AT THE CAPITAL In the bustling heart of the capital, the morning sun had barely risen when the impossible happened.
A line—no, a serpentine creature of humanity—coiled around Merchant Lionel Tristwell III's brand-new storefront. Nobles in velvet cloaks, servants clutching copper coins, soldiers on break, merchants' wives, even a few elderly grandmothers armed with walking sticks (and frightening determination) all pressed forward, breathless with anticipation.
All for one thing.
Chubby Ketchup.
Lionel, wearing his finest embroidered coat and trembling with the thrill of success, stood inside the shop with his assistants. His shop sign gleamed:
TRISTWELL'S TASTY TREASURES — HOME OF CHUBBY KETCHUP
Two days earlier, he had done exactly as Lady Seraphine instructed.
"Give the nobles a taste during the banquet," she had said with that infuriating, smug confidence.
"Trust me. They'll beg you for more."
She wasn't wrong.
At the banquet, a simple plate of grilled beef drizzled with her mysterious red concoction had ignited a frenzy. The Duchess of Varrow had nearly threatened bodily harm to anyone who tried to take the last sample. A senior mage had declared it "culinary sorcery in liquid form."
And now—
"Only two bottles per person!" Lionel shouted above the roaring crowd. "Lady Seraph— I mean— our company policy is strict! No hoarding!"
People complained, fought, begged… and still obeyed.
By the end of the first hour, the shelves were empty. Completely empty. Not a smear left on the wooden ladles.
Lionel wiped sweat from his forehead, laughing breathlessly.
"This… This is a triumph! Lady Seraphine… your marketing genius… it's—"
But outside the shop, unseen by the celebrating merchant, someone else watched.
Hidden beneath the shadow of a stone archway stood Sir Alex Canva, cloak wrapped around him, expression unreadable.
His sharp eyes surveyed the crowd—the excitement, the chaos, the palpable desperation for a sauce they'd only tasted once.
He muttered under his breath, voice touched with disbelief:
"Was this… her plan all along?"
His gaze followed the long line stretching into the market square. Children bouncing. Adults arguing. Nobles elbowing commoners (discreetly, of course). Even a city guard had abandoned his post to buy a bottle.
A single product.
A single idea.
A single woman.
Lady Seraphine had done this.
The girl with no magic, no mana circle. The girl who nearly died in the mines. The girl who argued with invisible shadows and invented ketchup at a campfire.
Sir Alex exhaled slowly.
It wasn't just talent.
It wasn't luck.
It was vision—the kind that could shake kingdoms.
And for the first time, he felt something cold crawl down his spine.
If Lady Seraphine could make the capital riot over a sauce, what else could she do if she truly tried?
What else could she build?
What could she destroy?
What could she become?
Sir Alex's jaw clenched.
No… This wasn't just a clever idea.
This was power.
And maybe—just maybe—Lady Seraphine was far more dangerous than anyone in the capital yet realized.
******
The Royal Palace of Aetherion stood gleaming under the afternoon sun—golden spires piercing the sky, banners fluttering in controlled elegance, marble courtyards shining like polished bone. It was a symbol of wealth, power, and prosperity.
A beautiful lie.
Inside the throne hall, King Alistair Nothingwood Vael III, Ruler of the Four Winds, leaned back on his obsidian throne, fingers tapping rhythmically against carved armrests. His eyes—sharp, cold, and too intelligent for comfort—scanned the parchment reports laid before him.
Famine.
Disease.
Villages collapsing.
Crops withering.
Trade routes failing.
The capital hid its suffering behind silk curtains and golden walls, but the countryside… the countryside was dying.
And then—
He re-read the final report for the seventh time.
Lady Seraphine of the West.
A fat, sickly noblewoman with no magic.
Her territory unaffected by famine.
Her people healthy.
Her lands thriving.
Her farms flourishing.
Her mines active.
Her inventions revolutionary—starting with… Ketchup.
The king rubbed his forehead. "Ketchup," he muttered, tasting the absurdity of the word. "A… sauce."
But according to the spies' reports, half the city was fighting over it.
To make matters worse, the palace chefs—renowned artisans, trained for decades—had tried to recreate it from Sir Alex Canva's description.
They failed.
Every. Single. Attempt.
The royal chef came crying to him, muttering, "Your Majesty, that girl must be a culinary devil! A food sorceress! No normal person can create that flavor!"
King Alistair dismissed him but the words stayed.
A girl with no mana… creating something even a mage couldn't replicate?
He stood, pacing to the tall windows overlooking the capital.
From this height, he could see the contrast:
The inner circle of nobles bathed in magical light from the Mage Tower—wealthy district protected by spells, shimmering with health magic, all purchased with mountains of gold.
The mid-city where commoners lived—thin, tired, but surviving.
And the outskirts…
The outskirts where smoke curled from pyres burning the fever-dead.
A shadow passed across the king's face.
Just beyond the palace walls, famine gnawed at the poor.
Healing spells cost a fortune.
The Magic Tower priests demanded donations before lifting a finger.
Clerics refused to treat anyone "unblessed."
Mages hoarded resources, selling cures only to nobles.
And yet…
A forgotten west-side territory—barely even acknowledged in court—was thriving.
While everyone else starved.
King Alistair returned to his throne, eyes gleaming with irritation and fascination.
"Send for Sir Alex Canva," he ordered.
Moments later, Alex knelt before him.
"You return with curious reports, Sir Canva."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Alex said. "I witnessed the mines myself. The dark magic that once sealed the area… vanished."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Vanished?"
"Yes. As if purified."
"By whom?"
Alex hesitated for a heartbeat.
"…Lady Seraphine was present."
The king's interest sharpened.
"And she has no mana?"
"None, Your Majesty. And yet—she is alive where she should not be. The mine's magic should have killed her in seconds."
The king leaned forward, voice low.
"And now she creates a sauce that brings nobles to their knees in addiction."
Alex bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
A long silence stretched, thick with intrigue.
The king spoke softly:
"I want her brought to the capital."
Alex lifted his head slightly. "Your Majesty?"
"Not by force…" The king's lips curved faintly. "Not yet. For now, persuade her. Investigate fully. Discover how her lands survived famine. Discover how she healed her soil. Discover where she learned these… ideas."
He tapped the parchment again—where Lionel's shop earnings were listed.
"And if she refuses to cooperate…"
His smile darkened.
"…we may need to remind her that talents like hers belong to the Crown."
Alex bowed deeper.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
But as Alex left the hall, the king murmured under his breath—words meant for no one, yet heavy enough to shake kingdoms.
"What else can you do… Lady Seraphine?"
Above him, the stained-glass window depicting the Goddess of Light cracked slightly, unnoticed.
A bad omen.
A foretelling.
Something new was rising in the West.
And neither king, mage, nor priest was prepared.