Look — I wasn't planning to break the rules.
But after the obstacle course? After vaulting over their holy barricade like a mud-slicked legend and walking off to stunned silence?
Gods. I felt invincible.
One clean win. One gasp-worthy, banner-shaking moment. No whip. No slogans hurled at my back. Even Clarity hadn't found her voice for a whole thirty seconds. That's basically a standing ovation in Sisterhood terms.
So yeah. I was basking.
And basking leads to boredom.
And boredom leads to very stupid ideas.
Like sweet, buttery, midnight-stupid ideas.
I sat up in the dark, hammock swaying gently under me. Around us, the camp snored in various flavors of exhausted martyrdom. Someone farted across the way — delicately. A bunting flapped against a post like it, too, was considering rebellion.
I turned my head.
"Psst. Loma."
No answer. Just a curled lump of noble-born despair in the next hammock.
"Loma."
A grunt. "What."
"You awake?"
"No."
"Perfect. Let's go."
That got her. She sat up slow, like she expected the hammock to betray her. Hair tangled. Eyes suspicious.
"Go where?"
I grinned. Teeth and intention. "The kitchen tent."
She blinked. "No."
"Oh come on. I've seen where they stash the good stuff. Quartermaster's got a whole crate of dried peaches just sitting there like sin."
"No," she hissed. "Gods, are you mad? After the last time?"
"Which time? You'll have to be more specific. My list of infractions is growing legs."
"Clarity hates you."
"And?"
"And she'll flay you. Us. If we get caught—"
"We won't get caught." I swung out of the hammock and landed soft. Bare feet. Nimble. Ready.
Loma stared at me like I'd grown horns. "You literally said that before climbing the statue."
"That was different. That statue needed climbing. For morale."
"It was a phallic monument to Sister Unity."
"Exactly." I reached for my sash. Loosened it. "You coming or not?"
She groaned. A long, noble, internally-suffering groan. "Why are you like this."
"Trauma, talent, and a very flexible moral compass." I tossed her a spare cloth wrap. "Also? You'll thank me when you're chewing on a honey bun and not bitter regret."
She caught it. Froze.
Then… sighed.
Gods, I love when they sigh. It's the sound of common sense collapsing.
Five minutes later, we were two shadows slipping between tents. Barefoot. Silent. Smelling faintly of sweat and defiance.
Camp looked different at night. Less disciplined. More… honest. The torches were dying. The chants had gone to bed. No sermons. No crops. Just the creak of canvas, the chirp of crickets, and the kind of silence that makes you feel like you're getting away with something.
I glanced at Loma. She was pale, eyes wide, hands clenched.
"You sure you're a princess?" I whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you sneak like a peasant."
She elbowed me.
I grinned wider.
And then we saw the tent.
The one with the reinforced flap and the faintest glow of candlelight inside.
Bingo.
We crept closer.
The flap creaked as I lifted it, slow as sin. Inside: sacks, crates, bundles tied with twine. Smells hit first — flour, smoked meat, pickled something-or-other, and the faint dreamy whiff of dried plum and vinegar that meant buns.
No guards in sight.
But from the tent just behind, the unmistakable rhythm of stifled giggles. A low, playful grunt. A female voice murmuring something about "rations not being the only thing that need counting."
Loma froze beside me. "Oh."
I arched a brow. "Professionalism. Sisterhood style."
"Is that the quartermaster?"
"Unless we've got a new moaner in the ranks, yeah."
She covered her mouth. Stifled a laugh. I shot her a grin and slipped inside.
The tent was warm, cluttered, wonderful. I dove straight for a crate near the back — the one I'd seen her open during inventory. Lid popped. Bingo. Dried fruit, candied ginger, honey crackers, soft little date rolls wrapped in oiled paper.
"Feast of the gods," I whispered. "Gods with no self-control."
Loma crept in behind me, still glancing nervously toward the flap. "We shouldn't—"
"Too late."
I shoved a cracker in her mouth. Her eyes went wide. She chewed.
"Okay," she mumbled, mouth full. "Oh gods. Okay."
We dropped to the floor, half-hidden behind sacks of barley. I tore open bundles, passed her a dried peach, bit into one myself. Sweet. Sticky. Perfect.
We chewed. We giggled. We devoured. Two criminals in a pantry cathedral, worshiping at the altar of gluttony.
Then I saw it.
Tucked behind a basket of onions, half-wrapped in a moth-eaten towel: a squat brown bottle, dust-coated and glorious. I reached for it.
"Ooh," I cooed. "Hello, soldier."
"What is it?"
I turned it so she could read the faded label. Her eyes widened.
"Stout," she breathed.
"Spiced," I added, plucking the cork. "Aged. Possibly cursed."
"Don't you dare—"
Pop.
The cork flew with a gentle thud into a sack of lentils.
I raised the bottle to my lips.
I took a swig.
Fire. Spice. Burnt caramel. Liquid rebellion.
"Oh gods," I hissed. "That's good."
"Let me—" Loma whispered, reaching.
I handed it over.
She sniffed it. Wrinkled her nose. Took the tiniest sip imaginable.
And immediately went pink-cheeked and wide‑eyed.
"Oh. Oh that's nice."
"Right?"
I grabbed it back and drank again. Warmth spread from my throat all the way to my toes. My limbs felt loose. My brain felt lighter. My problems… well, they were still there, but slightly fuzzy around the edges.
Loma giggled.
Actual giggle. High, breathy, scandalized.
"Stop that," I whispered. "You sound like a noblewoman discovering common bread."
"I am a noblewoman," she snorted, grabbing a honey bun with both hands and devouring it like a starving wolf cub. Powdered sugar dusted her chin.
"Princess of Tanagra, heir of crumbs," I muttered.
She swatted at me. Missed entirely.
Gods, she was drunk already.
We were midway through the bun pile, halfway through the stout, and fully through our sense of self-preservation when it happened.
The spoon.
A single, traitorous wooden ladle, perched too close to the edge of a crate.
Loma brushed it with her elbow.
KLINK.
The sound was deafening in the quiet tent.
We froze.
The giggling in the next tent didn't stop — but the rhythm shifted. A shuffle. A pause. Someone clearing their throat.
Then footsteps.
Heavy ones.
Coming our way.
"Shitshitshit—" I grabbed Loma's arm and dragged her toward the back, weaving between sacks and crates. She stumbled, giggling, tripping over her own feet.
"Saya," she whispered, panicked and breathless, "this was a bad idea—"
"Now you say it?!"
A silhouette darkened the flap.
Torchlight flickered inside.
Quartermaster.
And her… companion.
I grabbed Loma's wrist. "Move."
But she didn't. She froze like a startled deer, buns falling from her hands.
"Is someone in here?" the quartermaster barked.
I shoved Loma behind a stack of barley sacks — too slowly — and slid into the shadows on the opposite side just as a torch stabbed into the tent.
"Who's there?! Show yourselves!"
Loma gasped. Loud. Too loud.
The quartermaster's head snapped toward her.
"Sister? What are you doing—"
Loma stumbled forward out of hiding, tears already springing to her eyes, drunk and terrified.
"I— I— I'm sorry—"
"Were you stealing rations?!"
And then, the moment that would burn itself into the darkest corner of my soul:
Loma's gaze darted toward me. Just for an instant.
A flicker of pleading.
A flicker of fear.
A flicker of survival.
And then—
"It was Saya!" she blurted. "Saya brought me! She did it! She said we wouldn't get caught!"
The world went very still.
The quartermaster inhaled sharply.
I closed my eyes.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then I moved.
Quiet. Fast. Through the back flap and into the night, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. The shadows swallowed me whole as Loma's sobbing explanation echoed behind me.
"…she made me… I didn't want to… please don't tell Sister Clarity…"
I didn't stop running until the campfire glow was just a smear behind me.
Hands on knees, breath burning, stomach twisting, I whispered into the dark:
"Oh, Loma… you little traitor."
But the worst part?
I couldn't even blame her.
Not yet.
Not quite.