The logistics of exile were surprisingly complex.
I spent the afternoon at the South Gate, inspecting the wagons Giles had procured. They were standard merchant wains—oak axles, iron-rimmed wheels, minimal suspension. I was already mentally redesigning the leaf springs.
"The axle grease is rancid," I muttered, wiping black sludge from a hub. "Friction is going to eat these wheels before we hit the mountains."
Lena hovered nearby, holding a checklist and looking overwhelmed. "My Lord, the supplies are loaded. But... the Advisor is here."
I straightened up. Advisor Corvin was standing near the gatehouse, smirking. Beside him, a heavy, reinforced carriage from the foreign embassy had pulled up. The crest of Oria—a mountain bear—was painted on the door.
"Your bride has arrived, Duke Valian," Corvin called out, his voice loud enough for the gathering crowd of porters and guards to hear. "I hope you requisitioned extra rations. Feeding her is a military campaign in itself."
The guards snickered. I wiped my greasy hands on a rag and said nothing. I just watched.
The carriage door opened. The suspension groaned as weight shifted.
Princess Elara stepped out.
She was massive. There was no polite way to say it. She stood nearly six feet tall, and her frame carried significant adipose tissue, hidden under layers of drab, grey wool that made her look like a storm cloud. Her face was round, her chin soft, and her skin pale. To the superficial eyes of the court, she was a disaster—a "gluttonous sow" sent to punish a failed prince.
The crowd murmured. "Look at the size of her," a stable hand whispered. "She'll break the bed."
Elara heard them. Her jaw tightened, but she kept her head bowed. She stepped down onto the cobblestones.
And that was when I saw it.
She weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. By all laws of physics, her boot should have struck the stone with a heavy clack. The gravel should have crunched. The vibration should have traveled up her leg.
But there was silence.
She moved with the eerie, impossible grace of a predatory cat. Her foot rolled from the outside edge inward, distributing the load over a longer time interval to dampen the impulse. Her knees bent slightly, acting as biological shock absorbers.
Cognitive dissonance hit me. My eyes saw "Heavy," but my ears heard "Ghost."
She walked toward me, passing within inches of a snickering guard. The man didn't even flinch; he didn't know she was there until she was past him.
Active noise cancellation via biomass damping, I analyzed, fascinated. Her soft tissue isn't just fat; it's an insulator. She's absorbing her own acoustic signature.
She stopped in front of me. Up close, I saw beads of sweat on her forehead. Controlling that much mass required immense core strength. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, met mine with a look of defiant resignation.
"Husband," she said. Her voice was low, controlled, and devoid of emotion. "I am Elara of Oria. I apologize for my appearance. If you wish to travel in a separate wagon, I understand."
Corvin laughed. "A separate wagon? You'll need a separate caravan, Princess."
Elara's hand twitched inside her grey sleeve. It was a micro-movement—a reflex. I recognized the tension in her forearm. She wanted to snap his neck. And judging by the density of her upper arm, she could do it before his guards even drew their swords.
I stepped forward, ignoring Corvin entirely. I encroached on her personal space.
Elara flinched, expecting a blow or an insult. Instead, I circled her.
"Hold still," I murmured.
I looked at her posture. Her center of gravity was perfectly static. As she breathed, her shoulders didn't rise; she used diaphragmatic breathing to minimize visual movement.
"Incredible," I whispered.
Elara blinked, her mask of cold indifference cracking. "Excuse me?"
"Your stepping pattern," I said, pointing to her feet. "You're utilizing the viscoelastic properties of your own body to eliminate ground impact noise. And you're syncing your movement with the ambient noise floor of the street."
I looked up at her face. I didn't see a fat woman. I saw a Tank Assassin. A stealth operative who could also act as a battering ram.
"You aren't just heavy," I said, my voice filled with genuine professional admiration. "You are specialized."
Elara stared at me. She had been mocked for her weight her entire life. She had been called lazy, greedy, and disgusting. No one had ever called her... specialized.
"I... I have a condition," she stammered, defensive. "I eat little, but the weight remains. The doctors say it is a curse."
"It's not a curse," I said dismissively. "It's likely a thyroid regulation error. A metabolic imbalance. I can probably fix it with the right iodine supplements and chemical tweaking once we get a lab running."
She looked at me like I'm some kind of eccentric magician talking nonsense.
I reached out and took her hand. Her skin was soft, but the muscle underneath was like braided steel wire.
"But honestly?" I looked her in the eye. "I'm not sure I want to fix it yet. That mass gives you kinetic energy that a skinny assassin would kill for. If you put your shoulder into a door, you wouldn't just open it; you'd disintegrate it."
A flush of color rose in her pale cheeks. It wasn't shame. It was the shock of being seen.
"You... you do not find me repulsive?" she whispered.
"I find you aerodynamic," I lied—well, partially. "I find you efficient. And in the North, efficiency is the only beauty that matters."
I turned to Corvin, who was looking at us with confusion. He couldn't understand why I wasn't recoiling in disgust.
"Advisor," I said, my voice sharp. "Load the Princess's luggage. Treat it with care. If a single trunk is scratched, I will have my wife punch a hole in your head."
Elara's eyes went wide. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched. She giggled, her chest rising and falling for the first time. A spark of dark humor.
"I would be happy to, Husband," she said, her voice dropping an octave into a dangerous purr.
Corvin paled, looking at the sheer mass of her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Yes... well. The caravan is ready. Go and die in the snow, Valian."
"We're burning daylight," I said to Elara, offering her my arm.
She looked at my arm, then at my face. For the first time in years, she didn't look at the ground. She took my arm. Her grip was firm, grounding.
"You are a strange man, Valian," she murmured as we walked toward the lead wagon. "You have black teeth and You talk of utility when looking at a bride."
"I'm an engineer, Elara," I said, helping her up into the wagon seat—the springs groaned, but she settled with a grace that defied gravity. "I don't care about the packaging. I care about the payload. And I think you're the most elegant weapon in this convoy."
She looked at me, and under the layers of fat and grey wool, I saw the real woman. She wasn't just a political pawn. She was a coiled spring waiting to snap.
"Just give me a target," she whispered, a dangerous smile touching her lips.
"Patience," I patted her hand.
I leaned out of the wagon and snapped my fingers at Giles, who was hovering nervously by the rear wheel with his ledger.
"Administrator," I barked. "Before we clear the city limits, I have a final procurement order. It is priority alpha."
Giles stiffened, readying his quill. "We are already heavy, My Lord. What could we possibly need?"
"Biomass and caloric density," I said. "I need fifty domestic rabbits. Ten males, forty females. Ensure they are of breeding age. Do not bring me kits."
Giles blinked, his quill pausing over the parchment. "Rabbits, My Lord?"
"And potatoes," I continued, ignoring his confusion. "As many sacks as you can source. Furthermore, go to the grain merchants. I don't want wheat. I want seeds for the most invasive, aggressive grass they have—the kind that farmers hate because it doesn't die in winter and chokes out everything else."
Giles looked at me with a strange, twisted expression, as if trying to decide if I was a genius or a lunatic. "Weeds, Your Grace? And rabbits? How can we possibly take all of that with us? The wains are packed to the brim."
"Buy another cart," I ordered simply. "Rabbits are a self-replicating meat engine with a thirty-day production cycle. Potatoes are the most efficient caloric storage unit in nature. And the grass is fodder. We are building a biological ecosystem, Giles, not just a castle."
I paused, adding one final item. "Also, find me a herbalist. Offer them double the standard rate to join the convoy."
"A... herbalist?" Giles asked weakly. "Would a Healing Mage not be—"
"Healing mages are national treasures," I cut him off. " The Crown wouldn't give me one even if I was dying. I need practical chemistry. Find someone who knows roots, mosses, and extraction. Go."
Giles sighed, the weight of his new reality settling on his shoulders, but he bowed. "As you command, My Lord."
"We have one more stop. We need to pick up the battery."
"The battery?"
"The Magnetic Girl," I grinned, my black teeth flashing. "We're going to the smithy."