still, Yolanda managed to get a few victories in. After one of the maids casually mentioned that colored ribbons on anklets and armbands helped stir the bulls during the festivities, she eagerly passed the information on. It wasn’t even something she had considered, but it made for a very effective argument. Lores reluctantly agreed to add some ribbons.


    For footwear, Lores, had opted for something she called “ballerinas.” Yolanda had wanted to wear high heels, but of course, the baroness had objected.


    Fine. Then she’d walk barefoot. In protest.


    Soon, they were ready for breakfast and stepped out of the room.


    Yolanda felt positively giddy with the attention she was receiving. Everyone rushed to accommodate her slightest wish, their eyes drawn to her with barely concealed curiosity—or admiration. The way people looked at her, at her form, made her head spin with possibilities. So many doors seemed to be opening all at once, and the sheer potential of it all left her just a little dizzy.


    Breakfast was arranged in an unusual setup. With so many nobles coming and going, it was a fluid affair. While some preferred the privacy of their rooms or gathered in quiet corners with close companions, most drifted into the spacious halls designated for communal dining.


    Lores had chosen one of the larger rooms, one with a charming terrace and a good view. At the moment, she was engaged in conversation with a few fellow nobles—not the most influential or interesting of the lot, just some acquaintances.


    Unfortunately, the topic was politics. Worse—administrative matters. Yolanda barely resisted the urge to flee.


    *


    Miranda took a deep breath. Any moment now, the gate would open, and she would step into the stadium. It was her turn—and she was on the verge of hyperventilating.


    She was one of several hundred peasant girls finally accepted to take part in the Kargath’s Days celebrations. The requirements were strict: you had to be a virgin, over sixteen, and pass a series of strength and dexterity tests, like being able to lift a heavy sack filled with sand and run with it for over two hundred steps.


    All that, just for the chance to leap over a bull in the arena.


    She raised her eyes toward the statue of Kargath—the God of War, and by extension, the God of Marriage. He shared the latter title with Nohekhta, the druidic Mother Goddess, the Green Lady of the Woods. But unlike Nohekhta, who embodied maternal love and nurturing, Kargath stood for conflict and power.


    Yet it was said they worked in harmony—war and marriage, strangely intertwined. Whenever war loomed, weddings surged—far more than in peaceful times.


    “May you bless me... may you make me a free woman,” she whispered, exhaling slowly as she gazed up at the statue.


    If she could make it to the fourth round—and pass it—she would earn her freedom. That was the round when the noble girls began their jumps. Reaching it meant she would no longer be a serf.


    To work for herself. To no longer pay taxes. To move where she wished, when she wished. To marry whomever she wished.


    That was her dream. Her goal. But what could she possibly offer the god in return? What could she promise Kargath that would be worthy of such a gift?


    The great doors creaked open, and her heart pounded so violently she nearly collapsed. It was only the gentle but firm push of one of Kargath’s priestesses that nudged her back to reality. Wordlessly, she joined her four fellow hopefuls and walked toward the center of the arena.


    Thousands of voices rose in a deafening roar as the girls began to dance, some tumbling playfully across the arena floor, drawing even louder cheers and whistles. They were all strong, healthy young women from the villages, and their scantily clad forms did not go unnoticed. Appreciative comments rippled through the stands.


    Lost in prayer, Miranda missed the moment the arena’s adjutant called her name. His magically amplified voice boomed across the arena—but she heard none of it.


    “Wake up, Sleepy Miranda! It’s your turn!” the adjutant called again, this time with a chuckle.


    Startled, she snapped out of her trance and hurried to make her entrance—tumbling clumsily, waving with a forced smile. Laughter erupted from the crowd, and then came the chant:


    “Sleepy Miranda! Sleepy Miranda!”


    Her heart sank.


    This was what she had feared most—not the bull, not the danger. She had imagined freezing in terror, imagined the boos and jeers as she stood motionless before the beast. But this—disdain and mockery before even the jump—this was worse. And it had already begun.


    She shut her eyes, hoping to escape the humiliation—but instead, she saw him: Kargath.


    The God of War stood vivid in her mind’s eye: tall, powerful, his bare chest gleaming with strength, a massive shield in one hand and a spear in the other. It was as if the image of the statue had come to life inside her, etched into her very thoughts.


    But he was laughing at her. “You’ll need more than that to earn my grace.”


    His voice wasn’t spoken, but she felt it, heavy in her bones.


    Frantically, her thoughts spun. What could she offer?


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    Then the gates opened—and the bull entered.


    A massive black beast, huffing and wild-eyed. It stopped in the middle of the arena, steam curling from its nostrils as it swung its head, scanning the girls.


    Then its gaze locked onto her. It snorted violently, hooves scraping against the packed earth and then charged.


    The crowd erupted, stomping their feet, the sound rising like a thunderstorm. The ground seemed to tremble beneath her, the bull coming like a natural disaster—like an earthquake bearing down.


    “I promise I’ll serve you... in war,” she whispered.


    And in that moment, everything shifted. Her panic vanished and calm settled over her like a cloak.


    The roar of the arena faded into silence. The adjutant might have been shouting something, but she didn’t hear it.


    There was only her and the bull.


    It felt like she was back in the meadow, facing down one of the cows she used to practice with and to her own surprise, a grin tugged at her lips.


    Only when the bull was just a few meters away did Miranda move.


    With perfect timing, she launched herself toward the charging beast, seized its horns with surprising ease, and used its own momentum to catapult herself into the air. The bull jerked its head upward, trying to gore her, but only propelled her higher.


    She landed with both feet squarely on its broad back—a feat she didn’t always manage, even with the cows she’d trained on. Without missing a beat, she pushed off again, flipping through the air, and landed lightly on her feet behind the bull—still standing.


    The crowd exploded like a volcano, erupting into deafening cheers.


    Miranda rolled away smoothly to reposition herself and check the bull’s movements. Adrenaline still surged through her, but she felt sharp, clear, focused.


    Only now did the voice of the adjutant return to her ears.


    “You’ve passed the first trial, Sleepy Miranda!” he boomed, half-laughing. “You can leave the arena now—unless you’d like to give us a double jump already?”


    Her cheeks flushed with heat as she jogged toward the outer wall, not daring to look back.


    Behind her, chaos unfolded. One of the other girls had been caught. She was on the ground, the bull goring her as the arena roared—some with cruel laughter, others with shocked cries. Helpers rushed forward, trying to distract the beast, trying to pull the girl to safety.


    If she died, there would be no resurrection.


    Only one high priestess had the power to bring someone back—and that miracle was reserved for the noblewomen.


    *


    Miranda was exhausted—but exhilarated. A deep, unshakable certainty had taken root in her heart: Kargath favored her. She had made it to the fourth round. She was going to be a free woman. She could feel it in her bones.


    It was true that she’d been injured in the last round—a nasty gash along her right thigh—but the priestess had treated it as best she could. That was expected. Kargath always demanded a tribute in blood, and she had offered hers willingly.


    The wound hadn’t fully healed; she still walked with a slight limp. But the pain was gone. The priestess had given her some bitter green leaves to chew, and now her leg felt strong again—like nothing had ever happened. She felt as if she were in the best shape of her life.


    Now, if only those two nobles would arrive.


    She glanced around the preparation area, searching.


    Who would be her teammates this round? It wasn’t a team event in the strictest sense, but cooperation could make the task easier. And the challenge ahead would demand it.


    Each participant had to plant two small flags into the back of the bull.


    And the catch: only if all six flags were planted would they qualify for the final round.


    She wasn’t entirely sure, but she believed that planting her own two flags might be enough to secure her freedom—regardless of what the others did. Still, no one had given her a straight answer, and now it was too late to ask. Why hadn’t I thought to ask earlier? she sighed inwardly. Because I never believed I’d make it this far.


    Just then, two noblewomen entered the preparation area.


    They wore dresses similar in cut and style to her own—short, ceremonial, and suited for movement—but the difference in quality was unmistakable. Fine fabric, expert tailoring, subtle embellishments. Wealth and status woven into every thread.


    Miranda lowered her gaze immediately and offered a small curtsy, just as the priestess had instructed. But neither woman acknowledged her.


    “I told you,” one of them said, her voice sharp and dismissive, “you shouldn''t have paid those fifty gold to the chemist.”


    Miranda glanced up, and the breath caught in her throat.


    The speaker was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen—an elf.


    An elf was participating? No one had mentioned that to her. No one had told her who she’d be teamed with.


    She turned her attention to the other noblewoman, who remained silent, only sighing softly in response. Miranda’s eyes widened. The woman had horns—two sleek, black, sharply curved horns.


    A beastkin?


    Those were rare enough—but a noble one? She didn’t seem like a servant to the elf… or was she?


    Miranda’s mind raced with questions she dared not ask aloud.


    “See?” the elf huffed. “You could’ve bought that harvester by now! It would’ve only cost seventy gold! What’s more important?”


    Seventy gold? Miranda''s mind reeled. She had never even seen a gold coin, let alone owned one.


    The horned woman merely shrugged. “The fifty gold was necessary—without it, he wouldn’t have started preparing the medicine. That’s just the cost of the ingredients. I’ll buy the harvester in Stoneborrow. That’s where they’re made. I’ll fly there next time and probably get a discount—no transport fees.”


    “If they still have any,” the elf retorted. “The merchant wasn’t sure.”


    Before the conversation could continue, a priestess entered the room and bowed deeply.


    “Your Highness,” she said, addressing the elf, then gestured toward Miranda. “This one has been chosen by fate to join your team. However, as a member of the royal bloodline, you have the right to refuse and request a new drawing.”


    Miranda felt her knees weaken. Royalty.


    She’d been placed in a team with royalty.


    The elf turned casually to the horned woman.


    “What do you think, Lores? Should we keep her?”


    As the one called Lores turned her gaze on her, Miranda suddenly felt exposed. Her heart began to race. There was something unsettling in that look—like the woman could see right through her.


    “She’s been wounded,” Lores said calmly, “and she’s under the influence of cera-leaves.”


    The priestess nodded in confirmation. “Yes, your ladyship. She was treated and given painkillers.”


    Lores raised a hand, and a flask materialized in her palm with a soft shimmer of magic.


    “Spit the leaves out,” she ordered, “and drink this.”


    Shocked, Miranda looked briefly to the priestess for reassurance—but she knew she had no right to refuse. Swallowing hard, she obeyed, spitting the chewed leaves into her hand and taking the flask. She raised it to her lips and drank.


    For a moment, a flicker of anger sparked in Miranda’s chest.


    All her life, she’d been ordered around—told what to do, where to go, how to act. It was freedom she was fighting for, the right to make her own choices. And yet here she was again, obeying a command without hesitation. She hadn’t even been asked.


    “Don’t drink it all,” Lady Lores said calmly, just in time for Miranda to stop after the first gulp. “Might be too much for you—just take what you feel is needed.”


    At first, she felt only a strange stillness. Then a wave of warmth bloomed in her throat, spreading outward in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it felt... good.


    She looked down at her leg—and gasped.


    The wound was gone. Not just healed—gone, as if it had never been there. She checked her hands. The small cut on her finger from yesterday’s vegetable prep—vanished. Even the itchy red marks from last night’s mosquito bites had disappeared.


    And her mind—clearer than it had ever been.


    It was one of those potions. A legendary healing draught she’d only heard about in whispered stories—and this woman had just handed it to her.


    She turned, ready to return the flask, but Lores merely shrugged.


    “Keep it. It’s yours.”


    “I… I can’t… I don’t even know where to put it…” Miranda mumbled, overwhelmed.


    Lores chuckled, taking the flask back from Miranda’s hand.


    “Oh, I’ll keep it for you,” she said with a small smile. “And give it back once we’re done. Sound good?”


    Miranda nodded faintly.


    “I suppose we’ll keep her,” the elf said with a casual shrug toward the priestess.


    “Very well,” the priestess replied, bowing slightly. Then, with more formality, she added, “Your Highness, Princess Julietta, and Lady Lores—this is the girl known as Sleepy Miranda. Your team is now confirmed. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go announce it.”


    With that, the priestess turned and left, leaving Miranda standing there—still trying to process the fact that she was now officially on a team with royalty.