My feet carried me towards a distant thread of smoke glamour for over an hour. It brought with it the faint scent of food. I approached slowly, aiming for a mortal pace. My veil was up, hiding my glamour.

  To aid my mortal guise, I’d discovered, to my delight, that I could alter my outfit slightly. The palette was limited, and there was a certain theatricality the clothes refused to part with. This left me wearing a serviceable ash-grey coat, trimmed with red squirrel fur.

  I’d also found a small, serviceable pack containing my few possessions. Of my old clothes, I’d discarded all but the silk hair tie, which now secured my long hair. The hair was staying for the moment; it helped sell the troubadour image. I also bore the stubble of several days’ growth, suggesting my time telling my story had lasted far longer than I recalled, or that I’d slept among those wildflowers far longer than I suspected.

  I found a road ten minutes prior and was now heading towards a bridge. Beside it sat a camp. A huge knight was stationed before a tent made of stone, a clear sign of an earth cultivator. His armour was chainmail, but it sat over tan-coloured skin that had hints of a marbling pattern beneath, suggesting his glamour had begun to influence his body—a feat that typically only occurred at Iron rank.

  He might have seemed mighty and threatening if he wasn’t fumbling with the cooking of a rabbit.

  It appeared to be going poorly. I had never developed much in the way of cooking skills, but I was certain that food and coals were not supposed to touch.

  “Stupid bloody thing. First time I catch a…” He looked up and saw me. I waved. “Shit, hang on.”

  The brute stood, grabbing a warhammer with a head the size of my own. He scrambled to the centre of the bridge and bellowed.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” His voice boomed, reverberating through the forest and its patches of snow.

  “Taliesin, wandering troubadour.” The name leapt to my lips, feeling far more natural than Regus ever had. That was some fae sorcery I added to the pile of mysteries to investigate later.

  “State your business.”

  “My business right now is allowing you to save your lunch. It appears to be both in and on fire.”

  “Shit!” He began fumbling with his blade and shield. I ran over to his rapidly blackening rabbit and, with quick hands, pulled it from the fire. Letting it rest on a nearby stone, I sucked at my fingers as though burned.

  “Is it okay?”

  “I think it just needs the black bits cut off, and it’ll be fine.” We both looked at the rabbit, which was more coal than crispy. The larger man let out a deep chuckle.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’m sorry it appears I have ruined your lunch.”

  “No, no, I’d done that plenty fine myself. Taliesin, was it?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I’m Bors, Knight Errant. Don’t suppose you’ve come here to challenge me in a contest of martial prowess?”

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  “Would you accept a blistering battle of barbs?”

  “And lose? Well, maybe that’d be for the best—then you can have the damn bridge.” He grunted and sat down, gesturing to a rock nearby for me to use. “Damn, and from the look of you, nothing worth asking for in toll.”

  He looked me over. I held up my new lute.

  “I could compose a song?”

  “Can’t eat a song. I don’t even want sodding coin. I just want something to fill my belly. Look, I’ll be honest: this whole bridge gig is a total waste of time. Two months I’ve been here, and I’ve only had four fights. Well, other than the fae beasts, which always seem to wait till I’ve gone for kip.”

  “You’re out here alone in the wilds?”

  “I’m a Knight Errant. We wander in search of noble quests to further our cultivation. Free of the oppression of the Knightly Orders, seeking to further our banners! To fight the insidious corruption of the Divine Cultivators!” His voice drifted into a monotone I recognised as rote learning.

  “Sounds like a nice, carefree way of life,” I offered. A single fight a month sounded like a luxury. I did twitch at the mention of Divine Cultivators. I’d had enough of them with the Harkleys.

  “Well, it is—till some Order thugs get wind of you. Then it’s all ‘noble squire’ this and ‘honourable duel to the death’ that. I don’t mind that too much. At least then you tend to get a fair few fights in one go.” He grinned. “Arty though, he said we had to stop beating up the Orders round here. Otherwise, they’ll send some Knight Captain after us. He stuck me with this bridge till they could handle something delicate.”

  “Sounds like a rough job.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it! No one told me you had to stick with your bridge all the fae-cursed time. Leaving it alone is a big no-no. Means I can’t go far for hunting or pop to town. I’ve hunted everything around me.” I chuckled at the huge man’s frustration. I could easily believe he’d decimated the local forest trying to feed his giant frame.

  “The lack of a decent fight is the big surprise though. The last bastard I challenged had half an empty wineskin and naught else but hunting gear, then had the gall to complain to me about the lack of food! I beat him twice and he still wouldn’t leave, kept demanding compensation for the few bits I took as tribute!” Bors looked sheepish for a moment, and I noticed an excessive amount of hunting gear around his camp.

  “I’m not best pleased about it, but I ended up killing the daft sod when he wouldn’t piss off. Felt like he was going to try and kill me in my sleep.” He sounded a little worried, but I waved my hand diplomatically.

  “If he was Iron, he should’ve accepted the lesson. I doubt you left him destitute.”

  “Damn right! And another thing—” The Knight Errant continued to complain. He seemed to enjoy my company, likely as starved for it as he was for food. Iron-level cultivators, which he certainly felt like, could survive for long periods without sustenance, but it was, by all accounts, a miserable existence.

  As he continued to rant about why he hated bridges, a fresh idea formed. I still needed to eat, but I also wanted to talk to someone. Someone other than the otherworldly fae with lakes for eyes.

  I looked over Bors. From the weight of his glamour, I was certain he was an Iron cultivator. His face was young, which didn’t mean much, but his manner didn’t suit those who took their time reaching that level. This meant he was likely quite talented.

  I was, despite only ascending yesterday, mid-Bronze rank. An unbelievable rate of growth, enabled by an equally improbable string of events. I was technically skilled with the blade but lacked the experience he no doubt had.

  In short, he could obliterate me if he wished.

  Fortunately, he’d barely given my lute a second look. There was no reason to suspect he sensed anything of value on me, nor would he expect me to be carrying something worth his time. He’d also helpfully told me exactly what he wanted.

  Time to make friends.

  “Bors, I may have a solution to your worries. I must also reveal a small deception.”

  “If you actually have food, this won’t go well for you.”

  “I’m Taliesin, a cultivating bard.” I allowed my veil to rise. Bors choked, giving me a long once-over. For a moment, I worried I’d misjudged him.

  “That’s a fancy trick. How does being a bard work for cultivating though?”

  “Still working that bit out,” I said with a smile, though he still seemed unsure. “What I mean to say is I would prefer to cultivate mostly through things beyond combat. I’m far from useless. If you lend me a bow and arrow, I could hunt for you. That way, you can avoid leaving your bridge.”

  “Well, pluck me, stuff me, and call me dinner! Lead with that next time!” His grin returned as he clapped me on the back, sending me stumbling.