"I will have the artists start sketching immediately," I promise.
The tension shifts during the third course,roast venison.
A server I do not recognize steps toward the dais. He is carrying a gravy boat. His hands are shaking slightly.
He moves toward the King.
Dominico is there instantly. He does not run; he simply arrives. He steps between the server and the King, his movements smooth as flowing water.
"Allow me," Dominico says, his voice like honey.
He takes the gravy boat from the server’s hands. He looks the man in the eye. The server pales. He sees something in the artist’s gaze,the promise of a very creative, very painful death.
"This sauce has separated," Dominico announces loudly, sniffing the boat. "Chef! Take this back. It is unworthy of the King."
He hands the boat to a passing busboy,one of Torvald’s trusted crew,and gives a sharp hand signal. Secure the contents. Detain the server.
The terrified server is quietly escorted toward the kitchen by two large men who look like they crush rocks for a living.
"Good help is so hard to find," Oskar sighs, oblivious to the fact that he was likely seconds away from a distinct digestive crisis. "In the capital, my sauce never separates."
"We have high standards here, Your Majesty," I say, raising my glass to Dominico. "We filter out the impurities."
Dominico bows and vanishes back into the shadows.
By the time the speeches begin, the King is drunk, happy, and convinced that the harbor expansion was entirely his idea.
He stands up, swaying slightly. The room goes silent.
"My Lords, Ladies, and... Merchants," Oskar begins. He gestures grandly at the glass roof. "When I looked at this ruin, I saw potential. I said to the Princess, 'Víl?, we must build! We must expand!'"
I catch Jellema’s eye. He bites his lip to keep from laughing.
"And look at this!" Oskar shouts. "A bank! A harbor! A testament to the power of my vision!"
The Guild Masters clap politely. The wives clap enthusiastically. Webbe claps once, slowly.
"To the King!" Webbe toasts, glaring at me.
"To the King," I echo, raising my goblet.
Oskar sits down, looking very pleased with himself. He turns back to the girl. "Now, my dear, let me tell you about the time I wrestled a boar..."
I lean back in my chair.
I look at the slate floor. I look at the glass roof. I look at the iron door of the vault behind the King’s oblivious back.
Let him have the speeches. Let him have the applause. Let him think he built this.
Because tomorrow, when the hangover sets in, Silas Visser will present the bill. And every stone, every beam, and every drop of wine they are drinking is logged in Olin’s ledger.
Sander Vane leans over my shoulder to refill my water.
"The server?" I whisper.
"Confessed," Sander murmurs. "Paid by the Spice Guild Master to put a purgative in the sauce. They wanted the King to... soil himself... during the speech. To embarrass the venue. And you."
"Amateur," I sigh. "Where is the Spice Guild Master now?"
"He was invited to inspect the roof," Sander says. "From the outside. It is very slippery up there."
"Ensure he comes down safely," I say. "Eventually. After he has contemplated the view for a few hours in the freezing wind."
"As you wish, Ambassador," Sander smirks.
I look at the head table. Oskar is laughing. Webbe is fuming.
The party is a success. The trap is set. And the food was excellent.
"Kenric," I say, taking my husband’s hand. "Smile. We just won the war, and they think it’s a celebration."
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The morning after the banquet, the air in Varpua is crisp, clear, and hungover.
King Oskar is sleeping late. Duke Webbe is likely polishing his armor and sulking.
But I am awake. And I am standing on the wind-swept observation deck of the Old Admiralty, watching a man shiver.
Master Gies, the head of the Spice Guild, has spent the last six hours on the roof. He is blue. His teeth are chattering so hard they sound like dice in a cup.
Dominico stands beside him, leaning casually against the parapet, examining his fingernails.
"He is quite thoroughly chilled, Your Highness," Dominico reports. "We had to chip his boots off the slate."
"P-p-please," Gies stammers, hugging himself. "I... I will c-confess. Just... let me in."
"Confess?" I ask, walking over to him. I am wrapped in a warm fur cloak. I look very comfortable. "To what? The poisoning attempt? We already know about that. Boring."
I snap my fingers. Sander Vane steps forward, holding a steaming mug.
"Drink this," I order.
Gies grabs the mug with shaking hands. He gulps it down.
His reaction is immediate. His eyes widen. The blue tint fades from his skin, replaced by a flush of rosy health. He gasps, not in pain, but in shock. The heat spreads through him like wildfire.
"What..." Gies whispers, looking at the empty mug. "What was that? It tastes like... cinnamon, but... alive. It tastes like fire."
"Cinder-Bark," I explain. "It grows in the volcanic rifts of the Fey lands. One pinch warms the blood for a day. Two pinches cures a fever. Three pinches?"
I smile.
"Three pinches makes a man feel like a lion."
Gies stares at me. He is a spice merchant. He knows the value of commodities. He knows that in the freezing winters of Centis, a spice that provides literal, physical warmth is worth more than gold dust.
"Where..." he whispers. "Where do you get it?"
"I don't get it, Master Gies," I say. "I grow it."
I signal to Olin, who is waiting with,inevitably,a ledger.
"Master Olin," I say. "Show him the samples."
Olin opens a small, velvet-lined case. Inside are six glass vials.
"Moon-Salt," Olin recites, pointing to a silvery powder. "Makes any meat tender. Even rat."
"Void-Pepper," he points to black grains that seem to absorb the light. "Numbing. Perfect for toothaches. Or recreational use."
"Whisper-Leaf," he points to a green herb. "Mildly euphoric. Put this in tea, and your mother-in-law stops complaining."
Gies is trembling again, but not from the cold. He is trembling with greed.
"These..." Gies breathes. "These would change the market. The nobility would pay anything."
"Yes," I agree. "They would."
I lean in close.
"Here is the situation, Master Gies. Last night, you tried to embarrass my King and ruin my banquet. For that, the penalty is usually hanging."
Gies flinches.
"However," I continue, smoothing my gloves. "Hanging you is a waste of a good distribution network. You have ships. You have warehouses. You have buyers."
I take the case from Olin and snap it shut.
"I am offering you a plea deal. The Fey Embassy becomes the exclusive supplier of exotic spices to the Guild. You buy only from us. You set the prices I tell you to set. And you pay a twenty percent royalty on every ounce sold."
"Twenty percent?" Gies chokes. "That is robbery!"
"Is it?" I ask. "Dominico, escort him back to the edge of the roof. I think he needs more time to think about the economics."
Dominico steps forward, grinning.
"No!" Gies shouts, backing away. "No! I accept! I accept!"
"I thought you might," I say.
Sander steps forward with a contract. It is already written.
"Clause 4," Sander points out, tapping the parchment with an inked finger. "The Spice Guild acknowledges that all Fey spices remain the intellectual property of the Embassy. Any attempt to replant, cultivate, or reverse-engineer the product results in... immediate asset forfeiture."
"And by assets," I clarify, "we mean your skin."
Gies signs. His signature is shaky, but legible.
"Excellent," I say. "Olin, give him the Cinder-Bark consignment. He can start selling it today."
I look at Gies.
"One more thing, Master Gies."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"The King complained that his food in the capital is bland," I say. "You will send a gift basket of these spices to the Palace. With a note saying they are a personal gift from the Spice Guild, intended to honor his sophisticated palate."
"Of course," Gies nods.
"And make sure you include the Whisper-Leaf," I add. "He has been very stressed lately. I want him relaxed."
Gies clutches the sample case to his chest. He looks at me with a mixture of terror and reverence.
"You are going to own the table," he whispers.
"I intend to," I say. "Now get out of my sight before I decide to test the Void-Pepper on you."
He scampers down the stairs.
I turn to my team.
"The Shark, the Vulture, the Bear, the Blue-Inker, the Driftwood Banker, the Artists," I list. "And now... the Drug Dealer."
"Technically," Olin corrects, "he is a grocer."
"Olin," I say, watching the sea. "In my world, there is very little difference. Now, let's go downstairs. I believe Duke Jellema is waiting to discuss the tax revenue on the first shipment."
The Spice Guild was easy. They deal in commodities. But the Confectioners' Guild deals in desire.
Mistress Brekker is a woman built of dough and determination. She runs the largest sweet-shop in Varpua, a place that smells of boiled sugar and vanilla. She is currently standing behind her counter, arms crossed over a formidable bosom, looking unimpressed by the Princess in her shop.
"We have our own recipes, Your Highness," Brekker says, sniffing. "My 'Sea-Salt Taffy' is famous as far as the capital. I do not need foreign sweets."
"Your taffy pulls fillings out of teeth, Mistress Brekker," I say, examining a tray of sad-looking brown lumps. "And your marzipan tastes like sawdust."
"It is traditional!" she bristles.
"It is boring," I correct.
I signal to Dominico. He places a lacquered box on the counter. It is made of pearlescent wood.
"The aristocracy is bored, Mistress Brekker," I explain. "They have eaten your taffy. They are looking for... sensations. Experiences."
I open the box.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, are rows of candies that glow with their own internal light.
"Allow me to introduce the Fey Collection," I say.
I pick up a small, amber sphere.
"Second-Wind," I announce. "It tastes of honey and lightning. One drop, and a dockworker can lift a barrel without grunting. Two drops, and he can work a double shift without yawning. It is not just candy; it is productivity."
Brekker eyes it. "Stimulants?"
"Vitality," I correct.
I pick up a spun-sugar confection that looks like a captured cloud.
"Drift-Wood," I say. "For the ladies. It dissolves on the tongue and provides a sensation of weightlessness. For twenty minutes, all your worries,your debts, your husband, your wrinkles,simply... float away. It is better than wine, and it leaves no hangover."
Brekker reaches out, but I slap her hand away gently.
Ohhhhh Chapter 133.
A chapter so perfectly chaotic, so exquisitely tense, so beautifully layered with political danger, culinary treason, and strategic brilliance that I had to pause mid?read, clutch my chest, and whisper:
“Víl?, you terrifyingly competent goddess, please never stop.”
Let’s begin the ceremonial roast.
Everything in this chapter happening around that table?
A masterpiece of political stagecraft.
The lighting? Weaponized.
The service staff? Half spies, half murder?adjacent artists.
The food? Apparently so powerful that someone tried to turn the gravy course into an act of gastrointestinal warfare.
And Oskar? Oskar is sitting there absentmindedly chatting about boar wrestling like a man who has never once wrestled a moral quandary, much less an actual animal.
The man intercepted a suspicious gravy boat with the elegance of a swan and the menace of a trained assassin.
Oskar didn’t even notice.
Of course he didn’t.
If Oskar ever realized danger was happening right under his nose, that nose would fall off from shock.
The king stands up, swaying like someone who drank confidence and competence in the wrong proportions—
and decides to publicly take credit for everything.
The harbor? His idea.
The bank? Absolutely his vision.
The color of the roof? Definitely chosen by him.
The ambient starlight shimmering through enchanted glass? He probably thinks he invented stars.
Everyone claps because they must. Webbe claps because spite is his biggest muscle.
And Víl? smiles the smile of someone who will mail Oskar his itemized invoice in the morning. He will not survive it emotionally.
One of the most delicious parts of this chapter is the slow dawning horror that is coming for Oskar’s hangover.
He’s too drunk to notice that the entire banquet has been meticulously logged by Olin.
Every duck, every candle, every ice sculpture, every drop of wine… all neatly attributed to His Majesty’s Public Spectacle Fund.
Tomorrow, reality will strike harder than his crown ever could.
Someone in the Spice Guild woke up and said:
“Let’s poison the King AND embarrass Víl? during her banquet.”
Bold. Stupid. Fatal, almost.
And then comes the rooftop scene, which is what happens when you mix fear, frostbite, capitalism, and Fey ingenuity.
Víl? weaponizes spices into a geopolitical chokehold.
Master Gies goes from “I will never submit!” to “Where do I sign?” in record time.
And now the Embassy owns the spice trade. Oskar, meanwhile, still thinks salt is exotic.
The final pivot toward the Confectioners’ Guild?
A chef’s kiss of narrative escalation.
Víl? walks into a shop, looks at their life’s work, and basically says:
“Your candy is an insult to sugar. Behold, my superior sweets.”
She’s not conquering a city—
she’s conquering its taste buds.
Oskar, if asked, would probably say his favorite dessert is “bread.”