The ballroom had been transformed while I was gone.
Balloons the size of war elephants floated above.
Tables groaned under the weight of sweets and meats.
Glittering chandeliers blazed like small suns overhead.
And right in the middle of it all — the Cake.
I stopped dead.
The thing was a monument.
Seven layers.
Each one more absurdly over-decorated than the last.
The top layer sported a miniature marzipan version of me, looking suspiciously heroic.
(If you ever wondered what true horror looked like: it's a fondant statue of yourself with sparkly eyes.)
The crowd saw me approaching and immediately parted like I was Moses. Or maybe like they were afraid I'd explode. Either way.
I marched toward the cake like a soldier toward his doom.
Beside the cake stood my father: Duke Cattivo himself.
Tall, powerful, and blessed with the kind of jawline that artists dream about and peasants gossip about.
Today he wore formal black and crimson robes, embroidered with our family crest — a phoenix wreathed in hellfire.
When he saw me, he gave a slow, approving nod.
"Son," he said in a voice that could've flattened mountains, "come forward."
I did.
Trying not to look at my own cursed cake-statue.
The Duke turned to the assembled nobles, raising his goblet.
"My son, Fuoco Cattivo," he said, his voice carrying easily. "Today he turns five years old and shows the first true sparks of the future we expect."
(Translation: I wasn't dead, stupid, or embarrassing yet. Hooray.)
He turned slightly, looking at me with something almost resembling pride.
"Today," he continued, "he will cut the cake... and greet our honored guests."
A ripple of polite, predatory applause spread through the room.
I resisted the urge to salute sarcastically.
Instead, I picked up the gilded cake knife offered by a servant (who looked like she half-expected me to stab someone with it).
With the grim solemnity of a knight accepting his blade, I cut a smooth, perfect slice out of the towering cake.
The crowd roared with approval.
You'd think I'd slain a dragon.
After the ceremonial sugar dissection, Father took me by the shoulder and turned me to face the vulture—er, noble—flock.
Father, standing like a mountain in black and crimson, laid a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Time for introductions," he said.
The vultures, freshly fattened with cake and gossip, circled closer.
First up: Lord Belvani of Northmere, sharp-mustached and sharper-tongued, bowed slightly.
"Young Master Fuoco," he said. "May your path be as wide and clear as your father's legacy."
Translation: Don't mess this up, little boy.
I tilted my head, affecting the thoughtful air of a miniature philosopher.
"I thank you, Lord Belvani," I said calmly. "Yet a wide path invites many to tread upon it. I believe a narrow, thorny road deters the unworthy from following."
A silence spread like spilled ink.
Lord Belvani blinked rapidly.
Someone coughed.
Father's lips twitched. Barely.
Fuoco Cattivo: 1. Old Men: 0.
Next came Lady Yvena, a tower of silk and jewels, flashing a crocodile smile.
"So handsome already," she gushed, pinching my cheek harder than necessary. "Surely destined to charm nations."
I gave her a polite bow, despite the stinging pain.
"Charm is a fickle currency, my lady," I said, letting my voice ring clear. "It spends quickly and profits little if not backed by steadfast deeds."
Lady Yvena froze.
Her carefully botoxed face cracked for a moment.
Behind her, two younger nobles exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Score two.
Then came the Minister of the Treasury, Lord Farn, a plump man whose pockets probably jingled when he walked.
"A fine boy!" he declared. "Tell me, young master, what would you say is the secret to ruling well?"
I smiled warmly.
Inside, I sharpened my knife.
"A ruler must know the weight of bread and iron equally," I said. "Bread to feed loyalty. Iron to silence betrayal. But above all, he must know when neither is enough... and wisdom must guide his hand."
Dead.
Silence.
If a pin had dropped, half the ballroom would have jumped.
Lord Farn opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish.
Behind me, I caught Father's slight nod.
The gleam in his eye said: Good. Keep going.
The rest came in a blur: Barons, Viscounts, old soldiers with too many medals.
Each one probing.
Each one expecting childish drivel.
Each one walking straight into polished political deflections.
"The greatest castle is built first in the hearts of men, not in stone."
"An enemy unspoken grows roots unseen."
"The hand that feeds is also the hand that strikes — thus both loyalty and fear are weapons."
By the end of it, the nobles weren't looking at me like a child anymore.
They were looking at me like I was something far more dangerous.
A Cattivo.
I gave them my best innocent smile.
And for the first time all evening, they looked afraid.
Victory.
At Father's signal, I retreated from the fray.
The ballroom seemed twice as loud behind me, nobles whispering like a hive of furious bees.
I stepped out into the cool garden, letting the night air wipe the politics from my skin.
Stars blinked overhead.
Distant music drifted lazily from the open windows.
I smirked up at the heavens.
"Five years old," I muttered. "And already playing chess with human lives."
My tiny hand curled into a fist by my side.
Not out of anger.
Out of sheer exhilaration.
Being sovereign of Hell had been one thing — big, loud, obvious power.
But this?
This mortal world?
This... art of words, alliances, betrayals stitched with silk thread?
It was subtler.
It was trickier.
It was so much more fun.
In Hell, I had ruled by might.
Here, I would rule by mind.
Slowly, inexorably.
Like a thorn growing inside a rose.
The sound of hurried footsteps snapped me from my reverie.
Millie came hurrying across the garden, skirts bunched in her hands.
"There you are!" she gasped, cheeks flushed. "Master Fuoco, everyone's looking for you! It's time for the gift presentation!"
I sighed theatrically.
"Ah, yes," I said. "The annual tradition of bribing the young heir in advance."
Millie blinked at me.
Then laughed, muffling it behind her hand.
"You're terrible," she said fondly.
I smirked, offering my hand imperially.
"Then carry me, woman. If I must be paraded like a prized boar, I refuse to walk."
Millie, used to my dramatics by now, swept me up into her arms with an exaggerated groan.
"You're getting heavier, you know," she teased.
I leaned my head against her shoulder with a long-suffering sigh.
"Such is the burden of greatness."
We returned to the ballroom just in time for the gift procession to begin.
And this, too, I played like a maestro.
Smiling just the right amount.
Bowing precisely when needed.
Thanking donors with words that sounded simple — but tucked tiny barbs of expectation or caution inside them.
"I will treasure this, Baron Esten. As I will treasure the memories of those loyal to House Cattivo."
"My thanks, Viscount Pallas. I hear your eldest son is a fine swordsman — perhaps a friendly match someday?"
(Translation: Make your son my ally — or regret it.)
One by one, they paraded before me.
One by one, they realized:
Fuoco Cattivo wasn't a foolish little princeling.
He was a player.
Even at five years old.
When the last gift was given and the last toast made, the nobles dispersed — outwardly pleased, inwardly rattled.
I stood beside my father, surveying the battlefield.
He crouched slightly, bringing his face level with mine.
"You did well," he said quietly. "Too well."
I arched an eyebrow.
"Should I have drooled more?"
A genuine chuckle rumbled from his chest.
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Come. Let us enjoy the rest of the night — before tomorrow's vultures arrive."
Together, we turned back toward the blazing lights of the ballroom.
And inside my chest, my magic core pulsed, steady and sure.
Power was coming.
But wisdom...