"No."
Erika said bluntly, too straightforward, as she continued eating her breakfast.
"Wha—why not? This could be a good opportunity, you know?"
Jean waved the letter Sylvester had given him.
"Good?" Erika scoffed. "Sure, a noble lady riding all the way up there by horse, risking wolves—and let's not forget, it's hardly ladylike. Hiring a coachman would be expensive, and we just paid off our debts."
Jean sighed helplessly. She has a point in every word.
"Well," he continued, taking a sip of his morning coffee, "Sylvester is a baron, and personally searching nonstop for a female tutor is no small task. Whoever his client is, this could be pretty rewarding."
Erika wrinkled her nose, half-joking, half-serious.
"Looking for a female tutor is… suspicious. Why a woman? Maybe his client is some smelly old rich man in his late fifties."
Jean chuckled.
"Sylvester wouldn't lie about that. He said the client is a woman, so… I think it's safe to say it's not a smelly old man, Erika."
He slid the letter across the wooden table toward her.
"But what I do know," he added with a smirk, sipping his coffee, "is that any opportunity, no matter what it is… I'm sure you'll take it eventually."
Erika raised an eyebrow, ignoring him.
Jean stood and stretched.
"But even so, it's up to you. I'm heading back to work." He waved lightly and walked toward the door of his workshop.
Erika picked up the folded letter, the paper crisp under her fingers. She glanced at Jean, who was already busy rearranging his sketches, pretending not to watch her.
Well… let's see what all this fuss is about, she thought, carefully unfolding the parchment.
The message was brief and straightforward: a request for a female tutor. Nothing more. No name, no location, no specifics—just the promise that whoever accepted the task would be rewarded generously, with compensation and potential recognition for their efforts.
At the bottom of the page was a small, unfamiliar sigil, delicate and intricate. Erika frowned slightly, curiosity piqued.
Who is this person? And why the secrecy?
Her mind raced with possibilities. Every opportunity carried risk—but also potential. She could gain reputation, influence, and perhaps even a title if she played her cards right.
A sly smile curved her lips.
It won't hurt to try, I guess.
She rolled the letter carefully, placing it beside her plate, and rose from the table with a determined grace.
Jean glanced up, noticing her expression.
"Decided?" he asked cautiously.
Erika's smile was serene, almost unreadable.
"Fine. I'll take it."
Jean glanced at her, a knowing smirk on his face.
"Well… if you're taking it, I'll make sure to write a letter to Sylvester. No sense letting everyone else who rejected it think it's still open."
Erika arched an eyebrow, unimpressed but appreciative.
"Do what you must."
Jean nodded, leaning back slightly.
Of course she'll take it… He smiled.
With that, he returned to his sketches, letting the quiet buzz of the workshop fill the room, while Erika's mind already spun with possibilities.
Several days later—after Jean had sent word to Sylvester and a curt reply instructed her where to wait near the city gates, promising a carriage of deep wine-red would arrive to collect her. He had also apologized, explaining he could not accompany her due to the secrecy of the request.
She tapped her foot against the dirt path, shielding her eyes from the glaring midday sun. The air was hot, the heat pressing on her shoulders like a weight.
I swear, if they make me stand here any longer, I'll melt into a puddle... At this point, I might just teach the wolves up north how to read if it gets me out of the sun.
Just as her patience began to fray, the wine-red carriage rolled into view, its lacquer catching the sunlight.
Erika let out a long breath of relief and adjusted her sleeves and then stepping forward.
Relief bloomed—until a towering knight dismounted from the driver's perch and began speaking with the city guards.
When his gaze found her, he strode forward with the steady, heavy steps of someone who knew his presence was enough to clear a room. His scarred face—lip to nose—made her blood run cold.
Erika froze mid step.
Oh hell no—
He stopped at a courteous distance and, to her surprise, bowed with clean, practiced form.
"Good day, my lady. I am Ser Roderic." His voice was deep, even.
"I am to escort you safely. May I confirm—are you Lady Heather, the one who accepted the request?"
With fumbling fingers, she unfolded the letter from her hands and held it up, the strange sigil at the bottom catching the sunlight.
"Y-yes…" she stammered, trying to steady her voice.
"That…would be me.." Forcing a smile to hide her nervousness.
Her mind spun as he guided her toward the carriage.
Okay, Erika. Play it cool. Don't faint. Don't scream. Don't—oh gods, his hand is huge. Am I shaking? I'm shaking, aren't I?
The carriage's interior surprised her with its comfort. Velvet seats and thick cushions promised a smoother journey, though her relief was short-lived.
She noticed almost immediately, there were no windows….
Her chest tightened.
Oh, brilliant. No way to see outside. Wonderful. This is fine. Totally not the last day of my life. Maybe they'll at least bury me in a nice dress when I'm dead.
Ser Roderic, noticing her unease, spoke through the open door before taking his place outside.
"Do not be troubled, my lady. The lack of windows is for your safety. The destination must remain secret. You have nothing to fear—I will see you delivered unharmed."
His reassurance steadied her nerves—if only slightly. She gave him a faint, grateful nod.
"Thank you, Ser Roderic."
The carriage lurched forward. Erika clutched the edge of the seat as every bump in the road rattled her bones. Cold wind seeped in through the seams of the door, carrying the sharp bite of the northern roads.
Great. Wolves, bandits, secret carriages. What next? Maybe a dragon for dessert?
Still, the thought of where this strange journey might lead her gnawed at her with restless curiosity.
Erika clenched the letter tighter and muttered under her breath.
I swear, Jean… if I get eaten by wolves for this ridiculous request, I'm haunting your workshop and shredding every damn dress you make.
Back at the tailor shop in the lower city, Jean was arranging his sketches when—ACHOO!—he sneezed violently, sending a few scraps of paper fluttering across the table.
He rubbed his nose and glanced around nervously.
Is someone talking about me?
With a resigned sigh, he went back to his work.
The carriage rattled northward, each mile carrying her further from the city—and closer to the unknown.
She tightened her grip on the letter, trying not to think of the dangers ahead, though curiosity pricked at her like a constant, mischievous tickle.
and with every turn of the wheels, Erika's heart beat a little faster—ready, or not, for what awaited.