SERAPHINE POV
Arriving at my father's territory was a spectacle I could never have predicted. The roads leading to the mansion were lined with people, and not just a few curious onlookers either—entire clusters of villagers had gathered, waving bread, fresh fruits, and even flowers, shouting my name as if I were some returning queen.
I could see Sir Alex Canva's men being handed baskets of bread and grilled fish, and even from the carriage I rode in, my own entourage received offerings. The chants, the smiles, the sheer abundance of generosity—it was almost comical.
The same land that was supposedly suffering from famine and sickness just weeks ago now looked like a paradise untouched by misfortune.
I knew why. Coffi and my guards had returned from the mines with tales of my intervention, of the cursed dark magic that had plagued these lands, and the villagers' relief had spread like wildfire. By the time Sir Alex and his men arrived, rumors of the lifting of the curse had already reached far and wide.
People had begun calling me "the one who broke the darkness," though whether that was admiration or fear, I couldn't tell. The banners of my father's estate fluttered in the wind, but instead of anger or authority, the atmosphere was… celebratory.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, the cursed daugther returning to a territory my father ruled, and yet it was my name on everyone's lips, not his.
The mansion itself hadn't changed much—little grand, imposing, filled with old marble halls and towering pillars—but it smelled different somehow, less of mildew and more of roasted meats and herbs, as though the estate had been waiting for this day.
The Duke himself greeted us at the doors with a flourish and a polite bow. His eyes lingered on me longer than necessary, which I noted with an internal smirk.
"Welcome back, Lady Seraphine," he said, voice smooth, tone careful. "We have prepared a feast… as is fitting for someone who has freed our lands from the shadow."
I barely let him finish before I had my men unpacking, my own thoughts already spinning with plans. The feast was glorious, a riot of colors and scents—roasted meats, piles of fresh bread, corn grilled to perfection, fruits so ripe they practically dripped juice, and fish that shimmered with an almost unnatural freshness. I barely touched it.
Not out of disdain, but because my mind was already ticking over with ideas, visions of what could come next.
After the initial introductions and toasts, I took control of the kitchen, giving instructions to the cook and Coffi's aunt about tomato harvesting in bulk. "We're going to make something… revolutionary," I told them, voice firm but calm, watching their brows furrow with curiosity. "Ketchup. But not just any ketchup. The kind that will put every merchant's tomato paste to shame."
They blinked at me. Coffi, usually so loyal but skeptical, dared to ask, "Lady Seraphine… you were serious about ketchup?"
"Yes, of course," I replied, a hint of amusement in my voice. "And we're going to make it step by step, starting with quality tomatoes, spices, and some very special herbs. I'll guide you. This isn't just cooking; this is… an art form, unlike what we did from the camp."
That night, I lay in my chambers, not asleep but plotting. I could hear the distant laughter of the staff, the rustle of carts preparing supplies, and it gave me a strange sense of satisfaction. I imagined jars lined up on shelves, the seal of my own design, each one a token of my ingenuity and independence from my father's shadow.
Morning came, and with it a surprise. The cook and Coffi had attempted the ketchup, and while the aroma was… promising, the taste was off. Coffi, cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and frustration, muttered, "I just followed what you did at the camp, but it doesn't… taste right."
I watched her struggle for a moment before stepping in, sleeves rolled, hands ready. I guided her and the cook step by step, adding precise amounts of pepper, herbs, and just a touch of sweetness that made the flavors sing together. It took hours, but by the end, I held a small jar in my hands, and the scent alone made the kitchen staff stop and stare.
They tasted it hesitantly. Coffi's eyes went wide. "Lady Seraphine… did you… use magic?" she asked, voice almost reverent.
I laughed, a low, proud sound that echoed off the stone walls. "No magic, Coffi. Just skill, patience… and knowing how to taste the impossible until it becomes possible."
She gaped, clearly bewildered. The cook, usually the confident one, merely nodded silently, unable to argue. I didn't need to. The truth was clear: no one in this territory could replicate what I had made. And perhaps, for the first time, I felt a thrill of genuine satisfaction—not because I'd defied my father, but because I had created something uniquely mine. A product, a plan, a mark of my own power, and not just the shadow of a princess or a cursed girl.
I looked around at their faces—amazed, puzzled, a little fearful—and I allowed myself a sly smirk. "It seems," I said softly, almost to myself, "that I have no competition here. And that… suits me just fine."
The kitchen hummed with new energy, the jars lined up like tiny trophies, and I knew, with every sense alert, that this was only the beginning. My father may have ruled this land, but I was carving my own empire, one jar of ketchup at a time.
*****
The next day, after a well-deserved sleep, I stormed into the kitchen like it was my personal throne room. My hair was still half-tangled, I smelled faintly of roasted tomatoes, and my old pastel gown was tied up in an unroyal knot so I could move freely. (Noted that I need a new gown that doesn't look like a rag, I might as well make my own, with the help of Coffi and her cousin.)
The cooks froze mid-step, some holding knives, others holding vegetables like they expected me to start throwing magic fireballs.
"Good morning!" I announced, sounding far more energetic than anyone should before breakfast. "Today we begin history. Yesterday was just a teaser."
Coffi with her usual smile and maid uniform blinked at me, holding a bowl. "Goodmorning, Milady… we haven't even eaten yet."
"Great," I grinned. "Hunger builds character. Also seasoning."
"But—"
"No buts!"
They didn't argue — they were too afraid or too curious, or maybe both Chubby complained about not having enough sleep last night because I asked him dozens of questions about the possibility of me using magic though I know it already, somehow, manaless me could wield magic at ease and not to mention acquiring the magical storage pouch to which I plan to put my goods.
By mid-morning, the kitchen looked like a battlefield of tomatoes that died bravely for research. My arms were red up to my elbows; one cook nearly fainted because she thought my blood was boiling from my magic.
"No, these," I said, wiggling my dripping hands, "are tomatoes. If it were blood, you would know, because I would be screaming… louder."
Sir Alex Canva walked in at the worst moment — tall, annoyingly handsome, wearing armor like he was modeling for some knight-calendar charity.
He leaned against the doorframe. "You are… covered."
"Yes," I said proudly, "innovation stains." What was he even doing here anyway? Was he here to give me motivation? Well, I couldn't complain though, those biceps were like my inspiration.
He smirked. "Your breathing sounds… intense. You need help?"
"Nope! It's called passion, Sir Muscles."
He chuckled and stayed to watch.
I hated that I liked it. While the rest of the maid were blushing and giggling.
Meanwhile, cooks and servants gathered in the kitchen to watch me work with tomatoes like I was doing magic. I couldn't blame them, because, apparently, I'm the only one who could produce perfect ketchup without tasting it like wet sucks and dry bugs.
My father arrived with his dramatic worn out cape swoosh like he owned the concept of entrances. "What is this chaos, Seraphine?" he demanded, scanning the bowls, herbs, and boiling pots.
"Ketchup, father" I smiled sweetly. "Economy booster. Future business. Empire launch. Please don't be jealous."
"Ketchup? What is that?" He stared like he was calculating the distance between discipline and disowning.
"It's gold, father. We need more gold in our house."
"You are a noble lady. Not a… sauce merchant."
"Well father," I tapped my spoon like a gavel, "I already broke a curse. Allow me to break poverty too. It's a hobby."
Sir Alex nearly choked laughing but disguised it with a fake cough.
Father glared at both of us.