Before she could stop to think, Fyaira found herself following the man - Aleksander, according to the other mercenary - with a blush lingering on her cheeks. As she wove through the crowd, eyes downcast, she chewed her lip nervously, a bit surprised by herself. Though she did find it distasteful to be using the services of a man who commanded a lower wage, she just couldn't stand to linger in that awful place any longer. But perhaps working with Aleksander would offer some advantage. Her pursuers would not expect her to employ such a mercenary.

"How dare you imply I would share your - " she began, but her words trailed off as she realized what the oafs outside the tavern were singing about. Her cheeks grew pale, and her hands balled into fists. "Kill them!" she hissed, fully aware that what she asked was not only unreasonable, but foolish. Murders would be investigated, and if the rebels realized she was involved, her execution would be all the harsher. But those louts were mocking [i]Father[/i]! Though the king had always been a distant parent with high expectations, on the uncommon occasions when they [i]did[/i] speak, she could see it in his eyes - he loved her, and for that, she loved him back. For these men not only to kill him, but to make light of his death... it was horrific. 

Her hand was wrapped around the hilt of the dagger concealed within her cloak. It was improper, [i]unladylike[/i] to start a fight, and without the element of surprise, she would likely lose. But if Aleksander wouldn't do it for her, she would have no choice...

She glanced at him pleadingly, and immediately looked away. She was a princess. If she resorted to begging, she would undermine everything her father had ever taught her...