In their search to recover the artefact, the Saintess and the Bastard both took a moment to look around for any clues in this abandoned manor.
Not so long ago, this devastated place was the headquarters of one of many trading guilds housed within the capital. It once stood as a highlight to many a merchant, their leader an inspiration to any nomadic man trying to strike it big. The Muntjac family were completely self-made and never had the history of gold-clotted bloodlines. All they had when they arrived from the frozen north were the clothes on their backs and a cart full of furs.
But that brilliance only applied to the founder. Now in complete disrepair due to his incompetent son’s taste in gambling, alcohol, and hookers, the fated couple were to find nothing of value here…
Two weeks before wedding…
‘Incompetent son, my ass! I was sold a lie. No son gets to experience this misfortune.’
It’s been roughly three weeks since I entered this world, and today is the day I venture outside to take a break. This "lore" accurate world has been taking a toll on my sanity; thus, a night inside a tavern drinking my woes away is mandatory.
Adjustment to any fantasy world takes its toll, especially when the person you possess is a lazy bum. A trait I’d usually admire if I didn’t have to go through a mountain of paperwork for her.
The first few days… rather a week, that time was spent getting accustomed to this body, then the rest was entirely focused on admin work. Officially, Frost is the head of the guild. Unofficially, she’s an accountant who has no involvement apart from anything involving taxes.
With ice-white hair, crystal blue eyes and an almost playful-looking face, you’d think she’d be more prominent within the guild. But alas, let’s just say it’s obvious she has a personality problem.
‘Death and taxes, only two things you can be sure of in life. Oh, and a stiff drin—'
‘Damn this cursed existence!’
A perfect segue as I bite down, this stabbing pain makes its existence known again. Even cliché fantasy worlds need some semblance of realism, so this has been one of two major issues.
The first involves the fact that toilet paper does not exist, so learning how to use shells, moss and sticks has been "fun". The second… Frost is a woman.
I repeat, Frost is a woman… and I'm certain she's in the prime of her youth. I don’t recall being a guy who enjoys pain that makes me want to kill myself.
‘I wonder if hysterectomies exist in this era? Even if the chance of death is close to a hundred... I like those odds.’
I’m not sure why the novel got Frost’s gender wrong; maybe she seemed surprisingly boyish to the people who met her? Regardless, I hate her now, so I drink for medicinal purposes and await my problems to float away.
Is it recommended to drink while experiencing something like this? No. Do I care? No!
…
That was the plan, but before I can drink enough to feel tipsy, footsteps creak down the stairs of this empty tavern. Slowly, they tip and tap down the wooden steps. I can just about see the silhouettes of three people wearing black robes now.
Sure enough, two of the figures continue to creep their way down here, and my anxiety reacts to that fact. Fuck, they don’t even hide their daggers!
‘That third person is clearly keeping watch, did the previous me do something worth getting killed over? Frost definitely had her tastes.’
Those tastes included some pretty degenerate stuff; there were so many things I had to destroy or hide back hom—
'No kinky distractions! I could die here!'
Thankfully, as the two feminine figures get closer, both continue to keep their weapons sheathed. But now, as they stand directly in front of me, the one less hidden glares through me like I don’t exist.
“S-Should I be concerned?”
The confidence to speak first, yet truth be told, I’m shitting bricks. Despite my bravery, that woman doesn’t listen to a single word.
“This building is secure... make it quick.”
Instead, she leaves the other woman and returns upstairs to the person on watch. Now, it’s only two of us down here, seated mask-to-face around a table that looks far too small for two people.
“Can... I help you?”
“Potentially. You go by the name of Frost, correct?”
I’m met with a sweet yet mature voice, not possessing a hint of emotion. She may have only said a few things, but immediately, I can tell this woman holds weight with her words.
“That depends… who’s asking?”
Despite the mask, her reaction is obvious when she shakes her head. Even as she reaches into her pocket to unravel a small scroll, it’s clear she’s irritated.
“Frost Muntjac... age twenty-three. Caught with possession of opium on three counts, each charge holding a hefty fine. Only a handful of drunk and disorderly charges, surprisingly…”
‘She joins me without any context, then begins to list off my rap sheet? What else did you do, Frost!?’
“…Frequent known locations include the brothel down in the Burrows, a regular patron of the whore Chastity-Lin. If that’s not it, the most recent charge involves public indecency."
"I suppose you enjoy the public shaming punishment? It’s the fourth time you’ve done it… have I missed anything?”
‘Public indecency and public shaming!? Damn it, Frost! At least that explains why there's a pillory in the basement...’
Unfortunately, I can't help but be snarky when Frost's chequered past is brought up. I won't feel any guilt for her supporting the oldest profession known to man, that being the brothel visits. However, everything else makes me want to bang my head against the wall. And rip out my uterus as well.
“Get. To. The. Point.”
“I’m not here to judge or blackmail you, Frost. This is my point.”
Another scroll is placed upon the table, only this one is left to me to unravel and discover what lies inside.
…
…
…
Once I’ve given it a good read and scrolled through it all, it’s safe to say this contract gives me mixed feelings.
“Are you insane!? To start with, is this even possible? Or legal? This can’t be real; my life alone isn’t worth a fraction of this.”
They say all people should be valued equally, and when something is too good to be true, it usually is. I once agreed, now I don’t. What this contract offers is maddening.
To start with, a big portion of it is written to be vague, but the reward section isn’t. Two dozen chests filled with gemstones of every possible colour, ten stagecoaches weight worth in gold, even an elephant’s weight worth in jewellery from all over the world. If that’s not enough, property, an entire street’s worth in arguably the most expensive region inside the capital. It’s akin to winning the lottery multiple times.
“It is real and legal, but I disagree on your worth. This requires a great deal of commitment. So, if you back out or die, this "dowry" is meaningless.”
And that’s the cost, a loveless marriage which could end with my demise. It’s safe to say that being offered the GDP of a microstate stops one caring about their wellbeing.
Summarising the contract as best I can while ignoring the legal terminology, there are a few key pieces of info that aren’t vague. This sham is to last three years; I’ll essentially be grounded to my wife's residence, my work inside the guild is to be handed over to my spouse, and no food or water is allowed to be consumed unless brought by a maid named Anna. I’m unaware who that is.
“Please note I will try my hardest to keep you safe from any threat, but in this line of work, there isn’t a single day without risk.”
‘I think she’s misjudging just how little self-respect I have... I guess I'm similar to Frost on that. There is a whole lot more I’d do for a whole lot less.’
Trying to steady my game face while this masked woman continues to hide hers, I must know a few more things. My fiancé is listed multiple times throughout the contract, but I still want to confirm it.
“If my intuition is right, then I’m pretty sure I know who I’m speaking to. So, can you confirm... Your Highness?"
Answering my question without a word but instead action, a face of pure perfection and a head full of crimson hair appears across the table. Yet behind the veil of beauty, an unamused expression sits, as if there isn’t a single thing in this world that could please her. It’s almost a doll-like expression.
‘Crown Princess Ashia Koenig. They really breed them differently in the castle, huh.’
As quickly as she appears, she disappears back beneath the hood and mask. A moment later, and we’re back to conversing again.
“You can never be too careful. So then, Frost. What are your thoughts?”
The urge to sell myself away to another is overwhelming, but I must suppress that urge and put on an act for now.
“Hmm… hypothetically speaking, what happens if I were to refuse? And what about my father’s legacy he worked so hard to provide for me?”
I couldn’t give a toss about the guild, and Frost clearly didn’t either, but I should for the sake of appearances.
However, she only seems to chuckle from my questioning.
“Heh, you worried saying no will make my associates gut you like a fish?”
“Yes actually. I’d rather not be gutted like a fish.”
“Sorry, that was in poor taste. You’re free to do whatever you wish; I’ll respect your decision either way. Just don’t make out you care or hold any power inside that place; I know the state of the study you work in.”
My original plan for this novel was to lie low and continue collecting a wage, maybe skim a small percentage off the books, then hire a bunch of mercenaries when war arrives. As I’ve already said, Frost is the leader only in name of this guild. No one inside this place respects her, or even looks her way.
But why did I put up with that? That room never got cleaned, the floor is damp and musty, even the window is shattered! Is it because Frost didn’t care, so I put up with it as well?
Fuck that.
There are still a few details I’d like to discuss, but there is still an important question to ask.
“I must know, Your Highness. Why? What is your reasoning for this marriage?”
I do remember a little from the original novel, but this Princess is a mystery. This is so different from the original plot that it makes me question if we’re already off course.
“My reasoning? It’s a statement, Frost. If this kingdom is to survive, a mockery must be made of it…”
[The Price of Beauty]
Spoiler
“Oi… be careful! I’ll need somewhere to store my organs if you intend to force them out of my backside!”
The lengths women go to for the sake of "beauty". Is looking like an hourglass really worth the turmoil?
“If you would be so kind as to stop fidgeting, Madam Muntjac. If Her Highness had given me more notice, then perhaps we could’ve gotten something tailor-made. We’ll have to make you fit into this gown.”
‘Lord, give me strength. I think I can taste my spleen…’
[collapse]