"Where are we headed?"

Raising his flask to his lips, Devin closed his eyes, taking a sip before turning to the girl before him.

"Fasden," he replied a matter-of-factly, and went back to swirling the liquid in his leather flask.

Amita, his father's most trusted spy with no respect for boundaries, took a seat next to him, and he prepared himself for another question. "If you could tell me why, I would be able to help you, Devin."

She said his name like someone who knew that saying it could get him killed, and perhaps she wanted that. If it was up to him, he would be journeying to Fasden with no one but his horse for company.

If she betrayed him, he wouldn't be surprised. Life had treated him so well that each step felt like a step to his death anyway.

He stood up, tucked the flask in his saddlebag and mounted his horse. He didn't owe her an answer, he didn't owe her anything at all.

"Your Highness!" Amita hurried to him, catching hold of his stirrups before he could. "I apologize, you have been through enough," she said, her expression sincere as she spoke to him. "However, I need you to understand that you cannot infiltrate a group of ruffians without my help. I have been trained specifically for missions like these."

There was a long silence as Devin's gaze shifted to their surroundings. They were nearing the desert, the rocky plains of the capital long gone. It was almost evening, the sun would set and they would have to set up camp soon. He found himself missing the party of nobles, guards and servants, all fleeing to the Western Palace in Madrow with a quarter of the King's army.

All because of them.

His breathing sped up and his chest tightened for the millionth time that day. He clenched his fists around the stirrups in an effort to calm himself.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, he'd make sure each and every raider was flogged to death.

He gave Amita a small nod, sliding off the horse to stand beside her. She was strikingly beautiful, her defined features and dark hair plaited to her side adding to the dangerously calculative way she observed him.

"I managed to obtain a raider's sword," he began. "As you may know, the swords made for the King's soldiers are quite distinct, and are primarily forged by -"

"Karo Hoyenji," Amita muttered, her hazel eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Yes, and this sword had his trademark cross-guard, but was unlike other Hoyenji makes. It was much more intricate and expensive, with the hilt's design not fitting an aristocrat nor a mere swordsman." Devin debated showing her the sword but decided against it. "The piece seemed to hold more sentimental value.'

"The weapons the raiders tend to use have never been particularly fancy, anyway."

"Precisely," he affirmed. "If I am to assume Hoyenji has a connection to the wielder of this sword, our first stop should be Fasden - to investigate Karo Hoyenji and his people."

Amita nodded, pondering. "We have always kept a close eye on Hoyenji, but your father has never had much control over the Fasden officials."

Devon had distinct memories of Fasden officials he had trained and worked with in the past. He struggled to picture them being connected to the terrors that were the raiders. 

He shook his head in disgust, thinking back to the raiders he'd faced and feeling his chest tighten again.
They were not soldiers, assassins or in any way professional fighters. It was hard to believe they followed any form of authority. They were ruthless, fighting only for money and to satisfy their bloodlust. 

All except one of them, he realized. "The wielder of the sword was quite young, unlike the other raiders," he said, thinking out loud. 

He regretted it instantly. He had been careful all this while, avoiding giving out more information than necessary.

Amita gave him a look. She didn't appear to think much of it though, for she straightened up, turning back to him. "So, Prince Devin, should we keep going or set up camp?"

The sun was still up, they could still cover a couple of miles before dusk. Though Devin would have preferred to keep going, Amita was right. He needed someone to teach him the ways of the Fasden people if he was going to pretend to be a commoner.

"I look and act like a member of the aristocracy. If we are going to infiltrate a group of ruffians, you will have to teach me how to blend in."

Amita didn't reply, her eyes scanning the dusty road ahead of them and the grove of trees to their left. She grabbed the reins of her own horse, "On we go then."

An hour ago, Devin had firmly believed he was capable of journeying to Fasden by himself. He was wrong. Amita had chosen a spot hidden well among the trees, she'd gathered some wood and started a fire as he watched, completely in shock. Traitor or not, he was glad she was with him.

"You've done this before, I gather?"

Amita handed him a piece of bread from her sack, the flames crackling between them. "I have traveled to almost every district in Ortayn. I was forced to learn."

"Someone must have taught you."

She averted her eyes, swallowing. "Moris Lasley, he was a foreign advisor in your father's court."

The name was familiar, but if she wanted to keep secrets, she could. Preparing himself for Fasden was more important than what she had to hide. He scoffed down the bread hurriedly.

"I can't have a Pesjin accent," he said, leaning forward and brushing the crumbs off his palms.

"I have associates in Fasden that know me as Naqi by heritage. I will teach you their accent."

"Associates?" Devin repeated. "Are these associates loyal to the King?"

Amita raised an eyebrow in amusement. "They used to be. You can't predict whose side they are on now, can you?"

"Why would mere civilians be involved in looting the capital?"

"I didn't say they were mere civilians," she replied with a smile. His eyes widened in surprise, and she chuckled, "Forget it." Her voice deepened, and each syllable in her words seemed more pronounced. "Have you ever met someone from Naqil?"

"Yes." He tried to imitate her, stressing on his syllables as she did. "My archery instructor was born and raised there for most of her life." 

"Good. You're not bad, but remember to end your words abruptly, don't swallow any letters and stress on them equally." 

Devin nodded, but before he could speak again, Amita continued. "Let's speak more informally as well." She gave him a slight grin. "Devin, what's your favorite food?"

He sighed, this was going to be a fun night.

He forced a grin, "Right now, I'd kill for some more of that bread you gave me. Mind giving me another piece?"