A Mermaid’s Excursion

Another Prince

At a slightly narrower street corner in the northwest of the square, Bai Mu found an inn and decided to spend the night there.

The tavern door stood half ajar, spilling out warm yellow light along with the mingled smells of cooking grease, ale, and a faint mustiness—an odor someone had clearly tried, and failed, to conceal.

She paused briefly at the entrance.

The silver coin in her hand felt cold and heavy. She lowered her gaze, taking stock of herself—barefoot, dressed in rags, dust-streaked from the road. But she needed food. She needed rest. More than anything, she needed a place where she would not draw attention.

She pushed the door open.

The hinges protested with a sluggish creak. A denser wave of smells rushed toward her: the scorched fragrance of baked bread, the greasy richness of stewed meat, the sour tang of cheap ale, sweat, dust, and the bitter aftertaste of burnt herbs. The light inside was much dimmer than outside. A few oil lamps hung from thick wooden beams, casting wavering halos of dull gold. Around several rough-hewn tables sat small clusters of people, heads lowered as they ate and drank. Their voices were hushed, as though afraid of disturbing something unseen.

Bai Mu’s entrance was like cold water splashed into a vat of hot grease.

Almost all sound ceased—chewing, sipping, murmuring. Every gaze, overt or furtive, snapped toward her. Surprise. Appraisal. Suspicion. Wariness. And, from the men, an unmistakable spark of sudden, unguarded fascination.

In the gloom, her silver hair seemed to carry its own light. The dust and small wounds on her bare feet were faintly visible beneath the oil lamps. The tattered clothes could not conceal the graceful lines of her figure. And those blue eyes—too clear, too clean, as though they did not belong here at all.

The effect was more striking than any words.

After a brief, stunned silence came a low, excited buzz of whispers.

“By the gods… look who it is.”

“It’s her—the one singing in the square. I saw her.”

“Is that hair dyed…?”

“How did she dare come in? Didn’t anyone stop her?”

“Tch… that face—prettier than the countess—”

Bai Mu ignored the stares and walked straight to the counter. Her bare feet stepped over uneven wooden planks sticky with spilled ale and food scraps, the sensation unfamiliar. She placed the silver coin on the counter.

The soft clink of metal against wood rang out clearly in the quiet room.

Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—a thickset, bald man with flushed cheeks and a stained apron—who had been wiping a mug with a rag. His movement froze mid-wipe, eyes widening. Beside him, a weary young barmaid with a loose bun nearly dropped the tray in her hands.

“Food,” Bai Mu said. Her voice was clear, carrying an odd, lilting cadence. “And… a room.”

The innkeeper snapped back to himself. His gaze flicked from the coin to her face, then back again. A merchant’s calculation flashed in his eyes, layered with deeper suspicion. The silver Cedric had given her was of excellent quality—far more than the price of a meal and a simple room.

“Uh… miss,” he said cautiously, rubbing his hands. “You’re alone? Where are you from? And this silver…” He hesitated, leaving the question unfinished. The implication was obvious.

“From the south. A herbalist,” Bai Mu replied, repeating the story she had given at the city gates. She offered no explanation for the coin, only met his gaze calmly—open, steady, and quietly unyielding.

The innkeeper shifted under the weight of those blue eyes. He weighed the silver in his mind—and the trouble it might bring, or the… other possibilities. In the end, greed and a careful avoidance of complications won out.

He pocketed the coin quickly and forced something like a smile onto his face.

“Of course, of course. A herbalist from the south? Rare these days, very rare.” He raised his voice deliberately, as if for the benefit of the listening patrons.

He then produced a brass key and slapped it onto the counter. “Room key. Want your meal brought upstairs, or will you eat here?”

Bai Mu picked up the cool key. “The room.”

“Wise choice,” the innkeeper muttered.

“Kyra!” he called to the barmaid. “Take this… miss upstairs. Inner room, quiet one. And bring the best stew we’ve got, black bread, hot soup—fresh, mind you!” He stressed the last word.

Kyra nodded quickly, set down her tray, and glanced at Bai Mu with reserved curiosity before gesturing. “This way, miss.”

Bai Mu followed her toward a narrow staircase at the side. She could feel the weight of those eyes clinging to her back until she disappeared around the bend. Only then did the murmurs resume, buzzing like a disturbed hive.

The upper corridor was darker still, heavy with the smell of old wood and dust. Kyra pushed open a door. Inside was a small room: a narrow bed, an old cabinet, and a chair with a crooked leg. The window was tiny and caked with grime, barely letting in light. The bedding was coarse, but clean enough—no suspicious stains or odors. For Bai Mu, that alone was a blessing.

“Your food will be up shortly, miss,” Kyra said softly, glancing again at Bai Mu’s bare, dirt-streaked feet. “Would you… like hot water?”

Bai Mu considered, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Kyra seemed relieved. She left quickly, pulling the door closed behind her.

Bai Mu lowered her gaze to her wounded feet. Hunger surged again, mixed with the unfamiliar unease of sheltering in a human den—and the lingering discomfort stirred by Cedric’s measuring gaze.

Footsteps approached, carrying the rich scent of food. Her first night on land was about to begin, in this small, worn, but momentarily safe room.

A cautious knock sounded. Kyra’s lowered voice followed. “Miss, your supper.”

Bai Mu opened the door. Kyra held a heavy wooden tray: a clay bowl of thick, dark stew with chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots; a large piece of black bread, far fresher than what she had received in the square; a small bowl of clear broth with floating herbs. There was even a little jar of honey and a piece of pale cheese—generous fare for a modest tavern in plague-stricken times.

The warmth and aroma of the food flooded the room, overwhelming its stale air and awakening the fierce burn in her stomach.

“Hot water will take a bit,” Kyra said, setting the tray on the crooked chair. “The stove’s still busy.”

Her eyes flicked again to Bai Mu’s feet and ragged clothes, curiosity brimming but unspoken. She withdrew quickly and closed the door.

Bai Mu sat on the edge of the bed and looked into the bowl. The stew was glossy with golden fat, steam rising steadily. It was nothing like the food she knew—heavier, richer, full of fire and transformation.

She lifted a spoon, blew gently, and tasted.

Salt—intense. Deep, fermented richness, a hint of smoke. The fat coated her tongue; the meat fell apart, releasing its long-simmered flavor. Sweet carrots, mild turnips, the bite of unfamiliar spices. Warm, dense, overwhelming.

She tore off a piece of bread—crisp crust, chewy inside—and dipped it into the stew. The bread soaked up the broth, creating a solid, grounding fullness.

She ate slowly, savoring every bite. The food was fierce with smoke and heat, and after days of hunger and travel, it brought raw comfort and strength. She finished the stew and most of the bread. Warmth spread through her body, and with it, a deeper fatigue.

Kyra soon returned with a small bucket of hot water and a clean cloth. “For you, miss… you might need this.” She gestured awkwardly to Bai Mu’s feet, cheeks reddening.

As Kyra turned to leave, Bai Mu spoke.

“Do you know who Cedric is?”

The name froze Kyra in place.

She turned back sharply, eyes darting to the corridor before stepping closer, voice barely a whisper. “Cedric… Prince Cedric?”

She swallowed, eyes widening. “He’s Prince Aelren’s elder brother—the first in line to the throne. Prince Cedric.” Her gaze lingered on Bai Mu, tangled with awe, fear, and curiosity. “Miss… you should be careful. The city’s dangerous right now. Too many eyes.”

She fled soon after, leaving behind silence—and that heavy name.

Cedric.

Prince.

Heir apparent.

Aelren’s brother.

Bai Mu remained seated, moonlight slipping through the dusty window, suddenly cold. She thought of the man beneath the arcade—his velvet coat, his leisure, his gaze.

So that was it.

She had come to find Aelren, the prince who had given her freedom. Instead, she had crossed paths with another prince—one too composed, too amused, too distant from the suffering around him.

She extinguished the oil lamp and lay down. The bed was hard, the blankets rough. Her body was exhausted, but her mind remained alert. Outside, the city murmured faintly—wind, coughing, a distant dog.

The night-pearl lay cool and tireless, absorbing everything.

She closed her eyes. Silver hair spilled across the pillow, catching the pale moonlight.

Her first night on land had begun.