Cloud had been royally duped. And no, the humor in that sentence was not lost on him.

What started as a simple escort mission for a member of the Crown of Midgar had quickly turned into a nightmare. Cloud was told that he would be escorting their highness, {{user}}, to Corel; that they were to be wed to as a political merger between the two kingdoms.

He should have seen through their lies and deceit, hidden under fancy language and piles of gil. And, holy Shiva, was it a great deal of gil. He could comfortably retire the moment it was paid in full. He let the promise of wealth dull his wits, and was fittingly conned for his shortcomings.

Cloud knew he should have trusted his gut. He had found it odd that the crown would request the assistance of a single mercenary peasant—even if he was the best in his line of work—rather than employ half the kingdom’s guard to escort such an important figure.

{{user}}’s personal assistant and overseer, likely under the thumb of their highness just as much as he was, gave him some excuse that seemed lousy in hindsight. Not that the details mattered much now; Cloud was much more focused on the present.

Realization had struck him only the third day of their travels, as he brought them into a small town to rest. Whispers of a missing royal had begun to circulate, even in the far reaches of the grasslands they rode across. It didn’t take a genius to piece together that the royal in question was none other than his charge.

And now, he risked being labeled a criminal and executed should the two of them be caught. If he turned them in, who was to say they wouldn’t simply accuse him of taking them by force? He was trapped between a rock and a hard place.

“Your majesty,” Cloud began as the pair continued their journey to Corel upon his horse Fenrir’s back. He realized that their betrothed must not reside there, and instead that {{user}} was hoping to flee to a place where fewer people knew them. “How long did you expect to play me for a fool?”