The rhythmic rattling of the wheels on the dirt road was a monotonous lullaby, a steady pulse measuring the slow advance of their new life. The afternoon sun began to descend, staining the sky in shades of orange and purple that slipped through the rear opening of the canvas cover. The landscape of dense forests had begun to give way to more open hills and rock-strewn meadows.

Inside the main wagon, seated on bales of the finest silk, Paul, Hilda, and the merchant Baltasar shared a makeshift meal that, by an adventurer’s standards, was a true feast.

“Never, in all my years of travel, have I seen anyone move like you, Sir Paul,” the merchant said for the umpteenth time, his round eyes shining with a child’s admiration as he took a large bite of bread and cheese. “By all the gods! The way you deflected that stone boar’s charge… It wasn’t a fight, it was art! Like watching a master of the dance at court!”

Paul leaned lazily against a bale, a crooked smile playing on his lips. He accepted the compliment like a cat getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Just a lucky master, nothing more,” he corrected, though his tone lacked any real humility. “And please, call me Paul. ‘Sir’ is a title for men who sit on thrones and complain about the wine. I’m the type who sleeps in the mud and is grateful for anything that ferments.”

“But your surname… Greyrat…” Baltasar insisted, lowering his voice as if sharing a state secret. “That’s a name that opens castle doors, not dingy inns. I’ve dealt with nobles my whole life. I recognize the bearing.”

Paul was about to let loose a sharp reply, a cutting joke about his family that would have ended the conversation. But Hilda spoke first, her voice calm and firm, taking the reins with a naturalness that left Paul impressed.

“There are many Greyrats in the world, Baltasar,” she intervened, her serene gaze meeting the merchant’s. “Most of them aren’t worth the steel of the swords they carry. They live off the glory of their ancestors. Paul is different.”

The merchant looked at her, captivated. The way she said it, without arrogance but with absolute certainty, gave her words immense weight.

“He’s an adventurer,” Hilda continued, a hint of pride in her voice. “And I’m Hilda. Together, we are the team ‘The Rose and the Sword.’ That’s all you need to know.”

Baltasar nodded slowly, processing the information. The tension dissipated.

“A magnificent name,” he finally said with a sincere smile. “Magnificent! For a magnificent team. It fits you like a glove. Tell me, what brings you to Lutoa? A high-rank mission? I bet so! With your skill, the Creston guild would surely pay a fortune to have you hunt whatever beast it may be.”

“Something like that,” Paul replied, deciding the truth was the simplest cover story. “My partner…” he winked at Hilda, who returned it with an almost imperceptible smile, “is beginning to study earth magic. She’s a natural talent, but even natural talents need instruction. We’re looking for an intermediate-level tome to continue her training.”

“Do you know if there’s a decent shop in Lutoa, or in Creston itself, where one can find more than just beginner’s manuals?” Hilda added, playing her part to perfection. “The one we have now is… basic.”

“Of course!” Baltasar exclaimed, delighted to be of service. “In Creston, without a doubt. Forget Lutoa for that, it’s just a pass-through town. But in Creston, you must go to ‘The Scholar’s Library.’ Ah, what a place! They have the best selection of magic books in the entire region. A bit pricey, mind you; the old owner knows the value of what he sells. But the quality… the quality is worth everything. If you seek knowledge, that is your place.”

The conversation flowed with unexpected ease. A light, genuine friendship began to form in the swaying of the wagon.

“Speaking of nobility,” Baltasar began, after swallowing a piece of sausage, “the commission I’m carrying, this very silk, is for a noble in Lutoa. A certain Lord Gramble. A fussy man, like few others. The last time I sold him a batch, he made me undo three whole bales because he swore the ‘sky blue’ color was actually ‘cerulean blue’! We argued for two hours about shades of blue!”

Hilda let out a small laugh.

“I know the type. My… my family used to deal with people like that. They think the world revolves around their whims.”

“Exactly. But what about you two?” the merchant asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “You defeat a herd of stone boars as if you were swatting flies. You must have stories that would make my negotiations over the color blue seem like a bedtime tale.”

Paul smiled, a spark of mischief in his eyes. He leaned forward.

“Well, since you insist… Once, in the southern marshes, my old team and I had to face a three-headed marsh hydra.”

Baltasar’s jaw dropped, the bread halfway to his mouth.

“A hydra? I’ve heard legends! They say its breath is pure poison!”

“Worse,” Paul said, his face dead serious. “Its breath smelled of rotten fish and spoiled eggs. It was an assault on the senses. Every time it roared, you had to hold your breath to keep from vomiting. The battle lasted two days and two nights. We lost a good man, Grog the Strong, not to a wound, but because he fainted from the stench and fell into a mud puddle.”

Hilda covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smile, slowly shaking her head. She knew Paul well enough to know the “three-headed hydra” had probably been three very angry otters and that he had just made up “Grog the Strong” on the spot.

When they finished eating, night had completely fallen. The caravan’s torches were small, dancing points of light in a vast, silent darkness.

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure chatting with you, but this old merchant needs to rest a bit before taking the next watch,” Baltasar said, stretching with a loud yawn. “The order is urgent, for a noble’s wedding, so we can’t afford to make camp. We’ll travel through the night until dawn.”

He stood up with some difficulty and made his way to the front of the caravan to join his men.

“The wagon is all yours. Sleep well, you’ve more than earned it. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

Paul and Hilda were left alone inside the wagon, its gentle rocking swaying them in the darkness. The only sound was the creaking of the wheels and the distant murmur of the guards.

“Paul, are you sure about this?” Hilda asked in a low voice after a long silence. “Shouldn’t we stand guard too? The forest is dangerous at night.”

He opened one eye, a tired smile drawn on his lips in the filtering moonlight.

“Relax, my lady. If a squirrel farts a hundred meters away, I’ll hear it. My body is trained to sleep with one eye open and one hand on my sword.” He paused, his tone becoming more practical. “Besides, Baltasar’s guards are as scared of the monsters as they are grateful to us. Believe me, not a single one will fall asleep. You rest. You’ve used a lot of energy today.”

Paul had saved a piece of meat from the generous stew Baltasar had served them. He offered it to Hilda.

“Here, eat more. A mage in training needs to replenish her reserves. Earth magic, especially, consumes a lot of energy.”

“I’m already full, really,” she protested, though she accepted the piece of meat with a sigh.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gaze shamelessly dropping to the neckline of her adventurer’s blouse. “From what I can see, your body knows exactly where to store reserves for emergencies. It’s a very efficient use of resources.”

Hilda choked on her bite. Her face, barely visible in the dim light, turned the color of her hair.

“You’re a pig!” she hissed in a low voice, giving him a soft punch on the arm, though she couldn’t stop a small smile from forming on her lips.

Later, they snuggled together in a makeshift nest of blankets on the soft bales of silk. The warmth of their bodies was a welcome comfort against the night’s chill. Lying together was no longer a strange or nerve-wracking act. It had become normal. Necessary.

As soon as they lay down, Paul’s hand found its way under her linen shirt. With a familiar, possessive move that no longer surprised her, he pulled down her adventurer’s blouse, exposing her breasts to the night air. She felt her nipples instantly harden from the cold and anticipation.

“Paul…” she whispered, a warning with no force in its voice. It was more a sigh of surrender.

“Shhh,” he said, his thumb beginning to play with one of her nipples, tracing slow, torturous circles. “I like to play with them at night. It helps me sleep.”

The sensation was exquisite, a tingle that spread through her entire body. She arched slightly against his hand, a soft moan caught in her throat. The day’s excitement, the trust they had built, and the relative, precarious privacy of their moving wagon made Paul feel bold. They were alone, isolated from the rest of the world in their small universe of canvas and silk. No one would see them. No one had to know.

With a fluid, confident motion, he undressed her completely, sliding the leather pants down her legs and removing her last undergarment. She let out a small, choked gasp of surprise, feeling vulnerable and exposed, but, to her own shock, also incredibly aroused by his audacity.

“What are you doing?” she panted, her voice trembling. “The guards are right outside… they might hear us…”

“Then you’ll have to moan quietly,” he whispered against her lips, his voice a low, rough growl that vibrated through her.

His mouth claimed hers in a hungry, possessive kiss as his hands began to explore her now fully exposed body. Her pale skin gleamed in the faint moonlight filtering through the seams of the canvas. Paul was about to move down toward her beautiful pink folds, crowned by a fiery reddish hair, his world narrowing to her intoxicating scent and the promise of what was to come.

The first pale ray of sunlight slipped into the wagon, waking Hilda. She was curled up on Paul’s chest, covered only by a thin blanket. Her legs were intertwined with his in a lazy knot, and her long red hair cascaded over her own breast and his muscular torso.

She felt her body ache in a delicious way. A familiar soreness in her hips and thighs, a testament to the night’s passion. Tiny, almost invisible bite marks decorated her nipples, now incredibly sensitive to the slightest brush of the blanket. The skin of her backside was covered in red handprints, a vivid reminder of the roughness with which he had taken her, lifting her against the wooden wall of the wagon in a moment of frenzy. Her private parts still throbbed with a residual heat and a pleasant swelling.

She had loved every second of it.

She felt a movement beneath her. Paul was awake. His hand descended from the small of her back and gave one of her buttocks a playful squeeze.

“Good morning, my wife,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep, a sound that made her vibrate.

She smiled, a sound of pure contentment and happiness that she didn’t try to suppress. She leaned in and kissed him softly, a long, deep kiss.

“Good morning, my lazy genius.”

Together, under the canvas of a moving wagon, in the middle of nowhere, with no fixed destination but a shared purpose, they began a new day of their strange and perfect honeymoon.