I woke up to shouting.
Not the kind of shouting like "Fire!" or "Dragon attack!"But more like:
"I WILL NOT HAND OVER THE MAP TO A KINGDOM THAT CAN'T EVEN BUILD A STRAIGHT ROAD!"
Yep. Diplomacy has officially begun.
I peeked through the grimy window of the rundown inn I rented last night with the last of my coins. I was planning to sneak out this morning. But of course, fate said, "Haha, no."
In the town square, the same three folks from the tavern last night—the guy with the glasses, the one in dramatic theater robes, and the one with dragon-scale boots—stood behind a pile of crates repurposed as a makeshift negotiation table. Behind them fluttered the banners of three nations. Also, there was a goat present for some reason. Pretty sure it wasn't invited.
And as always, me—Aria, professional background character—was eating porridge without a spoon at a food cart by the roadside.
Valmor stood beside me, disguised with a ragged cloak and oversized tinted spectacles. Still a horse. But he thought the disguise worked. I let him have his moment.
"So, are we watching a power summit or a brawl over complimentary snacks?" I whispered to Valmor.
"I thought this was street theater," he replied. "But the more I watch, the more it looks like a failed town council stuck in post-election trauma."
One delegate—from the Talon Empire—slammed down a folder.
"We know you're hiding the magical artifact beneath the village well! Our spies have confirmed it!"
The representative from the Astralis Kingdom stood up, voice sharp and filled with overcompensating nationalism.
"We won't accept accusations from a realm that can't tell the difference between an ancient relic and an empty biscuit tin!"
From his chair, the envoy from the Lira Alliance rose slowly—like a drama hero milking his screen time.
"We're all hypocrites. You point fingers, but you all want the same thing. That artifact… for power."
He tossed a map onto the table.
"Fine. Split the land. Half for you. Half for you. And the rest... for the goat."
The goat bleated softly.
I facepalmed.
"Valmor... this place is about to explode."
Valmor sipped from a paint bucket, thinking it was water.
"I don't get why they're fighting over a well. Just dig a new one, right?"
"You talk like village bureaucracy follows logic."
The argument escalated. One delegate drew a dagger. Another called in guards. The goat… started chewing on the negotiation table.
And me? I began inching my chair back slowly, trying to disguise myself as a sentient flagpole.
But too late.
A minor magical explosion burst in the center of the square. Stones flew. People screamed. Diplomacy devolved into an all-out brawl. I got thrown into a hedge by the blast. Valmor literally flew—because he forgot he was still wearing his cloak as fake wings.
And amidst the chaos, I was still thinking:
"Why does fate always drag me into national crises? I'm not a hero. I'm not a soldier. I don't even have life insurance."
Troops from all three nations clashed. The village turned into a battlefield. Buildings burned. Villagers fled. And the goat...?
The goat remained. Standing proudly atop the half-charred negotiation table.
From behind some rubble, Valmor and I lay low.
"We need to get out of here before someone thinks I'm a covert agent."
Valmor grinned (as much as a horse could).
"Or worse—before the press shows up and calls you a 'local savior.'"
"OH GOD NO."
We escaped through a back garden, pretending to be melon harvesters. I carried one melon just to smash over the head of anyone who asked why I was in the middle of a diplomatic meltdown.
As we walked away from the smoldering village, only one thought stuck in my head:
"Why does my life feel like episode 478 of a soap opera that forgot its own ending?"
Valmor nodded wisely.
"Because your life's writer clearly has insomnia and a caffeine addiction."