Life, surprisingly, didn't end after Arila Vellion exploded a wyvern in cocktail attire. The Vellion estate, while still occasionally vibrating from residual gossip shockwaves, had more or less returned to its version of normal.
Which meant Arila waking up at the absurd hour of morning o'clock to train with Professor Daelen Rowe, whose idea of motivation was glowering and writing ominous notes in his ever-present clipboard like a cryptic war general preparing for arcane siege.
"Again," Daelen said flatly, his voice echoing across the courtyard.
Arila groaned, arms raised, holding a crackling orb of lightning in one hand and a swirling mist of water in the other. Her arms trembled slightly—not from fatigue, but from the sheer effort of keeping the elements from slapping each other like petty siblings.
Ninko perched lazily on a training post nearby, nine tails cascading like a smug waterfall, flicking in silent judgment. He licked his paw, as if bored by the very concept of elemental labor.
"Why do I have to combine elements before breakfast?" Arila muttered, her face twisted in bleary-eyed irritation.
"Because your enemies will not wait for brunch," Daelen replied without looking up from his clipboard.
Fair.
To her credit, she'd gotten much better at not blowing herself up. The lightning didn't immediately fizzle, and the water only mildly hissed in protest. A few months ago, this combo would have created a rogue storm cloud over the garden and possibly ruined someone's ornamental hedge maze. Progress.
As the orb finally stabilized, glowing with a stormy shimmer, Daelen nodded once. "Better. Sloppy control on the left side, but marginally less catastrophic."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Arila muttered.
After training—and exactly one exasperated lecture about "magical discipline" and "resisting the urge to weaponize ganache"—Arila did what any normal magical prodigy recovering from a wyvern-induced gala meltdown would do. She tried to bake.
Specifically, she tried to create a chocolate dessert worthy of launching her Sweet Empire™.
And, in the process, turned the Vellion kitchen into a sugar-coated warzone.
"Lira," Arila said solemnly, standing amid a countertop covered in mixing bowls and dangerously molten fudge, stirring a bubbling pot of what she was eighty percent sure was ganache and twenty percent sure was weapon-grade chocolate magma. "If I die, tell the others I went down fighting."
"You're not dying," Lira snapped, ducking as a spoon flew past her head like a frosted projectile. "You're caramelizing."
Ninko, now visibly lurking on top of a cabinet like a sugar-coated gargoyle, pawed at a lemon tart as if to say, This is what happens when you ignore recipes and common sense.
The air was thick with cocoa and chaos. A thin trail of chocolate smoke curled toward the ceiling, setting off one of the enchanted sconces, which began flashing like it was trying to warn the fire department.
By the time Evelaine peeked into the kitchen, three maids had retreated behind the pantry, the sous-chef was whispering a prayer in three languages, and Arila was covered in flour, sugar, and what might have been marshmallow residue.
"I'm conducting edible science," Arila declared proudly, flour dust puffing from her hair as she raised a ladle like a victory banner.
"You're declaring war on cocoa," Evelaine corrected, wincing at the molten waterfall dripping off the countertop. "Darling, try not to create a second kingdom in the oven."
Outside the Vellion estate, the kingdom buzzed with rumors. Nobles whispered in salons and tea houses, their teacups trembling with scandalous energy.
The noble girl who danced barefoot with the prince.
The elemental prodigy who defeated a wyvern with three affinities.
The rebellious fashionista whose cocktail dress had sparked a silent uprising in hemline standards.
The girl followed by a divine kitsune beast who shamelessly stole canapés and napped under royal buffets.
At the royal palace, these whispers reached even the sun-drenched halls of King Alaric and Queen Arlisse's morning chamber.
Prince Lucien stood near the window, arms folded, gaze distant as he half-listened to the courtier droning on about trade routes and tax levies in the Southern District.
Queen Arlisse sipped her tea with serene poise. King Alaric, however, was less subtle.
"Lucien," the king interrupted, setting down his goblet with the delicate force of a man about to cause emotional damage. "We've been hearing quite a bit about Lady Arila."
Lucien blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "Yes. She's... certainly made an impression."
Queen Arlisse chuckled. "You looked rather taken with her on the dance floor."
Lucien cleared his throat. "She's... unique."
"Mm," Alaric said, tapping the rim of his goblet. "Perhaps you should consider proposing."
Silence.
Lucien stared at his father as if the man had just declared war on gravity.
"P-proposing?" he repeated, voice cracking slightly.
"Why not?" Alaric shrugged. "Strong lineage. Divine beast companion. Can cook with lightning. That's three royal qualifications right there."
"And," Arlisse added, hiding a sly smile behind her teacup, "she's not afraid to talk back. That could be... healthy."
Lucien opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then turned and walked out without a word, his cape fluttering behind him like a man fleeing both fate and matrimony.
Back in his chambers, Lucien paced like a caged griffin. Darian stood at attention, watching his prince spiral with professional neutrality.
"Did you hear them?" Lucien asked, gesturing wildly.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"They want me to propose. Propose! I've known her for, what, a few formal greetings, a dramatic rescue, and one barefoot waltz!"
Darian nodded slowly. "All of which were very memorable."
Lucien slumped into a chair, dramatically rubbing his temples. "What do I even say? 'Hello, would you like to endure royal scrutiny and dine with politicians for the rest of your life?'"
Darian considered. "She destroyed a wyvern without flinching, feeds her divine fox like it's a spoiled cat, and made Lord Hespar faint from hemline shock. Honestly... you could do worse."
Lucien stared. "That was almost support."
"Don't get used to it."
Back at the Vellion estate, Arila sneezed as powdered sugar exploded from a poorly sealed bag. She stared at the mess.
"This is fine," she whispered, standing in the middle of what could only be described as dessert fallout.
Ninko sneezed in solidarity, then leapt onto the counter and delicately licked a frosting smear off her cheek.
She flopped into a chair with a dramatic sigh, waving away the sugar cloud like a tragic baking ghost. "I swear," she muttered, "next time I get invited to a royal event, I'm showing up in battle armor and oven mitts."
From the hallway, Caelan's voice rang out, faint but amused: "Please don't encourage rumors about culinary warfare, Arila."
"I'm not encouraging them," she called back. "I'm preparing for them."
Arila smiled, then tossed a truffle to Ninko, who caught it with unholy grace. She reached for her notebook, flipping past doodles of wyverns wearing tiny hats and dramatic sketches of tart ideas. A new recipe had just sparked to life in her mind—
Chocolate Thunder Tart.
Because if she was going to be known as the barefoot, dessert-fueled girl who stole the royal spotlight, she might as well live up to it.
To be continued...