A Peasant's Wishing Well (Ch. 1)

[A peasant travels with a busty naïve princess.]

Disclaimer: Any person in the story who engages in sexual acts or sexualized to any degree is at least 18 years of age or older.

An idea without a plan is just a wish… but perhaps this is faulty thinking. After all, regardless of the plan. a wish may come true.

In the kingdom of Drater, King Samhydel ruled with a gentle hand, beloved by many. Lords held sway over their scattered fiefs, and peasants worked the fields, their lives woven with tales of mythical creatures and shadowy beings–stories dismissed as mere fantasy. Yet one enigma captivated all: the Wishing Wells, fabled to grant the power to shape reality itself. Their hidden location remained Drater’s greatest secret, sparking dreams of power and hope across the land.

In a cramped, dusty hovel in Drater’s heartland, two humble farmhands shared a modest supper. A young Pickin hunched over a rickety stool, his soot-smeared, grease-stained clothes blending with the weathered table. His small feet swung above the dirt floor, the uneven seat creaking beneath him. Before him lay a bowl of coarse mashed potatoes, a few hand-carved wooden knights, and his mother, Sasha.

Sasha looked at her boy, thinking his attire was overdue for a cleaning. His ragged tan clothes and patched shirt had been worn for a week straight, but priorities were stacked so high that cleanliness was nowhere on the list. Noticing his eyes lingering on the food, and his fork scraping the clay plate, she finally spoke. “You best eat your taters. A young lad should reserve his energy for what lies ahead.”

Pickin looked at his mom while his neck craned and his lips dropped. “Not hungry…”

Sasha’s gaze softened as she followed Pickin’s eyes to the empty seat beside her, where his father, Pickin Sr., once sat. It wasn’t unusual for her eight-year-old son to linger on his feelings, his small face shadowed with longing. “You know Papa will be back,” she said gently, her voice steady despite their hardships. “And when he does, I want him to see you’ve grown strong, hm? Show him some muscle.”

She raised her eyes, feigning some glee in an attempt to ring out the dreariness. She quoted her husband. “The greater the distance, the warmer the reunion. Eh?”

The boy found the quote utterly foolish. Young as he was, he was fed up with half-baked pearls of wisdom. The endless hunt for a mythical well had soured him on tales of adventure. He’d much rather hear his father spin simple children’s stories than chase after another.

With a great sigh, Pickin looked up. “Dad's been gone for three weeks now…”

“Well…” The mother paused. “Maybe he's found one of the Wishing Wells?”

“If wishing wells exist, why hasn't he found them?” The boy dropped his wooden utensils. They skittered across the table as he pouted.

“Nonsense.” She straightened up. “Ask any man around the village and they'll tell you the same as I have.”

“I know… I know… King Samhydel was a poor merchant with two coppers in his pocket before he found a wishing well. Now he's the richest man to ever live and will live.”

“I know you wish daddy was home; I do too. But, everybody knows that these Wishing Wells are out there. Wouldn't you like to live in a castle, have real knights instead of wooden ones?”

Pickin looked at the miniatures resting on the home table. They were a splintery toy made from a carved branch, barely resembling a knight, let alone a man. “That would be nice.” He beamed faintly through his cheeks.

The mother’s smile followed with her boy’s. Though destitute in every manner, the mother and son had a powerful relationship woven together by stories, familial love, and the father's return… which happened that night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A trickle of sounds peered into the area that night. It was too subtle to wake an exhausted village, but the volume only grew with each passing second. What was comparable to droplets of rain had turned into a thundering of hooves, clattering of steel, and booming voice of dread. It was no other than the king’s golden knights.

A dozen men clad in auspicious armor trampled onto the dirt entrance of the village. Their torches were lit, searing orange onto the village huts like an early dawn.

Pickin, his heart beating rapidly as he rose, wondered what would bring the king’s men at such a bewitching hour. In the past, King Samhydel had sent some food to nearby villages as a gesture of goodwill, but never anything like this. The tiny boy’s small feet scampered to the front of the door. His mother clutched the wooden beam outside, her nails digging into the timber.

“Pickin, close your eyes!” She held her son with one arm and clasped her palm over his face, trying to spare him from the gruesome sight… but Pickin watched through the slit of his mother’s fingers.

Ten bodies laid across the floor in various conditions. Their heads were concealed in sacks, but their torsos and limbs were evidently torn by steel and dragged by horses. They were bloated and blue, granting a feast to the flies that hovered above. Pickin breathed rapidly, then it hit him… the smell. The smell of lingering flesh was one that could never wash away. The aroma engulfed the town, embedding the soil with putrid death.

“Peasants!” The golden man continued. “Your King has granted mercy! Be thankful for this warning, but realize this is your last chance. These men are guilty of TREASON!”

The bystanders gasped. The whole village spectated from their porches, men, women, and children were tearing up at the ghastly display. They were in disbelief at the notion of treason. For it was common for men and women of every stature to explore for fabled treasure, so how could one so innocuous cause such an uproar from the greatest mortal power?

The golden fiend continued. “Your great protector, King Samhydel, has warned you RATS to cease this search for the Wishing Wells! Any man, woman, or child who searches for the power that is reserved for his Grace, shall only find a quick, swift, and merciless end! Do not forget what we have done here, for these men…” He used his sword to gesture to the bodies. “...these men will remind you tonight, but their graves will remind you tomorrow.”

The commander pulled the lead on his stallion. The great beast neighed, sputtering frost into the air, and turned. The galloping hooves disappeared into that night, but there was no silence with their departure. The village was in pain, bemoaning the dead. Families ran to the corpses, pulling the knapsacks off their faces, only to clutch at the decaying meat that once filled their lives with happiness. Pickin’s tears leaked through his mother’s fingers.

Of all the memories of that night, Pickin felt the weight of that moment most when his mother collapsed and screamed for his father. The young boy couldn’t believe it. He ran inside and rushed to his straw bed. He closed his eyes wishing it was all a dream, but the wailing of his last parent stung his soul too deep. The boy grit his teeth, tossing in his bed hoping to wake up from reality, then he saw the wooden knight that he kept so close to him. Acting on pure rage and instinct, he picked up the toy, and with a force he had never felt before, smashed it with all the pain a child could endure. It splintered in his hand and wooden shrapnel seeped into the dusty floor.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

In ten years of time, nobody knew what happened. There were only rumors of why the king sent those thugs to slay peasants. Everyone had their own theory. Perhaps, the king’s only daughter died which drove him to madness, or the men who were searching for the wishing well were traitorous assassins. There was one thing for certain though, time had healed the village’s wound. A year after the bloodshed, King Samhydel sent lavish gifts of exotic fruits and fine meats, a calculated bid to restore his tarnished name. The townsfolk, hesitant at first, eventually felt their grief fade, embracing a new dawn. But for Pickin, the nobility’s savagery left an unforgiving wound that time could never heal.

An hour before dusk, Pickin woke up from the hay that left his back aching. He was careful to leave his hovel in a way that wouldn’t disturb his mother’s rest. What was ten years for Sasha, felt like thirty on her back. Life had to be taken at a much slower pace. With a careful step, and a glance of pity, Pickin walked past his mother’s room. Once outside, he stretched his back, popping a few joints to ready himself for his routine – stealing from the village noble.

Atop the hill stood a grand manor, home to a nobleman tasked with overseeing the village on behalf of King Samhydel. Five years prior, the king, sensing a growing disconnect with his peasantry, established manors in each village as extensions of his authority. These noblemen mediated disputes, addressed troubles, and relayed requests to the crown, proving the system both effective and valuable. Pickin, however, had no interest in royal aid. Instead, he saw the nobleman’s manor as a prime opportunity – for pilfering the apples that adorned its lush grounds. Ironically, had Pickin ever sought permission to take the fruit, the manor’s lord would have questioned his motives. After all, the apples gracing the marble villa’s front were ornamental for a reason.

“Apples for sale! Apple for sale!” Pickin, used his tall but wiry stature to wave to passerbyers. His brown hair was curly and matted, a sign he had fallen into the mud picking from the trees again.

An elderly woman stopped by. “Are these as bitter as your usual lot?”

Pickin, with a mischievous look, smirked. “Worse! I might pay you to eat them.”

“Haha! Oh, Pickin Jr., I’ll take two delectable apples please.”

Pickin grabbed two small green fruits and polished them into his chest. “Here you are Mrs. Putrine – two delectable apples!”

The elderly figure dropped the barely edible produce into her knapsack, pulling the string to ensure she won’t lose her garbage.

“Pickin, could you remind me how old you are again?”

He laughed. “Mrs. Putrine, if you’re quizzing me on math, then I need my toes to count.”

“Still, a childish eighteen, yes?”

Pickin bowed, the bangs of his hair obscuring his face. “A young heart never ages.”

She cocked her head. “Yes, but my granddaughter does. Perhaps you should try to meet young women.”

The poor boy knew about Mrs. Putrine’s granddaughter. She was quite unsightly by even peasantry standards. Her face was crooked and her eyes twitched in opposite directions. She smiled like a burn victim and spoke like a coal miner. These would have been forgivable, but she basically had every trait of an old dog, except loyalty. Pickin couldn’t quite figure it out, but she was known to be the village mule because everybody got to ride her when bored.

Pickin responded to the proposal. “Well, I would… but if she’s as beautiful as I remember, then I don’t think I stand a chance.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You two are quite matched.”

With a shot of charisma, he concluded. “Well, you know your granddaughter better than I do.”

She happily pointed her finger. “I’ll mention you tonight, see if I can get her to stop by and pick up some of these… erm… delectable apples.”

“I’ll be sure to wash the mud off my hair tomorrow.”

Mrs. Putrine smiled. She flung the rustic bag over her humped back and turned. Pickin shot a wave. As she turned back, she paused to study the boy one last time. With a gummy smile, she read the boy from head to toe. “You’re as charming as your father.”

“Heh, thanks… Thanks, Mrs. Putrine.” His voice trailed off weakly.

As she continued off, Pickin’s generosity faded. The compliment lingered painfully as she stumbled away, reminding him of a haunting absence.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

In the heart of Drater’s capital, Samhydel’s castle soared into the heavens, its golden spires piercing the clouds. Visible from a dozen miles away, the fortress was a breathtaking monument to majesty. Its towers, forged of gleaming gold, shimmered under the sun, while walls of flawless marble stood as a testament to unyielding grandeur. The castle’s splendor could humble any soul, a bold proclamation of power and dominion.

High within one of its radiant towers, an 18-year-old princess reclined in her opulent chamber. Her lithe, ivory legs glided sensually across sheets of lustrous yellow silk, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her golden hair, nearly blending with the rich sheen of the bedding, cascaded over her delicate features as she stirred. Rising gracefully, she stretched her arms, her lithe form arching as she greeted the morning with a soft, languid yawn.

“Princess Ploma? Are you awake?”

The young girl took her time. She snuggled herself out of the bed and approached the jewel encrusted door. She undid the latch and took a step back.

Three knights, clad in gleaming gold armor, stepped into her chamber, their breath catching as always in her presence. Despite their innumerable encounters, the princess’s allure remained as intoxicating as the day they swore their oaths. Her angelic face was a vision of delicate beauty -- a pert nose, soft brown freckles dusting her cheeks like scattered stardust, and rare, pale pink eyes that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Her golden hair cascaded in waves, its luster so radiant it seemed to capture and reflect the light of the room like a polished mirror. Yet it was her figure that first ensnared the gaze. Her slender arms moved with the grace of a gazelle, each gesture fluid and elegant. Her legs, sculpted from years of ascending the castle’s winding stairs, carried a quiet strength beneath their silken smoothness. A corset had cinched her waist to an exquisite hourglass, accentuating her body with breathtaking precision.

From behind, her ass swelled into a ripe, peach-like curve, each cheek taut and perfectly rounded, stretching the fabric of her gown to its limits, a provocative silhouette that begged to be admired. From the front, her tits, lush and as sizeable as her head, commanded every gaze, their heavy, rounded forms straining against her bodice, accentuating a deep cleavage that juxtaposed the innocence of her face. No matter the gown, her body radiated a raw, sensual allure, each curve an explicit invitation to depravity.

One guard, Princess Ploma’s personal protector, Sir Cedric, stammered out of his lust. “Uuh… Pr-Princess. Your father has requested you to be dressed for today’s happenings.”

She beamed in surprise. “How exciting! Did my father relay the details of today’s occurrences?”

The princess clapped her hands in a jovial manner, causing her globes to bounce. The men felt their armor tighten, their mouths dry. The slightest movements were a tripwire of lust.

Cedric continued. “There is to be a privately held feast in celebration of the kingdom’s 20th anniversary.”

“Oh…” She pouted conspicuously. “Alright…”

Despite the princess having lived her entire life in a giant golden castle, she had never become accustomed to the confines of her position. She craved anything new, but another extravagant dinner was quite the opposite of that.

“Princess Ploma, we should–”

Cedric’s thoughts froze as the beauty before him let her silk nightgown slip to the floor. The delicate fabric glided from her creamy shoulders, catching onto the massive slope of her chest, then pooling at her dainty feet in a soft cascade. The three guards instantly averted their gazes, their training overriding instinct–they knew the dire consequences of stealing a forbidden glance. Yet their minds raced, mouths watering at the thought of glimpsing the princess’s royal curves, a body reserved for only the worthiest suitor.

The temptation was maddening, each guard clenching his fists. After an agonizing ten minutes, the princess emerged in a sapphire-blue, long-sleeved gown that swept just above the floor. The dress clung to her like paint, its leather laces straining across the deep plunge of her cleavage, barely containing pronounced tits. The fabric was snug against her slender waist and the ripe, rounded curve of her ass, accentuating every inch of her voluptuous form with breathtaking precision.

“I’m prepared.” She sighed. The royal burden of procedure was to begin.

Sir Cedric motioned to his men. “Return to your post. I’ll escort the princess until noon.”

The golden hulks took a bow and left.

Once the door closed, the young woman tapped the knight’s shoulder, his pauldron ringing like a bell. “Yes, princess?”

Ploma raised a white silky article of clothing, her brassiere. “For my protection, yes?”

A guard’s helmet serves many protections, but with the princess it was perfect at concealing the cravings you can read on one’s face. His eyes watered with joy at the fabric. It was large and silky, big enough to wear as a helmet. “Yes, princess. For your protection.”

The man reached out to the bra and held it in his hands, before slowly bringing it into his face. He took a deep inhale through his nose. “Oooohhh fuuuuck. Amazing, princess.”

“You can smell my scent on it, yes?”

“Oh, fuck yes!” He paused and steadied himself. “Erm…Yes princess. This shall be very useful. If you are ever lost, I have no doubt our kennel master could find you with his dogs.”

“Splendid. May I ask you a question, sir?”

“Of course, princess.”

She bit her lip and swayed innocently side-to-side, unknowingly squeezing her fat jugs while her hands clasped. “Perhaps we should try to see how effective the dogs are. I can explore outside the castle, and the kennel master could find me.”

“My lady, your father has instructed me to report of–.”

She stepped forward and ran her hand around the knight’s forearm. “Ohhh, but you mustn’t tell. Please do not tell my father of these intrusive thoughts.”

He looked down at her soft pink eyes, wondering how beautiful she would look giving a blowjob. “Oh, my lady. I will not report such conduct today. BUT! Refrain from expressing any notion of trouble.”

“Never, sir!” Her cute pink lips pursed at him.

Let’s go, princess. Your father wishes to speak with you.

They walked across the castle, climbing down and up stairs, until they reached the king’s hall. A sturdy man was adorned in a golden chest piece. His attire was less glamorous than the guards and nobles who traversed his home. Beneath the shine, he was still the poor soul who’d once scraped by, changed forever by a wishing well’s magic. With his last silver coin, he became the richest man alive. That very day, the ground had shuddered, and up sprang a castle from the dirt, its coffers stuffed with gold that never ran dry, its gardens blooming with fruits that never wilted, its halls warmed against any frost. Yet, for all the wealth, his face still carried the rough, worn look of a man who’d slogged through life’s drudgery, etched with the toil of his past.

“My daughter! How have you been this morning?” The king raised his head, his fingers combed through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Very well, father.” She curtsied.

“Today is a very special one. Have you been informed?”

“Yes father.”

“Good! Now, I ask that you avoid playing with any of your pets today. Some of our guests are allergic to squirrel fur.”

“May I ask–”

A small nobleman, standing beside the throne, spoke over the princess. He was stout and short, but he carried himself well, as his rank was only second to the king himself. “Your Grace, the delivery should be made to all villages within the hour.”

“Great. Very good work, Sir Tinsel!”

The noble continued. “But, Your Grace. There is some rumor of scoundrels upon the kingdom. We believe a group of pickpocketers have–.

The princess lost her patience. She stomped lightly, shaking her curves. “Father would it be–”

“Ploma, you’ve been given your instructions for today!” The father roared at her.

With a look of innocence, she spoke with the tone of an injured child. “Father, I’ve nothing to do.”

King Samhydel swatted his companion away. His face read of irritation. “You have everything to wish for and nothing to want.”

“I lack something meaningful to do…”

“You have all the animals you’ve desired, the dresses to wear, and even a Wishing Well in your own room to play with.” The father’s voice strained in frustration as he presented each facet of luxury in his daughter’s life.

“Yes, but–”

“My darling… Please, walk the halls until you find or think of something of interest. Now, I must return to seeing over millions of people, most of whom are indigent.”

The princess performed a curtsy and turned away, beginning an odyssey down the halls and towards the mundane. Sir Tinsel, the father’s right hand ally, couldn’t help but gawk at her egregious fitting. That ass stole every man with eyes. They were so fit and formed with their bubbly shape. He knew the king would smite him if he knew what thoughts lurked behind his eyes. Every night, he’d touch himself to the thought of mounting the princess’ face and making her swallow every drop. He believed to claim the innocence of such a flower would be worth dying for.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

At noon. Pickin was dealing with his own adventure. He sat at his makeshift stand, tanning in the summer heat with his now softening apples. The light had sapped his energy as all he could do was nod at each passerby, hoping they’d at least steal a glance at his dreadful produce.

“I’d like one please.” A burly man asked.

Pickin smiled at his fellow peasant. He picked the most crisp apple he could find and handed it over. “That’ll be one copper piece.” Pickin held the apple towards the man.

“One copper?” He winced back. “How about three apples for one copper?”

“I uhh.” Pickin paused in thought, sucking air from his teeth.

“C’mon, boy. You got lots of apples left to sell. Let me take three of them off your hands for one copper.”

The man was right. Pickin had sold only four apples so far. In a few hours, they’d spoil and become pig slop. Pickin scratched the side of his head. “Ummm. I have to support my mom too.”

The man resigned. “Alright. Two apples?”

“Uhh. Okay, let’s do two a–”

A horn blazed into the village. Golden knights and their stallions marched into the village with several carriages.

The knight trampled into the center of the derelict village. “Attention, people of Drater! King Samhydel would like to wish upon you a very splendid day. In celebration of another year of peace, his majesty, the King, bestows upon you 100 bustles of wheat, five barrels of ale, sixty salmon, and four hundred sweet apples that never decay!”

The customer looked at Pickin. “On second thought, I umm.” He clicked his mouth at the scrawny boy. “Sorry, kid.”

Pickin could only succumb to the heat as he exhaled his frustration away. “Fuck…” He could only watch the stampede of joyous peasants, grabbing goods and wolfing the king’s wares.

“Fuck!” He tossed an apple onto the dirt, smashing the pulp across the ground. He abandoned his stand, feeling more bitter than his fruit.

In a couple of minutes, Pickin marched into his hovel. His mother was sitting on her bed, catching her breath.

Sasha sensed her son walk inside. “Pickin, you’re early.” She then saw the frustration in his clenched fists. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sell shit anymore. At least not for a month.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are four hundred sweet crispy apples being given away. Nobody is going to buy from us!”

“Oh, honey. There’s nothing wrong with a little competition.”

“I can’t compete with FREE!” He burst into pension.

His mother recoiled back, unfamiliar with the behavior expressed before her. The quietness of the room was deafening. They stared at each other, speaking with discomfort in their eyes.

Pickin sighed. “I’m sorry, mom... It’s the… erm…The king brought his ‘gifts’.”

“Oh… Well, we’ll have food in the village for a couple of months. That’s a good thing.”

“It’s not that. I was. Well, I was saving the copper. I needed the copper to buy you herbs. Seeing you like this… It just. I can’t take it!”

His mother’s arm was shaky as she pushed herself off the bed. “Oh, Pickin. It’s okay.” She embraced her son.

As his mother’s brittle body draped over him, he sighed. “I’m going to see King Samhydel.”

She pulled back her hug. “Why not talk to the village noble?”

“Because I want the king to know exactly what he’s done. It’s not just about the medicine, or the food, it’s about–it’s about this FACADE. If he truly wants to set things right, then I want him to show me to a wishing well.”

“You know that’s against the law, son.”

“And, under his rules, killing dad wasn’t!.”

There was a drawer next to the two. Pickin went into his father’s stash. He opened the shelf and was surprised by the condition of the clothes. They weren’t spotless but were the cleanest set he’d seen in so long. He pulled a set of trousers out, noticing creases that had formed after a decade of being stored. He turned back to his mother.

“If I’m going to see the king, I should at least wear something that won’t have me turned at the gate.”

Her face folded in worry. “I don’t want you to leave, Pickin.”

“I know but… but…” He was absentminded. Too many emotions came flooding as soon as he interacted with his father’s rags.

“It’s okay. I understand why you need this journey.”

Wide-eyed, he asked. “Are you fine with me leaving?"

“No, but you should know why I’ll allow it.”

Pickin was puzzled. He wasn’t sure why his mother would ever let him step a few feet beyond their hometown.

She continued. “The greater the distance, the sweeter the embrace.”

Pickin looked to his teary-eyed mother and hugged her as a small child would.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

That evening, Pickin brushed and washed himself as vigorously as ever. Black water sluiced down his skin and into the mud. His matted hair was now scraggly and wet. His face was spotless, and his teeth were a phosphorous white. In his father’s attire, he looked respectable. The cotton tunic was a murky brown, and the trousers were a deep grey. He looked at his body in the reflection of a pond and smiled, being surprised by his own appearance. He began to feel something jangle in his pocket. He reached inside and pulled out three silver coins. He questioned how, but then it struck him: his father would always bring three silver coins on each journey for the wishing well.

In a fraction of a second, Pickin reminisced about his papa’s nightly routine. Right before bed, his father would tuck Pickin into the straw and show him three coins. He’d say, "When I find those wishing wells I’m going to make a castle for daddy, a silk dress for mommy, and all the toys for my little Pickin.” Pickin recalled his response every time – “Daddy! I want a zillion wooden knights!” As an adult, he knew that his father wouldn’t actually wish for toys or a dress, but he wanted to show the potential of what they could have. He wanted to show that it’s okay to dream.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Pickin trudged along the dirt road, the late afternoon sun filtering through twisted oaks, their branches clawing at the sky. Fresh wagon ruts and hoofprints scarred the earth, turning it into a muddy patchwork that stretched for miles. He kept to the roadside, where the grass stayed dry, avoiding the damp muck that threatened his freshly scrubbed boots. It’d be a crying shame, he reckoned, to face the king looking like he’d rolled in shit. If he wanted even a scrap of respect from that royal bastard, he needed to look the part–clean, sharp, like a man with something worth hearing.

His thoughts churned louder than the squelch of the road. What was he supposed to say? “You killed my father, and I hate your guts!” The words clawed at his throat, hot and bitter, but they’d get him laughed out of the throne room--or worse. “You stole my father from me, and now I need you to save my mother.” Closer, maybe, but groveling to the man who’d ruined him felt like swallowing broken glass. He needed to strike a balance--call the king out, make him squirm, but still wring some help out of him. A tall order, and Pickin wasn’t sure his nerve would hold.

The hour-long trek flew by, his mind so tangled he barely noticed the miles. Then, there they were: golden towers protruding in the horizon, marble walls gleaming like polished bone. But it was the city at their feet that stopped him cold—a sprawling tapestry of stone and wood, pulsing with life. Cottages stood in tidy rows, their straw roofs golden in the light, glass windows glinting like eyes. The streets were paved with cobblestones, each one chiseled so perfectly they locked together like a mosaic. Merchants bellowed over the clatter of carts, their stalls spilling with color--red silks, green glass, the smoky tang of roasting meat curling through the air. Nobles swept past in deep purple and royal blue, pearls and jewels that captured the entire color spectrum.

Pickin’s mouth hung open. His village was a dung heap next to this. Eyes tracked him as he gaped, their stares snagging on his patched tunic and scuffed boots. He was a weed in a flower bed, and they all knew it.

“Hey, you.”

He jolted, head whipping to the side. A lean figure lounged against an alley wall, half-swallowed by shadow. The man’s skin was a dusty brown, his face sharp and rat-like, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Pickin pointed at himself, hesitant. “Me?”

“Yeah, you!” The figure peeled off the wall, stepping into the light with a swagger that belied his threadbare clothes. Up close, he was wiry, all angles and quick glances, like a fox sniffing for a trap. “Name’s Finny Ashwood. You’re fresh meat here, ain’t ya?”

Pickin nodded, still dazed by the city’s grandeur. “First time in the capital.”

Finny’s grin flashed teeth. “Lucky day, then. I’m a guide--best in the city. Food, shelter, shortcuts! I got you covered, for a price.” His wink made Pickin queasy.

“I’m going to the castle,” Pickin said, squaring his shoulders. “It’s not like I can miss it.”

Finny chuckled, low and sly. “That’s what every firsty says. Bet you don’t know the back ways in, though--the quiet gates where the guards don’t care. Unless you wanna queue up with the beggars? Seems you’ve dressed the part.” His eyes studied the peasant up and down.

Pickin faltered. Time wasn’t on his side, but Finny’s tone prickled his instincts. Still, what did he know about this place? “I… guess not.”

“Knew it.” Finny slung a bony arm over Pickin’s shoulder, steering him toward the alley. “C’mon, I’ll show you. Call it a welcome gift.”

The alley swallowed them, the air turning thick and rank—sweat, rot, something sour. Pickin’s nose wrinkled. “What’s that stench?”

Finny glanced around, all innocence. “Stench? What stench?”

Pickin’s stomach knotted. The silence pressed in, broken only by the squish of his boots in something slick. “Maybe I—”

Finny’s arm tightened, then shoved. Pickin hit the ground hard, mud and piss soaking his trousers, the reek exploding in his face. His elbow slammed stone, pain sparking up his arm. Finny loomed above, a rusty knife catching the dim light.

“Don’t mess with me, yeah? Empty your pockets—now!”

Pickin’s heart slammed against his ribs. He scrambled back, but another shape slipped from the shadows behind—a smaller figure, clutching something heavy. A club, maybe. Damn it. No way out.

“I didn’t bring anything!” Pickin’s voice cracked, frantic.

Finny sneered. “Bullshit. You’re off to see the king with nothing? I ain’t that stupid.”

A reedy voice piped up from behind, uncertain. “What if he’s not lying, Finny?”

Finny’s eyes narrowed. “He says he’s here for the king! You don’t stroll up empty-handed.”

Pickin hauled himself up, hands shaking. “It’s true. I’m from a village north of here. The king killed my father, and I came to tell him he’s a liar--that his trinkets don’t pay for blood.”

The smaller figure edged closer, his face pale and pinched. “Finny, he’s got no noble in him. Listen--he talks like us.”

Finny’s knife dipped, just a hair. “You buying this?”

“Think about it,” the small one pressed. “Rass needs someone for the castle job tonight. This guy hates the king--sounds like he’d help.”

Pickin steadied his breath, brushing mud from his knees. “I just need to get inside. If you can do that, I’m in.”

Finny studied him, then pocketed the knife with a grunt. “Rass calls the shots. Don’t keep your eyes off him.”

Pickin stood taller, filth and all. He’d come too far to back off. If these lowlifes could get him to the king, he’d play their game.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The trio pressed deeper into the alley, its walls tightening around them like a predator’s jaws. Pickin’s eyes darted through the shadows, his heart thudding against his ribs. The little one ahead, seemed frail, an easy mark to overpower if it came to it. But Finny, trailing behind with that glinting knife, was a coiled snake, unpredictable and deadly. One misstep, and Pickin knew he’d be a stain on the cobblestones.

The little fiend twisted his head back, his voice thin and jittery. “I’m Scal. What’s your name?”

“Uh… Pickin.”

“Nice to meet you, Pickin. Sorry ‘bout the fuss and all.” Scal’s smile was weak, almost sheepish, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

They stopped at a dead end, the alley’s murk pressing in. Scal edged closer, his small frame hunched, worry carved into his face like old scars. “Um, Pickin,” he murmured, “we’re takin’ you to our hideout. But you can’t tell a soul, alright? And when you meet Rass… don’t mention his teeth. He gets all red and nasty if you do.”

Finny, lounging against the slime-slick wall, smirked. “Yeah, his teeth are fucked up proper. Like he won a rock chewing contest. Just keep your peepers up.”

Pickin’s brow furrowed, but he shrugged it off. “Uh… okay.”

“Good!” Scal kicked a squat wooden crate aside, its scrape against the stone ringing sharp in the stillness. “C’mon in.”

They slipped through a low archway into a dank hollow, the air heavy with the sour reek of wet earth. Scal sparked a flint, coaxing a frail flame in a makeshift hearth. Light flickered over the space, revealing a ceiling charred black from years of smoke. Hay bales slumped in corners as makeshift beds, while splintered crates held grimy glass jars. In one shadowed nook, three buckets of murky water sat, rags drooping over their rims like wilted flags.

Pickin’s gaze snagged on the buckets. “That’s… what, the shower?”

Scal tracked his stare and let out a dry chuckle. “Gotta stay fresh, right? Can’t be stinkin’ like a gutter when we’re reelin’ in marks.”

“Right…” Pickin scratched his scruffy scalp, unease crawling up his spine. These two tossed around talk of robbery like it was a casual craft, until a third voice split the air like a cracked whip.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?”

A lean figure stalked from the darkness, his shirt a patchwork of tattered white scraps. Rass. His toned figure was visible through the rips of his shirt. His skin black as oil. His presence swallowed the room, a gray storm brewing in human form.

Scal scurried forward, hands up like a shield. “Rass! We found this guy--Pickin. Wants in on the castle job!”

Rass towered over Scal and Finny, an inch taller than Pickin but looming larger through sheer menace. His boots dragged across the stone with a slow, grating rasp, each step a promise of violence. His eyes pinned Pickin’s, cold and piercing.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Pickin.”

Rass's lip twisted into a sneer, flashing teeth like broken shards of pottery jammed into raw gums. “Pickin, huh? Short for pickin’ the wrong place to be?” His laugh was a harsh, barking thing.

Pickin’s gut lurched at the sight of those teeth, but he held his ground. “I want to help you break into the castle. I’ll do whatever you need… I just need to speak to the king”

Rass went still, the silence stretching taut and heavy. His small mind pondered the possibilities of having a fourth member in the crew. If the lad wants to speak to the king, maybe he’d serve as a great distraction? He flicked a glance at Scal and Finny, who stood frozen, then back to Pickin. “You do what I say, no backtalk. Shit goes wrong, your neck’s the first in the noose. Got it?”

“No problem,” Pickin said, throat tight. “I’ll keep it smooth. You steal, I talk to the king, we all walk away.”

Rass's eyes narrowed, sizing him up like a wolf eyeing a lame deer. “You’re with the city’s most wanted now. We’re shadows! Never caught, never seen. You fuck this up, you’re worse than dead.”

Pickin met his gaze, steady despite the sweat beading on his neck. “I won’t.”

Rass's mouth curled into a slow, jagged grin. “Good. Let’s see if you’re worth a damn.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

But, they were not shadows...

The stench of rot and damp stone choked the air in the castle’s sewage tunnels. “Fuck! Fuck! Run!” Rass's voice rasped, a jagged blade of sound slicing through the dark. Their footsteps roared—a frantic, uneven rhythm—sloshing through shallow, fetid water. Pickin’s lungs burned as he ran alongside the three thugs, their shadows jerking wildly against the slick walls. Scal’s grand plan to infiltrate the golden fortress through its underbelly had collapsed the moment they’d splashed into the tunnels. Guards were swarming like hornets behind them.

The four stopped at a junction. There were several tunnels they could go down, a gamble that could lead to an early end or another day. “Split up! Don’t get caught!” Rass bellowed, his words a lifeline in the chaos. He and Scal veered left, swallowed by the gloom. Finny bolted right, a fleeting prick. Pickin, pulse hammering, took the only path left… straight ahead into the unknown.

The tunnels twisted, an endless maze of dripping stone and faint torchlight. The guards’ flames cast sickly yellow claws across the walls, shadows lunging as if to drag him back. His boots slapped the water, each step a roll of the dice. “Stop right there!” a voice thundered, sharp and clad in authority. Pickin stole a glance back. That golden armor sharpened, closing in, the clank of metal was a death knell. Panic surged, but then--a thin beam of light pierced the murk, spilling from a crack above. A ladder, rusted and trembling, clung to the wall, stretching toward a trapdoor.

He lunged, fingers clawing at the rungs, the wood groaning under his weight. Each step up rattled the frame, splinters biting his palms. His head thudded against the trapdoor, the grain rough against his brow. “Fuckin’ open! Fucking open!” he hissed, teeth clenched, shoving with all he had. The panel resisted—then creaked, yielding at last.

Pickin scrambled through, slamming the trapdoor shut. His chest heaved as he sucked in clean air, the silence a shock after the tunnels’ din. He was in a room—blue velvet draped the chairs, gold leaf shimmered on the walls, and stern royal portraits glared down. A study, maybe, but to him, it was another world, alien and dazzling.

A muffled boom jolted the floor. “He went up!” a voice barked from below. “Shit!” Pickin bolted, shoving the door open and stumbling into a hallway that stretched endlessly, its grandeur mocking his ragged state. He pressed a hand to the wall, steadying his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. He was inside. Step one done. Now--find the king before the guards found him.

“Okay… almost there,” he muttered, a fragile reassurance.

“Hello.” A voice, soft as a breeze, drifted from behind.

Pickin whirled, and the sight stole his breath. A young woman stood there, blue silk clinging to her form, golden threads glinting like sunlight. Her eyes sparkled like pink diamonds, her hair a shimmering cascade. But it was her figure. Lush curves and a cleavage that begged attention, and rooted him to the spot. He stared, mind blank, a peasant boy lost in a vision.

“Hello? Are you the one my guards are seeking?” Her tone was curious, unbothered.

“Uh…” He fumbled, dragging his gaze up. “I’m Pickin. A… peasant.”

“A peasant!” Her face lit up, a child with a new toy. “I’ve only read about your kind! Though the books make your lives sound dreary. Want a tour?”

“I… don’t think that’s wise.”

“More guards to the tunnels!” a shout echoed down the hall.

“Shit…”

She smiled, undeterred. “How about my pets? I’ve got three red squirrels, two poodles, a horse, six cats—”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go!”

He turned, but her foot stomped, a pout twisting her lips. “Oh, that’s a shame! I was going to show you my Wishing Well…”

Pickin froze. “What? A Wishing Well? Here?”

Her smirk bloomed, hips swaying as she clasped her hands. “Oh, so now you’re interested!”

“Uh—yes!”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Ploma led him through winding corridors, her laughter a silver thread in the air. They stepped into a chamber that defied reason. Ivory pillars soared, gold cages gleamed, a tree bloomed impossibly in the center. Animals roamed free: squirrels darted, cats slunk, a horse munched grass. Ploma scooped up a fluffy rabbit. “This is Rabby!” she chirped, letting it hop away. A blue jay fluttered to her shoulder. “This is Birdy!” Then a dog bounded over. “This is Doggy!”

She pointed to a squirrel. “This is—”

“Squirrely?” Pickin ventured, half-amused.

She clapped, delighted. “Yes! How’d you guess?”

“Lucky.”

Ploma knelt to grab a chicken, her movements fluid, her bosom a distracting sway. “This is—”

“Where’s the well?” Pickin cut in, eyes snapping back to her face.

The chicken squawked, flapping free. “Oh, over there!” She pointed to a corner where a small stone well glowed faintly blue, birds and squirrels sipping at its edge.

Pickin approached, the well’s soft hum thrumming in his chest. Smaller than he’d pictured, but its magic pulsed undeniably.

He fished a coin from his pocket, heart racing. “I wish my father, Pickin the First, came back to life…” he whispered, flicking it in. The coin sank with a quiet plop.

Relief warmed him, a smile tugging his lips. His father’s dream, their family’s wound—it was healed.

“That’s not how it works, silly!” Ploma’s voice broke his reverie.

He turned, brow furrowing. “What?”

“This well doesn’t revive people.” She plucked a coin from her dress, dainty fingers poised. “It makes things grow. Watch Squirrely!” She tossed it in and prayed “I wish my squirrel was as big as a rabbit!” The squirrel ballooned to rabbit-size in a blink.

Pickin’s mouth gaped, dumfounded by the reveal. “So… it’s useless?”

“Useless? No! It depends on the well.” She tapped her chin. “There are four: the gold well for wealth, the Wizard Well for magic, this Grow Well here, and the Life Well--that one brings people back.”

“The Life Well?” His voice sharpened.

“Yes, is that what you need?”

“Is it here?”

“No, somewhere else. I’d need a map, but my father knows.”

“Your father?”

“King Samhydel!”

“You’re… a princess?”

She curtsied, voice lilting. “Princess Ploma, only child and heir… and the favorite daughter!”

Pickin grasped her hands, forcing his eyes to hers, away from temptation. “Princess, may I see your father?”

She tilted her head, mulling. “Hmm. Just to see him, right?”

“Yes! Please!”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The princess guided Pickin through a hidden passageway, its damp stone walls flickering with the faint glow of torchlight. These secret corridors, carved out for royalty, allowed the king to slip past prying nobles or whisk his family to safety in times of peril. The air hung heavy and cool, their footsteps echoing softly as they pressed deeper into the castle’s unseen veins.

They stopped at a cramped alcove where ornate grates, etched with swirling patterns, offered a veiled view of the king’s grand hall. Pickin leaned forward, squinting through the metal lattice.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice tight with impatience, “I thought you said I could see the king.”

The princess tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “You can see him, can’t you?”

“No, I mean I need to talk to him.”

“Then why didn’t you just say so?” she teased, her smile widening.

“Princess Ploma…” Pickin’s tone grew serious, “I need to speak to your father about the wishing well and—”

BOOM! The doors to the grand hall reeled open.

A sharp clamor cut him off. Through the grate, he glimpsed two armored knights hauling a bound figure into the hall. His stomach dropped as he recognized the boy—Finny, the scrappy thief who’d tried to rob him earlier that day. Thick ropes bit into Finny’s wrists, his face bruised but his jaw set with defiance.

Pickin fell silent, his breath shallow, eyes locked on the scene below.

King Samhydel rose from his golden throne, his regal silhouette framed by the hall’s towering tapestries. His voice boomed, sharp with authority yet tinged with curiosity. “Who dares intrude upon my court? Speak, boy, and explain yourself.”

Finny lifted his head, meeting the king’s gaze. A heavy silence stretched across the hall, the air crackling with unspoken challenge.

Then, with a sneer, Finny spat onto the gleaming floor. “That’s for you, Your Grace.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, but his tone softened, almost paternal. “Tell me, lad, what have I done to earn such scorn?”

Finny’s voice trembled with rage as he spat his words. “You sit here drowning in gold while we choke on your scraps. You call it generosity, but it’s a leash. They say you were one of us once--hungry, desperate. Now look at you, lording over us like some god. We deserve more. We deserve what’s fair.”

The king stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You’ve risked much to storm in here and lecture me. To say my gifts fall short.”

“They do,” Finny snarled, his fists clenching against the ropes. “It’s not justice.”

King Samhydel stroked his graying beard, his voice calm but firm. “Then let me offer justice. Tell me what your village needs. Food, medicine, coins? I’ll see it done. I wish to mend this rift. Speak plainly: how can I help?”

Pickin’s chest tightened. The king’s words carried an unexpected weight, a flicker of compassion he hadn’t anticipated. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the man atop the throne had softened with time.

But Finny’s lips curled into a dark, bitter grin. “I don’t want your handouts. I want a Wishing Well. I want the power you clawed your way up with.”

The king blinked, caught off guard. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Finny growled, leaning forward as far as his bonds allowed. “I’ll find it myself one day, with or without you. So tell me where it is—or I’ll tear this castle apart to get it! DO you hear me, you OLD--”

Before Finny could finish, King Samhydel’s hand shot up. A blinding flare of light burst from his palm, and a roaring torrent of dragon fire surged forth. Finny’s defiance shattered into a scream—“AAAAGH!”—as the flames swallowed him whole. The air thickened with the acrid stench of burning flesh, the heat so fierce the guards staggered back, shielding their faces.

Finny thrashed briefly, a silhouette in the inferno, before collapsing into a heap of ash and charred bone.

The king lowered his hand, his face cold and impassive. “Sweep this away,” he muttered, turning back to his throne as if nothing had happened.

Behind the grate, Pickin’s hands shook, his knuckles white against the metal. He glanced at Princess Ploma, her face was an illegible curiosity, her wide eyes fixed on the smoldering remains.

“Is he okay?” she whispered, her voice fragile.

Pickin swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. “Uhm. I don’t think so, Princess.”

She blinked, confusion warring with the shock in her gaze. “Why would Father…?”

Pickin turned to her, his voice low and urgent. “You told me you know where the other Wishing Wells are. Is that true?”

She nodded slowly, still dazed. “Yes… I do.”

A spark of resolve flared in Pickin’s chest. “Then what if we went after them? How’d you like to go on an adventure?”

Her brow furrowed. “An adventure?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a steady tone despite the chaos swirling in his mind. “Like in those stories you love? Out there, beyond these walls? What do you think?”

For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the hall where her father sat, oblivious to their whispers. Then, a smile broke across her face—tentative at first, then bright and fearless.

“I think,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement, “I’d like that more than anything.”

King Samhydel barked for attention. “Why are all of you guarding me!? Find the others and bring them here! Make sure they go nowhere near my daughter!”

“Shit…” Pickin grabbed the princess’ hand and ran back through the secluded tunnels into her pet room. He made sure to crouch through the passage to minimize the noise of his boots to the ground.

Once in the princess’ pet room, Pickin snapped his head around. He had to get back to the trapdoor and into the tunnels, but this time with a princess. He felt trapped in this royal maze.

“Pickin, sir?”

He paused at the lady. “Yes, Princess?”

“I need to grab my map and some coins before I go,” Princess Ploma said, her voice a soft melody despite the urgency threading through it.

Pickin’s eyes flicked to hers, his mind scrambling. “Okay, can you grab them and come back to me?”

“Hmmm.” She pressed a delicate finger to her plump lips, her eyes shimmering with thought.

A thunderous bang shook the room as a steel-clad fist hammered the door. “Princess! Princess! Are you in there!? The king demands you remain by my side!”

Ploma’s gaze darted to Pickin, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. “Oh, I guess I won’t be joining you for an adventure. Sorry, Pickin.” She stepped toward the door, her hand reaching for the latch.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Pickin’s voice cracked in a strained whisper, panic surging through him.

She froze, her fingers hovering, awaiting his next move.

“Stand back from the door,” he urged, his heart slamming against his ribs. He plucked his second-to-last silver from his pocket. “I know what to wish for!”

Outside, the clamor grew. Five guards now, their voices a chorus of impatience. “Princess! We can hear you speaking. Open the door!”

Ploma didn’t respond, her trust in Pickin keeping her still.

Two guards stepped back, their armored shoulders squared. With a grunt, they charged, slamming into the door. Crack! The polished wood splintered and crashed to the golden floor, revealing the knights in their gleaming armor–only to halt, dumbfounded.

Before them loomed a squirrel, fifteen feet of towering, ravenous fury. Its dark eyes glinted like obsidian cannonballs, and its fur bristled with menace. Ploma’s pet had answered Pickin’s wish, it was now a beast of legend.

“Oh,” one guard muttered, his sword half-drawn.

“RRRAAAAH!!!” The squirrel’s roar dwarfed a lion’s, vibrating the walls. It seized the nearest knight, nibbling his golden helm with teeth like daggers. Swords slashed at its hide, but the blades skittered off fur dense as ivory. With a twitch of its massive tail, the beast sent two guards careening into the walls, their armor crumpling like tin.

“AAAAH!” one screamed, his body ringing against the gold as his breastplate folded inward.

Pickin peeked from behind a tapestry, his breath shallow. Ploma pouted up at her pet, hands on her hips. “Squirrely! You’re supposed to play nice!”

“C’mon, Princess! Map and coins, right?” Pickin grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward escape.

“Mhmm!” She flashed a dazzling smile, clutching her treasures as they fled.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The two managed to escape the castle mostly untouched. The princess kept looking back admiring a view of the towers she had never seen. What a commoner admired everyday, was a new view for her.

Once they hit the alley, the stench came at them like a sour cocktail of rotting vegetables, stale piss, and damp earth. Pickin led the way, his boots squelching through the muck, each step deliberate to avoid slipping on the slick cobblestones. Princess Ploma followed close behind, her sapphire gown catching on jagged stones, the golden threads dulled by smears of grime. Her golden hair, once a radiant cascade, hung in damp, tangled strands, clinging to her flushed cheeks. The flickering torchlight from a distant street cast long shadows, making her silhouette dance—a vision of royalty misplaced in this filthy underbelly of the capital.

Ploma wrinkled her pert nose, her pale pink eyes darting around the narrow passage. “Oh my, what is that smell?” she murmured, her voice a soft melody despite the grimace tugging her lips. She paused, lifting a delicate hand to fan the air, as if she could wave away the reek. “It’s so… exotic! Like nothing in the castle. Is this what all alleys are like?”

Pickin glanced back, his brow furrowing under his scruffy brown bangs. “Exotic ain’t the word I’d use, Princess. It’s just filth. Keep your voice down–we’re not out of danger yet.” His father’s murky brown tunic clung to his lean frame, soaked with sweat and tunnel water, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the alley’s dark corners for movement.

Ploma tilted her head, undeterred, her full lips curving into a curious smile. “But it’s so different! She took a tentative step forward, her boots sinking slightly into the mud, and let out a delighted giggle. “It’s like an adventure already!”

Pickin stifled a groan, his hand twitching toward her arm to urge her along. Her enthusiasm was a beacon in this grim place, but it also made his stomach knot. “Princess, please. We’re hiding, not sightseeing.”

She pouted, her lush curves shifting as she crossed her arms, the tight bodice of her gown straining against her heavy breasts. “Oh, Pickin, you’re so serious. Can’t we enjoy a tiny bit of this? Just for a moment?” Her pink eyes sparkled, catching the dim light like twin gems, and for a heartbeat, Pickin’s resolve wavered.

“Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his calloused fingers catching on his damp hair. “But only ‘til we get to the hideout. It’s just up ahead, and we’ve gotta be quiet. There’s two others there—Rass and Scal. They’re… not exactly trustworthy, so you’ll need to be polite, no matter what they say or do.”

Ploma’s brows arched, her curiosity piqued. “Not trustworthy? Then why are we meeting them?”

He swallowed, forcing his eyes to her face, away from the distracting expanse of her cleavage. “Because we need ‘em,” he said, his voice rougher than intended. “They know the city, the back ways, the kind of tricks that’ll keep us one step ahead of your father’s men. If we can convince ‘em to travel with us to find the Wishing Well, we’ve got a better shot at making it. Alone is riskier.”

Ploma nodded slowly, her fingers brushing a lock of hair from her face, the motion drawing Pickin’s gaze to the delicate curve of her wrist. “I see. I’ll be ever so polite, then. Like a proper princess.” She flashed a teasing smile, her teeth gleaming, and Pickin’s heart thudded harder than it had during their tunnel escape.

“C’mon,” he said, turning quickly to hide the heat in his cheeks. “Let’s move.”

They slipped through a low archway, Scal’s hidden crate already kicked aside, and ducked into the hideout. The air inside was heavy, thick with the sour reek of wet earth and stale ale, the walls blackened from years of hearth smoke. A frail flame flickered in the corner, casting jagged shadows over hay bales and splintered crates. Three buckets of murky water sat in a shadowed nook, their rags drooping like defeated flags. Rass and Scal were nowhere in sight, their absence a small mercy that let Pickin’s shoulders relax a fraction.

They emerged into the grimy hideout of Rass and Scal, a dank hole reeking of sweat and stale ale. Ploma stepped forward, her illustrious gown streaked with tunnel filth, golden threads dulled by mud. Her blonde hair clung to her flushed cheeks, damp and wild, framing a face still radiant. Pickin followed, his father’s tunic soaked and clinging to his lean frame.

“Finny, is that you?” Scal’s voice rasped from a shadowed corner.

“It’s me–Pickin,” he replied, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Aw, shit. What happened to Finny?” Scal’s tone darkened.

Pickin faltered, the memory of Finny’s fate a bitter sting. “He… didn’t make it.”

Scal’s head dipped. “Probably rotting in a dungeon by now.”

“Or dead,” Ploma chirped, her cheerfulness jarring.

“Who the hell is that?” Rass emerged, his usual swagger softened by curiosity.

Ploma glided toward the flickering hearth, firelight dancing across her sweat-slicked skin. Her gown hugged her curves, the sheen of perspiration making her breasts gleam beneath the fabric. “Hello! I’m Princess Ploma!”

Rass's jaw slackened. “What? WHAT!”

Pickin stepped in, voice firm. “She’s helping us find the wishing well. She knows the way.”

Rass's eyes roved over her, a wolfish grin spreading. “Mmm. A royal body to savor and a wishing well? Pickin, you’ve made me the happiest bastard alive.” He closed the distance, hands sliding to her waist, fingers tracing the silk over her hips. “You’re the sexiest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

Ploma tilted her head, unfazed. “Your teeth are very crooked.”

Scal choked on a laugh, muffling it with his hand. “Shit…”

Rass's grin twitched, but he pressed on, undeterred. Ploma shrugged his hands away, scanning the room. “Do you men have a shower I may use?”

Pickin, desperate to ease the tension, pointed. “Uh, three buckets in the corner.”

“Oh, splendid!” she beamed, fingers already tugging at her gown’s laces.

“What the fuuuuck?” Pickin muttered as the silk slid down her shoulders, gathering at her feet. The firelight bathed her naked form—an hourglass carved by gods. Her ass, round and firm, begged for hands to grip it; her thighs, thick yet graceful, promised strength and softness. Her breasts, full and heavy, spilled forward, nipples hardening in the cool air, peaks begging for a mouth.

She brushed her hair back, turning slightly, oblivious to their stares. All three men were stuck, gazing at the naked beauty before them. Ploma turned over her shoulder. “Hmm. How strange. The men in the castle always turn away when I undress.”

Silence gripped the room, three pairs of eyes locked on perfection. Pickin’s throat tightened, desire warring with restraint. Scal shifted, his trousers betraying him. Rass licked his lips, a predator unleashed.

“Princess, maybe you should–” Pickin started, but Rass cut in.

“It’s a peasant tradition to watch,” he lied smoothly, eyes glinting.

Pickin groaned, palming his face. “Are you fucking–”

“Okay!” Ploma jumped, strolling to the buckets, hips swaying like a siren’s call.

She hefted a pail overhead, water splashing down in a shimmering cascade. Her golden hair darkened to brass, clinging to her skin as rivulets traced her curves–over her breasts, down her flat stomach, pooling between her thighs. She closed her eyes, hands gliding over her body: brushing her face, then cupping her tits, kneading them softly, thumbs grazing her nipples. She bent, water dripping from her ass as she ran her palms up her legs, sculpting every inch.

Pickin watched, cock stirring, a mix of awe and guilt. Scal shuddered, coming undone in his pants, a quiet curse escaping. Rass, though, was a storm breaking loose. He stripped in a frenzy, his muscular frame taut, his thick, dark shaft jutting free. He gripped it, stroking with purpose, eyes devouring Ploma.

“Like what you see, Princess?” His voice was a low growl.

She blinked, water beading on her lashes. “Oh, why are you doing that?”

Rass grinned, hand moving faster. “Peasants ain’t good with words. This is how we praise beauty.”

“Okay!” she said brightly, turning back to her bath.

He muttered, voice thick with lust. “I’m gonna make you choke on it. Those tits’ll look good in my mouth.”

“What was that?” Ploma glanced over, curious.

“Just admiring the view, Princess,” he panted, strokes quickening.

“Oh.” She smiled, resuming her wash.

His ramblings darkened. “Gonna fuck that ass raw, fill you up, you royal bitch—AAAGH!” With a guttural cry, Rass erupted, ropes of cum splattering the floor. He slumped, breathless, spent.

Ploma grabbed a rag, dabbing her glistening skin with an innocence that stopped Pickin’s heart and made Rass machinate further. The young girl was completely oblivious to the wants of men. She dried herself off with the unclean rags, then spoke in a soft voice. “So, shall we rest tonight and travel early tomorrow?”

Rass sagged against the wall, dazed. Scal snored softly, overwhelmed. Pickin nodded, steady despite the heat in his veins. “Yes, Princess. Let’s rest.”

Once dry, she approached. The damp rag, barely covering her, was a blanket for her lithe frame. She took a seat on the straw mattress, which Pickin laid upon, confused by the stiffness of it, then lied down. “Thank you for taking me on this adventure, Sir Pickin.”

He met her gaze, a spark igniting. “Just Pickin, Princess. And, you’re welcome.”

Their eyes held, tension simmering, until she blushed and turned. “Good night, Pickin.”

“Good night, Princess.”