Never did I think I would find myself conflicted when the call came to rescue my father. I always pictured myself racing out the door and riding nonstop to Basecamp. But after my morning with Micah, I'm not so sure it's the best idea. I don't know if the prophecy is about me, but he believes it, and the future of this kingdom rests on my shoulders. I hate to think I'm letting him down.

I spend the afternoon pacing my room, staring at the empty satchel resting in the chair before the fire. A few times, I wander into my wardrobe and gather clothes suitable for riding. But I walk out every time with my hands empty.

"Get yourself together, Raelle," I say, falling onto the couch in my sitting room and placing my face in my palms. My mind races with conflicting thoughts, trying to muddle through my divided emotions.

If something happens to me, Micah won't have an heir. I fought for my place on the mission to save my father.

But his soldiers are capable without me.

I'm not sure I can handle breaking my mother's heart again.

Lucent is looking to me for leadership.

The plan to get into Stigian relies on me and my gift.

I stand, grab the satchel, and bound for my wardrobe. Minutes later, I exit my room, heading for the foyer. The footman greets me, and I inform him I will need a carriage to take me home. While he prepares the horses, I bounce on the balls of my feet and watch the sun move across the western sky. If I don't make it to the meeting place on time, my escort will have no choice but to leave without me. After the run-in I had with outlanders on my way to Basecamp, it's not a good idea for me to ride alone at night. I have to make it to the market on time.

The carriage pulls to the front of the palace, and I hike up the hem of my dress and step inside. I watch the pristine grounds pass by, waiting for the right moment to pose the question that will change our course.

As soon as we pass the palace's front gates, I stick my head out the window and call up to the driver. "Excuse me."

"Yes, Your Grace," the man holding the reins says over the clapping horses' hooves.

"Do you mind dropping me off at the market? I just remembered that my sister said my family would be there this evening. I can get a ride home with them."

"As you wish, Your Grace."

I lean back in the seat and run my palms over the skirt of my dress. My lie should buy me the time I need. Mother doesn't know Micah sent me home, and the palace staff believes that is where I'm headed. By the time anyone realizes I'm gone, I should be at the Stigian gates.

The driver stops and opens the door for me. I wish him a good evening before merging with the bustling crowd. I rush toward the square where the finest tailors and galleries surround an enormous fountain. I walk around the focal point and friendly faces smile at me and bow their heads, but none of them belong to the soldiers I know.

Moving to a corner, I lean against a lamppost. "Shit," I hiss, fearing I'm too late.

"Looking for someone, my lady?" asks a gruff voice with a thick country accent.

"No, sir," I lie, wrinkling my nose as the breeze carries in a horrific smell.

A bag lands at my feet, and I curl my lip at its grotesque condition. I lift my gaze, ready to give a piece of my mind to the person who so carelessly is tossing laundry at me. A man sits at the reins of a cattle cart, wearing a filthy tunic, brown trousers and coat. A cap covers his head, and a red bushy beard graces his familiar face. Ulric.

His blue eyes dart to the sack of clothes, and he says, "I'm just waiting for my wife. You know how women get with choosing their vegetables and such."

"You smell terrible," I say, raising my brows.

"My apologies. It is but the unlucky result of being a lowly pig farmer."

I pick up the bag and look inside at the pile of dirty fabric. It smells so bad my eyes water, and I clamp it shut. "What the hell is this?"

"My wife's clothes," he says, tilting his chin up and widening his eyes.

"I brought riding clothes."

"And I bet they're made for a princess."

I groan. He's right, my clothes stand out from most of the people around me. If I were to ride out of here next to Ulric, people will notice.

I find a place to change, and after some slick maneuvering in a tiny alcove, I set a bonnet on my head and climb onto the seat next to him.

"Pig farmers. Could you not have picked an occupation that doesn't reek?" I ask.

He eyes my soiled dress and apron and pulls the bonnet down lower on my head. "I break my back for this woman and all she does is moan and nag. Statera, why have you cursed me with an ungrateful wench?" he yells to the sky, catching the attention of several pedestrians.

"You're so embarrassing," I mummer, slouching forward and covering my face.

Ulric laughs, snaps the reins, and the horses pull away from the curb and into the street. The people strolling along the side of the road lift their hands to cover their noses as we pass, and small children voice their distaste for the smell by making gagging noises. I can't imagine doing a job like this day in and day out. It makes me grateful for those people who bear the filth and smell for our community.

"What the hell are you hauling in this thing? It smells like pig shit," I say, pressing my dress' sleeve to my nose, but the coarse fabric doesn't smell much better.

"Close. It's barrels of manure, nature's deterrent."

We stop behind another wagon, waiting in line with the rest of the farmers and merchants heading out of the capital and back to their towns. I fidget while watching the guards climb into the wagons to check their contents and examine the travelers' papers, making sure no one is stealing goods. They take their time reading over the documents and matching them with the descriptions of their owners before letting them leave the city.

We move closer to the front of the line, and I whisper, "They're going to recognize me."

Ulric reaches behind him and claps his hands together before running his palms down my cheeks. My eyes bulge and I fight not to gag, shoving his arms.

He directs the horses forward, stopping at the checkpoint. "Don't ya worry, lass. There is no reason to push me away. Even covered in shit, I love ya."

"Identification papers," the guard says, curling his lip and turning his face to his shoulder.

"Sorry," Ulric says, fumbling around the inside of his coat. "The missus is having one of those days where she doesn't feel her best. I was just reassuring her that I only have eyes for her."

"I just need your papers, sir."

Ulric hands him the documents covered in the shit he wiped on my face. The guard clamps his mouth shut and holds the papers with the tips of his fingers, attempting to read them while turning away for gulps of fresh air.

"Ya need to look in the barrels too? They're packed with fresh dung?" Ulric asks.

The guard shakes his head and hands back the documents. "No. There is no need. Off with you."

I wait until we round the corner and jump from my seat, wiping my face with my apron. "That was absolutely foul!"

"It worked, didn't it?" Ulric says, between bouts of laughter.

It worked, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. I yank off the bonnet, toss it in the wagon's bed, and do the same with the apron. Unlacing the top of the plain, dingy dress, I fall back into the seat next to him and cross my arms over my chest.

"Come on, nanny goat. What's an adventure if we don't get a little dirty? Besides, I know a certain general who has spent the last month moping around. He'll be happy to see you no matter the condition of your hygienic state."

I glance at Ulric from the corner of my eye, and my lips tilt up. "He's been moping?"

"I've never seen him so out of sorts. Whatever the two of you have is good for him. You're good for him, Elle."

The rest of the way to Basecamp, I'm enthralled by thoughts of Kyron. The stench wafting from me, the battle ahead, rescuing my father, it all shifts to the back of my mind, and he takes precedence. I thought time would calm the feelings I have for him, but the weeks we've spent apart have only intensified them. Sometimes it's like I'm missing a vital part of my being.

At night, I lay in bed thinking about him, with my fingers between my legs. I miss the way he feels, smells, talks, and how he touches me. Try as I might to ebb my desire for him, I can never satisfy myself the way he can.

When we pull into camp, I'm worked up by my thoughts of him. I bound from the wagon with my satchel, race to my old quarters, and fill the tub with cold water. I sinkinside, but it does nothing to ease my aching body and the gaping hold inside my chest. No, only one person can fill that void, and I can't wait to see him.