"Papa's Roost Big Mouth"

The sky was warming into midmorning haze as the trio walked the quiet city streets. May led them ahead — cloak brushing her heels, steps measured — but her thoughts were distant. Ronell walked beside her now, Moore just behind, the three of them still adjusting to this place that looked and felt like a memory made real.

May's gaze lingered on rooftops she once perched on. Shops she once slipped through. The quiet rhythm of the capital hadn't changed.

Ronell, trying to catch up to her thoughts, asked gently, "You sure it's alright we're walking like this? Not exactly… subtle."

May's mouth twitched — somewhere between a frown and a smile.

"It's too late for subtle," she said.

Moore raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

May sighed, and the memory rolled over her.

---

It was breakfast at the inn. A warm scent of spiced oats and roasted chestnuts lingered. May sat quietly, her eyes fixed on her bowl, Ronell halfway through her chicken, and Moore breaking off a piece of soft bread.

And behind the counter — broad-shouldered, bearded, and wrapped in a stained apron — stood the innkeeper.

A man in his fifties. Chestnut hair streaked with silver. Big, sturdy hands and a belly that suggested he sampled everything on the menu at least once. His voice carried like a drum when he wanted it to, and his laugh — well, that could shake the rafters.

He watched May over the edge of the counter for a while. Then, with a casual hum, he wiped his hands on a cloth and muttered, "Back in a tick. Just a quick errand."

May's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't."

But he was already halfway through the door, waving her off. "Me? Tell anyone? Come on now…"

---

There she was — the princess. Hair tied back, tunic pressed, fresh off her morning errands.

The innkeeper had tried to resist. He really had.

But he also had a flair for drama.

"Y'know who I saw again today?" he said casually, while waving a loaf at the bakery girl. "That strange girl. The quiet one with the red strands in her hair."

The princess turned.

"May?"

"Oh yes. And not just her. She's got company. One of them…" He leaned in with a grin, "looks just like you. It's eerie, honestly."

The princess stared at him, eyes sharp, mind already spinning.

He laughed. "You're welcome."

---

"…So," May muttered as they passed under an arch of ivy toward the more guarded side of the estate, "she knows we're here."

Ronell blinked. "She—wait—how?"

May didn't answer.

But Moore, ever the fastest at putting the pieces together, grimaced. "It was that guy, wasn't it? The innkeeper."

May nodded once, tight-lipped.

"He couldn't help himself," she said flatly.

Ronell flushed, shoulders tightening. "So she's already expecting us?"

"No," May said. "She's hoping it's a rumor. But she'll still be at the place she always trains."

The road curved upward slightly, opening into a private terrace overlooking the city rooftops. Wind brushed the stone tiles. A practice dummy lay shattered to one side.

And there she was.

The princess — sword in hand, already in motion.

Ronell froze. So did Moore.

And May, for a moment, said nothing.

She just watched.

---

The garden smelled faintly of morning dew and thawing earth. Somewhere beyond the treetops, birds stirred, their songs distant but constant. A breeze tugged gently at the sleeves of their cloaks, carrying with it the quiet hush of a world waking up.

May stepped forward first, boots barely making a sound against the stone path. Ronell followed beside her, her posture rigid, eyes fixed ahead. Moore trailed behind, silent, wary. None of them spoke — as if speaking would shatter whatever moment this was becoming.

In the clearing beyond the hedged wall, a girl moved — not with hesitation, but with rhythm, purpose.

The princess.

Her sword cut the air in clean arcs, wooden practice blade moving with grace honed through repetition. Her hair was tied back. Her breath even. A trail of sweat along her brow. She hadn't noticed them yet.

Then — the blade halted.

She turned.

Her gaze met theirs, and it was like something invisible cracked across the quiet.

Ronell stopped in her tracks. Moore blinked.

And May… May just stood there, eyes narrowed faintly — not in suspicion, but in something closer to awe. Or maybe grief.

The princess stared. Her eyes locked on the girl beside May — the one who looked too much like a reflection. Same eyes. Same build. Same everything.

She blinked, once. Then again. Her grip tightened subtly on her blade.

"…Is this," she said slowly, voice low and controlled, "a trick?"

May didn't answer. She didn't move. Her silence made the moment stretch longer than it should have.

Because she was staring too.

Not just at the girl beside her — but at the one standing in the clearing. The one she remembered. The real one. The way her hair curled behind her ear. The way she held herself — upright, alert, calm even in uncertainty.

She hadn't changed. Not at all.

Still stoic. Still warm in the quiet way. The girl who wanted to be strong, to protect what she loved. The girl who glowed when she talked about her father, who rolled her eyes at her mother's tea lessons but sat through them anyway. Who trained every morning. Who walked beside May like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She hadn't changed.

The alter ego stepped forward slowly, stunned. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

"You're—how is this even possible?"

The princess tilted her head, lips parting slightly. A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"You sure you're not here to steal my crown, imposter?"

The word landed sharp.

Imposter.

Ronell stiffened. Her breath caught.

But beside her, May exhaled — not loudly, just enough for her breath to curl visibly in the cold.

She knew that tone.

It was the princess's old way of teasing. The kind that lived in quiet mornings, whispered jokes between sparring sessions, laughter stifled in corridors.

The princess met May's eyes at last. And something passed between them — something long and unfinished.

"Whatever this is," she said, voice softer now, "it's strange… and frankly, kinda creepy. But since it's you…" She paused, just long enough to let the words settle. "I'll let it slide."

A single breath.

Ronell let out a shaky sigh.

Not quite laughter, but almost.

And somehow, that was enough.

Enough to stand on. Enough to start something.

---

The city was alive — cobblestone streets filled with chattering vendors, clinking cups, distant lute music, and the crisp scent of baked bread and orchard fruit. The wind carried the hum of a kingdom in motion, but between the four of them, the air felt tight.

The princess walked ahead — posture straight, hands clasped neatly behind her back, chin lifted like a trained diplomat. She was trying, perhaps too obviously, to appear taller than she was. Her boots clicked with purpose.

Ronell trailed a step behind her, Moore beside her. May brought up the rear, quiet as always — watching everything. Especially her.

The princess glanced sideways, eyes sweeping over Moore just briefly, as though taking stock of a strange artifact. Then she spoke, voice clear but not raised.

"Since you're new in the city, I'd like to know your purpose. What are you doing here?"

Neither Ronell nor Moore answered right away. Moore's expression was unreadable. Ronell opened her mouth, then closed it again.

May, calm but calculating, gave a slight breath as if considering her words — but didn't interrupt.

The princess turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing with something unreadable. "I see that you're escorted by a trusted ally to our nation." Her gaze flicked toward May. "Lucky for you. That gives you the benefit of the doubt."

They passed a colorful stall brimming with fruit. The vendor bowed quickly at the sight of the princess — saying nothing as she plucked a ripe orange and a handful of dark berries from the crates.

She didn't pay. She didn't have to.

"That being said…" she continued, tossing a berry into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully, "you may look like me…" Her eyes scanned Ronell. "But the real question is whether…"

She let the thought hang.

May's gaze narrowed, just slightly. She seemed to recognize where this was going — and didn't like it.

"…you have the same reflexes."

And then, without warning, the princess turned and hurled the orange — fast and hard — straight at Ronell's face.

Ronell flinched, raising her arm instinctively. But she didn't block it.

Instead — smack.

The fruit never hit her.

Moore had stepped in without thinking, intercepting it with his forearm. It hit him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting. Enough to surprise everyone.

He scowled slightly, more confused than angry.

Ronell looked stunned.

May raised a brow.

The princess? She gave a long blink. A pause. Then:

"…Weak," she said, with a yawn. "Disappointing."

Ronell's lips parted — not in protest, but in sheer disbelief.

May opened her mouth slightly, then closed it again. She wasn't sure whether to intervene or let it play out.

The princess turned back around as if nothing had happened, continuing her stroll. "Don't worry, alter ego," she called over her shoulder, voice teasing now. "We'll find out what you're made of soon enough."

And that was that.

Moore rubbed his forearm. Ronell just stared at her hand.

May stayed quiet.

But inside, she was watching this unfold like a slow-moving fire. One she wasn't sure she could stop — only contain.

---

The sun had climbed higher now, warming the marble streets of Thessalyn. Market stalls were opening wider, and the streets buzzed with quiet midday life — children darting between carts, banners fluttering in the breeze, birds flitting between rooftops.

The princess walked ahead, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, chin held high. Her boots clicked smartly on the stone, though her steps had slowed since the group began trailing her. She wasn't in a hurry.

Behind her, Ronell and Moore kept pace, somewhat awkwardly — still unsure whether they were being led or escorted. May followed silently at the back, her cloak catching occasional sun-glints as she walked with her usual light-footed stillness.

The princess hadn't explained where they were going. She hadn't needed to. She was still mulling it over herself.

A twin. A strange, mirror-like girl who looked just like her — down to the angle of her jaw, the tie of her braid, the quiet strength in her posture. And yet, this Ronell wasn't quite her. Not exactly.

The princess cast a glance over her shoulder.

The other girl noticed — and for a second, their eyes met.

Ronell looked away first.

The princess turned forward again, expression unreadable.

"I thought about turning you in," she said suddenly, casually, as if they were talking about the weather. "To the royal guards. To my parents."

Ronell tensed, but said nothing. Moore blinked.

May didn't even flinch.

"But then I thought…" the princess continued, "...why waste the opportunity?"

She paused at a corner, resting a hand lightly on the stone wall beside her.

"You look like me. You even move like me. But looks can be borrowed. Reflexes can be trained. I want to see what you're made of."

Her voice was level — not cruel, not even especially sharp. Just firm. Measured. Testing.

Then she smirked.

"Besides," she added, turning again with a flick of her cloak, "it's not every day you get to spend time with your doppelganger. Might as well make a memory out of it."

She led them through a narrower road now, one that dipped slightly before opening into a wider plaza. In the distance, wooden dummies and training posts came into view. The clang of wooden blades and soft grunts of sparring recruits echoed against the stone.

They had reached the public arena.

The princess stopped just before the entrance, her hands now resting on her hips. She turned slightly, eyes sweeping from May to Ronell to Moore.

"Try not to embarrass yourselves," she said breezily, stepping aside with mock-regal grace. "This is my favorite courtyard."

And with that, she waved them in.

May lingered a second longer at the edge. She said nothing. But her faint smile — distant, knowing — was enough.

And then, together, they stepped inside.

---

The clatter of wooden blades and the dull thud of training dummies echoed across the courtyard.

Stone tiles spread wide under the early sun, casting soft gold on the lightly scuffed training ground. A few young recruits clustered to one side, sparring under the eyes of a bored-looking instructor. But all eyes subtly drifted — toward them.

Ronell stepped forward, taking in the space with wide eyes. For a moment, she just stared at the dummies, the racks of weapons, the well-worn dirt. Her hand itched toward one of the mock swords — not out of arrogance, but instinct.

May stood near the fence, arms loosely folded, gaze distant but alert.

Moore followed slower, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets. He looked out of place among the rigid posture and polished boots — but not uncomfortable. Just... watching.

And then there was the princess.

She leaned casually against the low wooden rail, arms crossed, watching her "twin" with an unreadable expression. Her hair was tied back neatly, sword still hanging from her hip — though today, she wouldn't draw it.

"Well?" she said. "Let's see what you're made of."

Ronell hesitated — just a second — then approached the dummy. She reached for a wooden blade and gripped it like she'd done it a hundred times. Because she had. In another world. In dreams.

The first strike came too fast for anyone watching to scoff. Clean. Sharp. The blade slapped the padded torso with a satisfying thud. Another slash followed — angled, fluid — then a third. She pivoted with practiced balance, steady on her feet.

A murmur ran through the background of recruits. The instructor even looked up.

From the fence, the princess blinked — just once — and raised a single eyebrow. Her smirk didn't fade, but it wavered.

"Huh," she muttered.

Then Moore stepped forward.

He didn't reach for a sword. Not right away. He just studied the weapons rack, then picked something lighter — a short staff. He gave it a test swing, awkward at first, like he wasn't used to being watched.

But when he started moving, it wasn't awkward anymore.

It was fast. Low. Quick footwork. Dodging rather than attacking — like someone who knew how to survive more than fight. He didn't try to impress anyone. Just reacted.

At one point, he slipped around a dummy's flank and landed a tap to the back of its neck.

The princess straightened slightly, no longer leaning.

"Interesting."

May said nothing, but her eyes flicked between them both — quietly taking note.

And for a brief second, the sun caught the princess's face — and her expression softened.

This was supposed to be a test. A tease. A game.

But these two?

They weren't a joke.

Not at all.

---

Afterward, she dragged them toward a tucked-away corner of the city — a narrow side street half-shaded by hanging laundry and crooked shutters.

It didn't look like much, but she walked like she owned the path.

"This way," she said over her shoulder, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I used to sneak off here during training breaks."

The scent hit them before they even turned the corner — roasted herbs, charred bread, something buttery and sharp sizzling on stone.

"Ah," the princess said, her voice lighter now. "There it is."

She led them toward a tiny food stall tucked beside an ivy-covered wall — no sign above it, just a crooked chalkboard with a sketch of flatbread and a fading sun. A stout man with flour-dusted sleeves worked the griddle, flipping rounds of dough with a grin. The sizzling made the air feel warmer.

The princess stepped up without hesitation.

"One special, and three more for my entourage," she said, pulling out a coin. She glanced sidelong at May. "You're paying next time. Royal budgets, you know."

May gave the faintest raise of an eyebrow, but didn't argue.

The man chuckled. "You're lucky I remember you, girl. Thought you stopped slumming it with us."

"I'm here on important business," she said smoothly. "Training the next generation."

She didn't gesture — but everyone knew who she meant.

When the food came, it was hot and simple: crisped flatbread wrapped around roasted cheese, cracked pepper, wilted greens, and a hint of lemony oil. Moore bit into his a little too eagerly — and immediately flinched as chili paste smeared across the side of his mouth.

"Ah—damn—"

Ronell snorted.

Then actually laughed. Not a polite chuckle, not the stifled kind she usually gave when trying to be proper. It was soft, surprised, bubbling out from her chest.

"You look ridiculous," she said, still smiling.

Moore grumbled something, trying to wipe his face with the back of his wrist.

The princess didn't speak.

She just stared — a little too long, a little too still — at the girl beside her.

That laugh.

That sound, so familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

It was like watching her reflection loosen its hair and step out of the mirror.

For a flicker of a moment, something in her expression softened.

But she blinked it away and took a bite of her own bread, chewing thoughtfully. "You'll never make it in this city if chili takes you down," she muttered toward Moore, mouth full.

"Duly noted," he muttered back.

They ate standing up, leaning slightly against a low stone wall while the city carried on around them — footsteps, chatter, the ringing of bells from a cart in the distance.

May didn't say much. She just watched them. Like she always did.

And for a little while, just a little while, it was easy to pretend they were just normal kids in a city with nothing to run from.

---

The street opened into a cheerful square — stalls selling woven goods, dried fruit, tiny trinkets, and bundles of herbs swaying from strings. But the real noise came from a crowd of children gathered beneath a wooden archway painted with faded vines. A banner above read: "Test Your Aim, Win a Sweet!"

Laughter and cheers bounced between the cobbled walls.

A small booth was set up at the edge, where a merchant handed out miniature wooden bows and stubby arrows with soft cork tips. The targets weren't far — a series of painted circles nailed onto hay bales, with bright red centers.

"Look at that," the princess said, grinning. "You two want to impress someone? Here's your chance."

Ronell raised an eyebrow. "We're not kids."

"That sounds like an excuse," the princess replied sweetly. "Ten coins says you can't hit the center."

Ronell, predictably, took the challenge. She stepped forward, drew the tiny bow, and let the arrow fly.

It hit — just shy of the center.

Moore let out a low whistle.

The princess smirked. "Close. Still lost."

Moore scoffed. "Let me try."

He handed a coin to the merchant, rolled his shoulders, and took aim. His arrow flew a little wide, grazing the outer ring. He clicked his tongue.

The princess was practically glowing now. "You're both hopeless."

Ronell turned to protest, but her words stopped short as she noticed something behind her.

May.

She hadn't said a word. Hadn't even looked interested.

She just… picked up one of the spare bows, stepped to the side as if avoiding a crowd, and without even fully stopping — loosed an arrow in one fluid motion.

It struck the center. Perfectly. Quietly.

No flair. No effort. Just… precision.

The arrow quivered in the bullseye.

The merchant blinked. Moore stared, mouth half open. Ronell muttered, "What the hell was that?"

May shrugged as she handed the bow back. "Wind was good," she said. And kept walking.

The princess watched her go — speechless for maybe the first time all day.

"…She's so weird," she finally muttered, grabbing another piece of flatbread and tearing into it like she needed to distract herself.

Moore just nodded. "Yeah. But kinda badass."

---

Just when the fun is hitting its peak — laughter still echoing from the archery booth, and Moore trying to swipe another piece of street bread from Ronell's hand — a shadow cut across the cobblestones.

A figure approached, swift and composed. A royal aide in a pale violet sash and braided hair, moving with all the dignity the rest of the plaza decidedly lacked.

She stopped just short of the group and bowed with practiced elegance.

"Princess," she said gently, "Her Majesty requests your presence. The seamstress is awaiting your fitting."

A pause.

The princess blinked once. Slowly. As though trying to force her brain to reboot.

Then she groaned — loud and unrestrained.

"Now?"

The aide dipped her head again, apologetic but unwavering. "I'm afraid so."

The princess turned back toward the others like she'd just been handed a death sentence.

"…Tea party," she said, flat as stone. "Dress included."

Moore stifled a laugh. Ronell raised an eyebrow.

May, standing at the edge of the scene, looked faintly amused — though, as always, she didn't say a word.

"Wonderful," the princess muttered, clearly contemplating the many ways one might disappear into a sewer and escape court life. "You three — stay out of trouble. I'll come find you when I'm free. Or when I've been emotionally broken."

She started to turn, then hesitated.

Her gaze flicked to Ronell one more time.

"You've got aim," she said. "Not perfect — but decent."

A flicker of something that might've been a compliment. Then she was gone, swept back toward duty in a swirl of boots and grumbling.

Moore leaned over, eyes wide. "She's you?"

Ronell shook her head, lips twitching.

"She's… a lot."

May's voice was quiet beside them. "She always was."

---

It didn't take long to find her.

May led them along a side path, past flowering hedges and old latticework vines. The eastern garden terrace came into view — elegant and manicured, dotted with delicate parasols and too many teacups.

The trio ducked low behind a trimmed hedge.

And there she was.

The princess — radiant, regal, and visibly dying inside.

Layers of pale silk were draped over her like she was being gift-wrapped for diplomacy. She sat upright at the table among half a dozen noblewomen, all perfectly powdered and giggling behind porcelain fans.

A matronly woman at her side tapped her lightly on the back.

"Posture, dear."

The princess straightened. Her jaw tightened.

Ronell clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Moore blinked, stunned. "That's the same girl who threw an orange at us earlier?"

May just watched, lips tilted in the smallest smile. "Tea time was never her strong suit."

At that moment, the princess looked up.

Her eyes swept the garden — paused — and narrowed.

She spotted them.

There was a single beat of stillness. Then, slowly, she lifted her teacup. Delicately. Pinky out. Raised it in their direction like a challenge — like this was war now.

Ronell lost it.

She laughed — actual, full laughter — muffled into her sleeve. Moore snorted. Even May, composed as ever, let out a soft sigh that curved into something fond.

In the garden, the princess took a very long sip.

Because dignity must be maintained.

Even if you're dying inside in five layers of lace.

---

By the time the sun dipped low and lanterns began to flicker across the stone streets, their makeshift group had wandered back toward the heart of the city — now quieter, softer under the gold of early evening.

The princess slowed her steps near a polished doorway trimmed in copper, its windows glowing with warmth and the faint scent of spiced wine drifting into the street.

She turned to them casually, as if it had just crossed her mind. "We're eating here."

Ronell blinked. "Here? Isn't this—?"

"The best place in town?" The princess smirked. "Yes. I did say we'd end the day properly."

Moore glanced at the menu posted outside and paled. "This isn't a little expensive, it's—"

He didn't even finish before the princess stepped through the door with practiced ease. The staff bowed. A table was already prepared.

Ronell glanced at May.

May didn't answer. She just followed.

Because turning down an invitation from the princess? Not an option.

The table gleamed with polished wood and fresh-cut flowers. A waiter approached, poised with ink and parchment.

Moore sat stiffly, eyes narrowed at the menu, looking for the cheapest option.

"I'll just get the stew," he muttered.

The princess's head snapped toward him. "Stew? That's it?"

He blinked. "Yeah?"

She stared at him like he'd said he preferred dirt. "You're a teenage boy, aren't you? Don't tell me you're not hungry all the time."

Moore looked cornered. "I just don't usually—"

"Nope," she cut him off. "Absolutely not. You're getting the chef's board."

He tried again. "But I don't—"

She waved him off and turned to the server. "Three chef's boards. Best of the house. If he doesn't eat, I will make him."

Moore slumped in surrender.

Ronell leaned back, arms crossed, but a smile tugged at her mouth. "You always like this?"

"Only when I'm being nice," the princess replied, reaching for her water glass.

May, meanwhile, didn't order much — just a small salad, something light and familiar. But she watched them all with a quiet sort of fondness.

The food arrived — roasted meats, glazed vegetables, fresh breads, and little hand pies filled with herbs and cheese. Moore's eyes widened despite himself.

And they ate — really ate — while laughter hummed between them and the evening settled in like a lullaby.

---

The lanternlight flickered low as the trio stepped back through the inn's front doors. The scent of old wood and hearthfire wrapped around them like a blanket.

Behind the counter, the innkeeper — broad, bearded, still in his patched apron — looked up at the sound of the bell. His brows lifted as if surprised… but the way he quickly whistled and glanced away was far too rehearsed.

May didn't say anything.

She just stared.

A long, tired, unblinking stare.

The innkeeper gave a sheepish shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. "It might've… slipped out. Just a little."

May's eyes narrowed.

"I swear, I didn't mean to," he added quickly, holding up his hands like she was about to throw a spell. "The princess just asked where you'd been, and I—well, you know how she gets."

The charged silence lingered.

But May, after a moment, exhaled softly and turned away. "Forget it."

She was too tired for lectures.

Ronell, meanwhile, had flopped down onto one of the beds in their room, groaning. "I still don't have nightwear… I miss my old clothes. The ones that actually fit."

Moore had already started tugging off his boots, stretching like a cat, clearly indifferent to the lack of pajamas.

The princess — who had followed them inside, despite no one asking her to — raised a brow at Ronell's complaint. "What? You're sleeping like this?"

Ronell nodded. "May didn't think about sleepwear."

May muttered without looking, "Wasn't exactly a priority."

The princess clicked her tongue. "Well, that won't do."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the room.

About twenty minutes later, she returned with a bundle of folded cloth in her arms — soft, clean, and neatly tied with ribbon.

"For you," she said, tossing a pair to Ronell, then another to Moore.

Ronell blinked as she caught the bundle. "Wait… what is this?"

"Proper sleepwear," the princess replied, smugly. "From the palace seamstress. Don't get used to it."

Moore opened his own bundle, revealing a loose linen shirt and soft drawstring pants. "This is… actually kinda nice."

"You're welcome," the princess said, smugness intact.

May raised a brow. "You went all the way to the palace for this?"

"No," the princess said casually, sitting on the edge of Ronell's bed like it was hers. "I had someone run. I'm royalty, not a courier."

Ronell was already changing into the light cotton set — modest but comfortable, dyed in soft blues and trimmed with pale gold stitching. She ran her fingers along the hem with a quiet smile.

"This is… really nice."

The princess stood, brushing off invisible dust. "Of course it is. It's palace standard. You may be my weird shadow twin, but I still have standards."

She looked like she might say more — but instead, she turned and headed for the door.

As she left, she gave the innkeeper a friendly pat on the arm.

"Still the best place in town, Papa's Roost," she said with a grin. "Even if your mouth needs a leash."

The innkeeper just chuckled.

May sighed into her palm.

And somewhere, the night finally settled — full of strange peace and the softness of shared space.