Meeting In The Market

“My, heading to the market, are you? In that case, would you allow me to guide you?”

Arthur hesitated over how to answer Lancelot. This man was Agravain’s subordinate; he wasn’t necessarily an ally. On top of that—

‘He’s only looking at Morgan!!’

Arthur didn’t care if the man fell for Morgan; whatever. But he wasn’t mature enough to shrug it off when a knight who was supposed to be his escort ignored him.

Yes—his pride was very, very small.

“Having someone from another faction as our escort… that’s a funny joke.”

“Prince Arthur…”

Morgan flushed as Arthur stepped forward and glared at Lancelot. The scene all but shouted: Hands off my woman.

And of course, someone who loved rom-com drama wasn’t about to let the moment pass.

“Sir Lancelot, at last the two of them are being honest with their feelings. I must ask you not to get in the way.”

“Oh? You intend to get in my way?”

As the ever-breezy Tristan slipped between them, Arthur could hear the surrounding knights murmur.

Not only was Lancelot famous, Tristan too was a renowned archer among the knights. Morgan favored merit above all, and had recognized his skill; he was no “mere” knight.

“Tristan, one of Lady Morgan’s strongest, glaring at Lancelot, the mightiest knight…?”

“Don’t tell me they’ll fight here?”

Arthur, who hadn’t known any of this, blinked at the reactions around him.

Wait—Tristan’s that strong? I thought he was just a hopeless romantic… Well, his archery against the cockatrice was amazing, now that I think about it.

As Arthur watched the two men trade fearless stares, he felt Lancelot’s eyes turn on him—cool, appraising—and flinched.

Memories from his previous life—being hunted during the revolution—flashed through his mind. He swayed, and Morgan, frowning in worry, stepped between him and Lancelot as if to shield Arthur.

“Very well. I’ve no wish to quarrel either. Why don’t the two of us guard them together?”

Lancelot’s gaze cooled for a heartbeat at Arthur’s reaction, then he reset with a bright smile directed at Morgan.

“Please rest easy, Lady Morgan. I will certainly protect you—more reliably than the prince there.”

“Sorry, but my hand is already taken. I don’t need you.”

“Whoa—strong!”

“My, my… perhaps Sir Lancelot’s presence will work to our advantage.”

Ignoring Lancelot’s offered hand, Morgan took Arthur’s and strode toward the market.

The desert marketplace—called a bazaar—was a sea of tents and stalls draped in colorful cloths, with broad canopies stretched to block the sun. Vivid reds, blues, and oranges burst everywhere, a novelty even to Arthur, who had lately been visiting other towns.

Inside many tents, carpets and rugs were spread, and merchants conducted business seated on the floor.

“Heeey, this is interesting. So many smells… what’s that?”

“Likely spices. Rare seasonings are traded in the desert. But there are plenty of pickpockets and price-gougers—drop your guard and you’ll pay for it.”

“Sounds dangerous…”

“This isn’t Britannia, much less a noble district. Though since you go back and forth to the orphanage, I assume you know that already.”

Morgan smiled at Arthur, who was shuddering at the rougher atmosphere—so unlike his usual shopping trips.

She meant it as a sign of trust, but Arthur mistook it for a jab and changed the subject.

“Are those… dried fruits…?”

“Yes. Dried foods keep well in the desert’s harsh conditions, so they’re traded as staples. Not that you didn’t know that.”

Morgan answered his casual question like a walking encyclopedia. Arthur felt a twinge of chagrin, but he couldn’t help admiring how easily she rattled off things he didn’t know.

He was soon absorbed—eyes shining—by foreign clothes, strange foods, and unfamiliar animals not seen in Britannia.

A lone figure drifted toward him.

“…”

“Huh!?”

Just as Tristan moved to block the girl approaching Arthur, Lancelot silently caught his arm.

Tristan glared; Lancelot shook his head, meaningful and calm.

And so—

“Whoaa!?”

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry…”

A brown-skinned girl of about ten crashed into Arthur, bowed, and bolted away. Arthur huffed—Watch where you’re going!—and turned back to the goods, but Morgan, brows knit, spoke first.

“Arthur, your purse—do you still have it?”

“Wait—it’s gone!! That kid—was she a pickpocket!?”

Realizing his purse was missing, Arthur shouted and took off after her.

“Give me back my allowance!! And why would a kid like that…?”

It wasn’t a large sum, and he had more money than he could spend back in the capital. But that purse had been carefully set aside—with Kei—for street snacks, so he wouldn’t waste money.

He wanted to follow the rules and earn Kei’s praise.

“Tch. I can’t use magic here, not safely.”

While Morgan clicked her tongue in frustration, the girl slipped through the crowd like smoke.

She darted out of the bazaar and into a side lane—about to vanish—when an arrow pinned the fabric of her clothes to a wall, fixing her in place.

“Please, don’t forget my skill so easily.”

“Oh, nicely done, Tristan!! I’ll treat you to cookies and good tea later.”

Arthur beamed at Tristan, who had loosed the shot with smug precision. Threading an arrow through a packed crowd took inhuman focus; some nobles feared him for it. Arthur, naive as ever, simply admired him.

“Wonderful. Since we’re at it, shall we discuss matters of love over tea?”

Tristan was positively delighted. He hauled the girl back and presented her to Arthur, but she clutched the purse to her chest, refusing to let go.

“Ugh… Let go of me!!”

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to take what isn’t yours?”

“I don’t have a mother!! Easy for a pampered noble like you to say!”

“I don’t have one either…”

“Eh? I— um… sorry.”

The girl faltered at Arthur’s reply—and then her stomach let out a cute “grrr,” flushing her cheeks.

“Hungry, are you?”

“Yes! What else am I supposed to do? I don’t have money for food.”

Arthur remembered the hunger of his former life and studied her: thin arms and legs, hollow cheeks—clearly underfed.

“I see… that’s rough. Take this, and give the purse back.”

“…Really?”

“I said I’m giving it. I don’t take my word back.”

Arthur held out some dried fruit; Morgan frowned at the gesture as the girl devoured it with astonishing speed.

“Prince Arthur… Halfhearted charity solves nothing.”

“My, my. The rumors said you’d order punishment without a second thought…”

“Kind to any girl on sight… as expected of you, Lord Arthur.”

“Hey, look—people going hungry isn’t their fault. It’s the responsibility of those governing the land, right? Which means we share the blame.”

Chided by Morgan, teased by Lancelot, and praised (in his own way) by Tristan, Arthur fumbled through his defense. The girl spoke up again.

“You’re a Britannian noble, right? Then why be kind to a desert girl like me? I’m not your subject.”

Wait—she’s Desert People? Arthur almost blurted out a dopey sound, but caught himself—Morgan’s stare was scary—and forced a wobbly smile instead.

“Well, that’s because…”

Just then, dust exploded as something surged up from underground—an attack from below.