The queen woke up earlier than she would have liked, but she felt far more refreshed than she had expected. For a brief moment, as pale morning light filtered through the curtains, she allowed herself to simply breathe.

  She turned to her side. Her husband had already woken up. Possibly already down at the hall. She sighed lovingly. Then reality returned.

  The image of the fleeing servant—the spy, she corrected herself—rose unbidden in her thoughts. Sleep had dulled her exhaustion, not her concern. If anything, the problem felt clearer now in the sharper cold light of the morning.

  It was not merely a domestic issue.

  A man who had access to the royal kitchens had access to schedules, movements, habits, unguarded conversations whispered over simmering pots. Not to mention the layout of the castle. If he truly had been reporting information, then his flight meant only one thing, whomever, whatever master he served now knew that the heroes had arrived.

  That knowledge alone was dangerous.

  And it was not just their kingdom that would suffer from it.

  Her thoughts drifted north, to the Dalmaran Empire.

  Their recent nominal ally. A neighbor bound by promises of mutual aid should either realm fall under attack. And yet, it was also a nation to watch, as the bad blood between their two countries cannot be fully cleansed with pretty words and paper.

  If word of the heroes reached Dalmaran ears prematurely—or worse, in a distorted form—it could shift balances that had taken decades to stabilize.

  That was, in fact, one of the reasons she had been sent away in the first place.

  Beyond renewing assurances of military support, she had been tasked with addressing the matter of information leakage—the growing problem of spies, defectors, and agents who served no banner but their own gain. A problem so tangled that even the empire, with all its resources, admitted it did not yet know how to solve it.

  And now, one such thread had slipped through her own fingers.

  Or perhaps it was them whom that rat truly served. She did not know. The queen sat up slowly, she rubbed her eyes as her resolve hardened, the last remnants of sleep fading.

  Today, she would need to speak with the captains again. With the heroes’ guardians. And perhaps—if she judged it wise—with the heroes whom his husband thought interesting.

  Because whatever storm was coming, it was no longer distant.

  The queen turned and got a bell at her bedside table. She shook it a few times. The clear sound echoed into the next room.

  Almost immediately, two servants entered in practiced silence. One pushed a small cart bearing a wooden basin polished smooth from years of use, while the other carried folded towels and a kettle of steaming water. They moved with efficiency, setting everything in place without needing instruction.

  The queen rinsed herself quickly, splashing away the last clinging heaviness of sleep. She dried her hands, then waved the servants off so she could dress without ceremony.

  She bypassed the gowns laid out for her—both the sweeping, layered styles favored by the empire and the wide, trailing dresses currently in fashion at court. She had never liked garments that never took into account the ease of movement of the wearer.

  Instead, she chose a practical compromise, a blue dress that fell just short of her ankles, long-sleeved, tailored enough to allow ease of motion. The embroidery was still elaborate, fortunately, it was mercifully free of ruffles and frills—she was queen, after all, and she needed to look her best.

  Armor had once been her preferred attire. This was the closest the court would allow.

  Once dressed, she did not linger. She left her chambers and headed straight for breakfast.

  Not because she was hungry.

  Because she had given her word. And to the queen, her word is her bond.

  Last night, she had promised the guests—the heroes—that she would speak with them properly today, not as an interruption to a meal or a correction of her son, but as introductions should be done. Formally. Deliberately.

  And more than that, she needed to see them in the clear light of morning.

  To measure them. To understand what kind of people—and what kind of power—had been brought into her kingdom.

  Once the queen reached the hall, she did not enter immediately.

  She paused just beside the doorway, half-hidden by the stone arch, and allowed the morning to come to her instead. Voices drifted through the open doorway overlapping, animated, unguarded. Laughter followed, bright and unrestrained. There was teasing, disagreement, the scrape of cutlery, the unmistakable sound of youth enjoying themselves.

  Still children, she thought.

  The realization was neither cruel nor dismissive—simply factual. Children who had been pulled from their world and placed into a role far heavier than their years deserved.

  Her face remained composed as she stepped forward, her thoughts carefully locked away.

  The queen entered the hall.

  The change was immediate. Conversations faltered, laughter softened, chairs shifted. She had not announced herself, had not raised her voice or struck the floor with authority—yet her presence alone was enough. Eyes turned. Backs straightened.

  Her steps carried her to the most natural point in the room, the space between the two tables the guests occupied, where she could be seen without looming, heard without shouting. She stopped there, posture relaxed then spoke.

  “A pleasant morning to everyone.”

  The queen did not need to ask for their attention. She already had it. They had noticed her, and, privately, she approved. Already better than my son.

  Her lips curved into a gentle smile at that before she continued. “Please forgive last night’s events. They were—less than ideal circumstances for a proper introduction.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  She inclined her head slightly, allowing a brief pause.

  “So,” she said, voice warm and clear, “let us begin again.”

  She bowed as far as her station would permit, her right hand rested over her chest, the other lifted her skirt just enough for a precise, practiced curtsey. It was elegant without being theatrical, respectful without diminishing herself.

  “My name is Aurinelle Gwenrose Valecrest.”

  Queen. Former soldier. Strongest mage in the kingdom. And now, at last, formally facing the heroes her niece had summoned. Of course, there was no need to rush such matters.

  The queen made that clear with a small, calming gesture of her hand. She told the heroes that after breakfast, she would wish to speak with them properly—at length, and without the distractions of a public hall. At that, her guests shifted in their seats. There was nervousness, yes, but beneath it ran something far more important. Respect. Deference to authority.

  Good, she thought. Very good.

  Fear alone was brittle. Respect endured.

  She bade them to continue their meal, her tone light enough to release the tension she herself had just applied. Only then did she turn and made her way to the king’s table, where her husband, their son, and their daughter were already seated.

  As she sat, the scent of breakfast reached her. Aroma was unfamiliar rich, savory, layered but was also appetizing.

  Flat oval cuts of meat stacked on top of one another, alongside eggs, both glistening beneath a generous coating of some glossy brown sauce. There were also long, thinly cut vegetables she did not immediately recognize, cooked to crispiness as well as another batch of the minced briarhead from the night before.

  Her curiosity stirred.

  “Dearest,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

  The king answered, looking up from his plate, already smiling faintly. “Today’s breakfast was prepared at the request of one of Lady Anna’s sons. I believe he called this dish ultimate burger steak. Something from his homeland.”

  He paused, then added with quiet amusement, “He is ill for now, though you may meet him later if you wish.”

  The queen nodded, filing the information away for later, and tentatively helped herself. The first bite gave her pause.

  The meat was tender, sweet and savory, seasoned in a way that was both bold and restrained. The sauce—whatever its origin—bound everything together, deepening the flavors rather than overwhelming them.

  Next, the queen turned her attention to the minced briarhead. She took a careful bite.

  It tasted nothing like it had the night before. Where the previous preparation had been mild and earthy, this version was sharper. It was rich with garlic, seasoned more boldly, the texture pleasantly chewy rather than soft.

  This was not meant to stand alone, she realized. When paired with the meat and sauce, it grounded the dish, giving it weight and balance.

  Her brows lifted, just slightly.

  Interesting, she thought. Very interesting indeed.

  Her gaze then shifted to the long, thin, golden vegetables arranged neatly at the side of the plate. They looked crispy, almost delicate.

  “Dearest,” she said, glancing toward the king.

  The king answered readily, clearly pleased to explain. “The briarhead, I believe they called it fried rice,” he said. “And try the long thin ones. They are groundgourd. But lady anna call them fries. You will like them.”

  The queen inclined her head and sampled them.

  The exterior was crispy, the inside soft and fluffy, the seasoning simple but effective. They complemented the heavier elements of the meal perfectly, cutting through the richness without diminishing it.

  She allowed herself a small, genuine smile. Yes, she thought, I truly must thank Lady Anna—and her son.

  After what could only be described as a most pleasant breakfast, the queen rose and, together with the heroes, withdrew to the main drawing room.

  According to her husband, it was the first chamber he had brought them to upon their arrival. She understood why.

  The tall glass walls welcomed the morning sun, letting it spill across polished floors. A gentle breeze carried with it the scent of the gardens beyond—flowers, trimmed hedges, damp earth. It was the sort of place designed to calm the mind.

  Almost too calming. The warmth and light tugged at her own fatigue, urging her toward rest. But she did not allow herself that luxury. There was still work to be done.

  Her duties began, as they always did, with conversation.

  Introductions came first, starting with the parents. It was then that she finally met Lady Anna properly. The woman was composed, humble, and quietly confident, while wearing glass lenses most inventors use. She was what she presented herself to be, precisely the sort who did not seek attention yet earned it regardless.

  It was also during this exchange that the queen learned something unexpected. The son who had suggested the meals from the previous night and that morning—the one whose ideas had transformed unfamiliar ingredients into something remarkable—was not one of the heroes at all.

  He had been summoned by accident. The revelation gave her pause. When the time came to speak of rewards, the queen did not hesitate. She said exactly what she thought.

  “Rest assured,” she told Lady Anna, her voice warm and sincere, “your son is welcome here, hero or not.”

  She continued, measuring her words carefully. “And as per your wish, should your son not object, he may take charge of the kitchens.”

  Lady Anna’s reaction was immediate. Relief, gratitude, and disbelief crossed her face in quick succession before she bowed deeply, thanking the queen again and again.

  The discussion moved on.

  The queen took her time, allowing the conversation to flow naturally as she spoke with each guest. She listened more than she talked, observing closely. Many were afraid—understandably so. The young women in particular carried a quiet resolve beneath their fear, a willingness to endure whatever was necessary if it meant returning home.

  Others, however, sought something different.

  A few attempted to even curry her favor, their words carefully chosen, their smiles practiced. From these exchanges, the queen began to see patterns forming.

  Four of them, in particular, stood out.

  They reminded her, uncomfortably, of her son—eager to please, hungry for recognition, and perhaps unaware of how transparent those desires were.

  At intervals, the queen requested refreshments. In truth, she was in no hurry. This was not merely a formality to be rushed through. She wished to see these people as they truly were—these strangers from another world.

  And, quietly, she sought to identify for herself which among them were the four her husband had described as interesting.

  After talking for a while, the queen found that she was able to narrow her interest down to six individuals.

  Halfway through the discussions, the adults excused themselves, explaining that they still had preparations to make for lunch. The queen let them go, albeit reluctantly. She had found them, in their own way, quite pleasant to speak with—grounded, concerned, and sincere.

  Then came lunchtime.

  And with it, a surprise.

  “Majesties,” Celestia greeted them as she entered, a cloth covering the lower half of her face. Two maids flanked her closely, attentive and watchful.

  “Dearest niece,” the king, the irritation on his face impossible to miss, “what part of ‘do not leave your room until you are fully cured’ did you not understand?”

  “Uncle—Majesty,” Celestia replied quickly, dipping her head before correcting herself. “I understand exactly what you wish to say.” She paused, clearly choosing her words with care. “However, I felt it would be far ruder to neglect greeting my queen and aunt than to bend His Majesty’s instructions slightly.”

  She lifted her chin a fraction, eyes earnest despite the cloth covering her face. “Besides, I am nearly cured. At worst, I have only disobeyed half of the king’s command.”

  The king opened his mouth, clearly prepared to argue that half a disobedience was still disobedience—

  —but the queen lifted a hand.

  “Dearest, it is fine,” she said calmly, already stepping forward. She embraced Celestia, careful but firm, a gesture that was both affectionate and evaluative. “So long as she can stand on her own feet,” she added, directing the words to both of them.

  The king hesitated, then sighed, shoulders relaxing in defeat. He raised his hands slightly. “Very well.”

  “Yes, Majesty, and thank you,” Celestia said at once then bowing. “I am stable.” Her eyes curved into a smile beneath the cloth. “Lady Anna’s cooking has been a tremendous help. I believe her skill is showing its wonders.”

  The queen stilled.

  “Her skill? She possesses a cooking-related skill?” she repeated slowly. That would explain why she felt invigorated when she woke up.

  Celestia nodded. “Yes, Majesty. Rarity is second tier. To my knowledge, only her son—Lord Vi—possesses a skill that is of higher grade, ranked at [EPIC].”

  That was enough to make the queen’s expression shift—only slightly, but unmistakably.

  “[EPIC],” she echoed under her breath.

  She inclined her head, already committing the name to memory. That son, then. The accidentally summoned one.

  The queen allowed herself a small, thoughtful smile.

  It seemed she would need to visit the kitchens, and this Lord Vi—sooner rather than later.