mourcrest

Clover 

Clover picked up her quill for what had to be the umpteenth time that morning.

“As I lay in this heat, aware of my aching feet, thinking of man meat—”

She groaned and violently scratched the line out.

It was far too hot to write poetry about her raging yearning.

With an irritated sigh, Clover set the quill down and crossed the room toward the open window of her chambers. Mourcrest stretched out before her in all its summer glory; black stone rooftops gleaming beneath golden sunlight, colourful banners swaying between buildings, and the distant docks already alive with activity.

It was the beginning of the summer months — the start of festival season.

The time of year when the kingdom truly came alive.

Music flooded the streets, taverns overflowed, markets stayed open long into the night, and adventurers from every corner of the realm poured through Mourcrest’s gates searching for glory, gold, or someone attractive enough to make terrible decisions with.

Funny how heroes were never quite so eager for adventure during winter.

Clover smiled faintly to herself, resting her arms against the windowsill as warm sea air curled through the room. Somewhere below, she could already hear musicians playing.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

Clover sighed dramatically without taking her eyes from the view.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Lucinda.”

Immediately, Clover brightened.

Lucinda lingered in the doorway with the same patient but permanently exhausted expression she had worn for at least the last century.

Possibly two.

Clover hurried toward her and wrapped her arms tightly around the older half-elf before she could protest.

“Oh, Luci, I am melting,” Clover groaned dramatically. “I swear the sun itself has declared war upon me. I think I may spend the morning at the beach before I perish entirely.”

With a wicked grin, she held up a particularly unacceptable summer garment.

“You could join me?”

Lucinda snatched the fabric from her hands immediately.

“Absolutely not.”

Clover laughed.

Lucinda had cared for her since she was a babe, and in many ways had been more of a mother to her than her own ever had. Though, admittedly, running away with a dragonborn circus performer did sound rather romantic.

“Well hush now,” Lucinda muttered, already gathering discarded clothes from around the room. “This kingdom would fall apart entirely without me.”

Then her expression shifted.

Ah.

Father mood.

“No, Clover, listen to me,” Lucinda said more seriously. “Your father wishes to speak with you before you go galivanting around Mourcrest half-dressed. And for the love of the gods, do not try to get clever with him today.”

Clover grimaced.

Unfortunately, getting clever with her father was one of her favourite hobbies.

Still, she respected Lucinda enough to behave.

Mostly.

“Fine,” Clover sighed, reaching for her satchel. “I’ll speak to him now.”

She paused before the mirror, quickly checking her appearance.

Despite the suffocating heat, she made certain nothing inappropriate was visible. Her father had spent years reminding her that a lady — especially one of noble standing — ought to dress modestly. Particularly, he insisted, a woman of her... proportions.

Clover, however, happened to think herself quite sexy.

And, judging by certain experiences in taverns, many others agreed.

Still, before entering the royal advisor’s chambers, she ensured every curve was properly concealed and that the sprawling tattoo winding down her back remained completely hidden beneath layers of black fabric.

Gods.

If her father ever saw it, the man would suffer an aneurysm on the spot.

As though reading her mind, Lucinda stepped forward and draped a dark shawl over Clover’s shoulders, covering both her chest and back entirely. The heavy fabric fell almost to her knees.

The heat instantly became unbearable.

Wonderful.

Hopefully the meeting would be brief.

....

Clover approached her father’s chambers quietly, though the heavy heat made even walking feel exhausting.

Her father sat hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously across several sheets of parchment. Judging by the deep crease between his brows and the increasingly aggressive stabbing of his quill, his mood remained firmly fixed at its usual level of miserable.

The summer heat clearly had not improved it.

Lord Valcaryn was a short human man, barely reaching Clover’s height despite her own modest stature for a half-elf. He was stout around the middle, balding, and permanently carried the exhausted expression of a man who believed the entire kingdom rested solely upon his shoulders.

Unfortunately, he also possessed Clover’s eyes.

Sharp. Piercing. Difficult to lie to.

He didn’t notice her standing there until she deliberately cleared her throat.

He nearly launched from his chair.

“GODS ABOVE, CLOVER!” he shouted, clutching at his chest as his quill scratched violently across the parchment. “You frightened the shit out of me!”

Clover bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.

“Oh, Father, I do apologise,” she said sweetly, folding her arms with a slight smirk. “I assumed you were expecting me.”

Her father glared at her over the edge of his desk.

“You know perfectly well that when I’m working, I am to be approached gently. My heart is barely functioning as it is.”

Clover highly doubted that.

“What did you wish to speak about, Father?” she asked, already bored of being shouted at.

“Sit.”

He pointed toward a leather chair opposite the desk.

Clover stared at it.

Firstly, the chair was offensively small.

Secondly, the leather had absorbed enough heat to roast a chicken.

And thirdly — though she suspected this was intentional on her father’s part — her hips would absolutely not fit comfortably within its narrow wooden arms.

“No, thank you,” Clover replied smoothly. “I would rather not melt into your furniture.”

“Very well,” he muttered.

Her father leaned back with a sigh, rubbing at his temples.

“As you are aware, festival season begins in three days. Mourcrest will soon be flooded with travellers, adventurers, merchants, nobles, performers—”

“And idiots,” Clover added.

“Yes,” he snapped. “And idiots.”

He pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, and despite herself, Clover instinctively stepped forward to help him out of the chair.

His expression softened only slightly.

“This kingdom is vulnerable at present, Clover,” he continued. “More than usual.”

“Father, I am always careful—”

“I know it is not your fault people keep attempting to kidnap you,” he interrupted. “But whether they seek information, leverage, or ransom money hardly matters. You are still a target.”

Clover stiffened slightly.

She hated the way he spoke about it so casually, as though she were some valuable object to be stolen and traded.

“I handled the last few attempts perfectly well,” she argued. “Without so much as a scratch.”

“Yes, and very impressive that was,” her father muttered. “But a lady wielding daggers and threatening grown men is hardly ideal behaviour.”

Clover folded her arms tighter.

“It makes you appear...” He hesitated awkwardly. “Less desirable.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Clover deadpanned.

“You need protection.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You cannot force a guard upon me.”

“I absolutely can,” he replied sharply. “I am the Royal Advisor.”

“And I am not royalty, so perhaps you can shove your advi—”

“Oh, Clover,” Lucinda interrupted quickly from the doorway.

Both of them turned.

Lucinda offered Clover a look that very clearly said do not make me separate the two of you again.

“We only worry about you, darling,” she said gently. “Please, at least consider it. You would be allowed to choose your own protector, and it would only be for the summer.”

Clover glanced back toward her father.

He looked approximately one argument away from collapsing into the grave out of pure stubbornness.

With a long sigh, she pressed her fingers against her forehead.

“I shall think about it.”

“It is not a choice,” her father grumbled immediately. “I want you safe, Clover. Why must you oppose me in everything?”

“Because it is enjoyable.”

“Gods help me.”

Clover rolled her eyes dramatically.

Truthfully, she disliked the idea of constant company immensely. She enjoyed solitude. Poetry. Quiet mornings.

And, occasionally, very poor decisions in taverns.

A personal guard would severely complicate all three.

“Three days,” her father continued. “I will gather the finest protectors Mourcrest has to offer, and you may choose from among them.”

Clover sighed again, already exhausted by the entire conversation.

“Fine.”

Without another word, she turned and swept from the chambers before either of them could continue.

The moment she stepped outside, the cooler sea breeze drifting through the palace corridors felt like freedom itself.

Three days until festival season.

Three days until the city filled with beautiful strangers, reckless adventurers, drunken mistakes, and endless possibilities.

Clover smiled to herself as she headed toward the beach.

Three days for some fun.

Challenge accepted.