All in all, the villages were blooming beautifully, full of life, color, and actual hope.
And me?
I was thriving too.
Sassing my way through the realm, spreading questionable stories, traumatizing children with Titanic plots, and letting Chubby solve 80% of supernatural issues by simply scaring things with his face.
Life was good.
Even in the evenings, the town sparkled.
Lanterns lined the streets, inns glowed warmly from within, and magical wards ensured the safety of travelers at night.
Music from wandering bards drifted through the markets, mingling with the scents of fresh bread, herbs, and baked goods, creating a rhythm of life that felt revolutionary for the entire western territory.
I leaned against the balcony railing, eyes scanning the lively town below. Villagers greeting each other, merchants shouting over the market stalls, children darting between their legs, and even a few curious nobles from the capital sneaking in to witness this new marvel.
I couldn't stop a smirk from forming. My town wasn't just surviving. It wasn't just growing. It was changing the world around it, one road, one potion, one inn at a time.
And somewhere nearby, CHUBBY hovered, tiny shadowed arms folded, his approval silent but clear.
"Not bad, Chubby," I murmured, a touch of pride in my voice. "We're really doing it."
He nodded—well, in his own shadowy, creepy little way—and I allowed myself a rare, satisfied laugh.
The town was alive. The villagers were happy. The magic was subtle, the influence undeniable, and the western territory? Officially unstoppable.
******
BUT…Of course I knew this day would come.
A royal summon doesn't just float into your mailbox because the king is bored and wants to check on your skincare routine.
I expected it… but not this early.
Like—at least give me three months to emotionally prepare, binge-eat dried mangoes, maybe lose two more kilos and come up with fifty excuses why I absolutely cannot travel to the capital because Chubby is sick, or something.
But no.
Here I was, sitting in my office, letter in hand, gold seal glinting like it knows it owns my soul.
"Summoned by the King Himself."
Wonderful. Fantastic. Peak nightmare.
Leonil Tristwell warned me.
Apparently the royal court and mage tower were tearing their hair out trying to replicate my products—and failing. Spectacularly.
Shampoos that actually make hair soft and smell divine?
Soap that smells nice AND doesn't melt in two days?
Conditioner that doesn't turn into clumpy slime?
Impossible! Witchcraft! Burn her! Honestly, if they found out ketchup wasn't some divine artifact but simply tomatoes + vinegar + my stubbornness… I think the High Mages would riot.
And then there's Princess Milabuella.
The female lead.
The rumored beauty.
The nation's sweetheart.
According to Leonil, she personally requested tea with me.
Me.
Someone who hasn't had a proper haircut in two months, travels with a demonic furball, and invents shampoo out of sheer spite.
Nobles were shocked, scandalized, whispering about it in their balconies:
"Why her?"
"That girl from the west?"
"She's probably secretly ancient or hiding a magic lineage."
"No, no—my cousin swears she's actually a forest spirit."
"But she is fat…"
Yeah right. I am fat, there is nothing wrong with that and yes, I'm losing a kilo per month, and If I were a forest spirit would I be fighting with Chubby over roasted corn every night?
Speaking of which, Coffi, Henry, and Joff were scrambling to prepare for the trip.
Coffi grumbled, "My lady, do you want the silk cloak or—"
"No. Give me the one that says 'Do not talk to me before lunch.'"
Joff rose one brow, "We don't have that printed—"
I sighed, "Then make one."
Chubby was perched on top of the carriage roof, glaring at me. "You better not embarrass me in front of the royals," he hissed through our link. "I was once a royal high priest, I will not be—"
I rolled my eyes so hard, "I'm not the one who tried to steal a priest's lunch offerings last week," I shot back.
"It was ONE roasted chicken."
I sighed, "You traumatized the altar boy!"
"He'll grow stronger for it."
Unbelievable.
Anyway…
Several days later—after endless camping nights, soggy boots, and me slowly losing brain cells—I finally gave up and decided to introduce them to the greatest tragic love story ever birthed by the mortal realm: Titanic.
Of course, I made the mistake of telling it after dinner, when everyone was full, emotional, and apparently competitive about fictional romance.
"So… the ship sinks?" Henry gasped.
"Yes," I sighed. "Because rich people don't know how to steer around ice."
Joff blinked. "But why didn't Jack just float on that door? Rose was selfish!"
Coffi gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me? Rose was traumatized! She couldn't think straight!"
Henry crossed his arms. "She could think straight enough to hog the whole plank."
Chubby, who had been pretending not to listen, snorted loud enough to scare a squirrel out of a tree. "If that were me, I would've made the door into a boat. Humans are weak."
"YOU ARE A BREATHING MEATBALL," I snapped. "Stay out of this."
Chaos. Pure chaos. They argued about that damn door for half an hour. You'd think I was retelling an ancient war, not a tragic romance.
But the moment I got to Jack freezing in the water?
They cried.
Coffi stuffed her face into a blanket, wailing, "MY ONE TRUE LOVE DIED."
Joff sniffled. "Why couldn't they have taken turns on the door?"
Henry wiped his eyes dramatically. "Rose has commitment issues."
Chubby's voice rumbled like a judgmental grandmother. "If you fall in love in two days, you deserve the consequences."
"OH MY GOD."
That was night number three.
Night number four was Henry telling ghost stories—because apparently he wanted all of us to stop sleeping for the rest of our lives.
"So the ghost stands at the foot of your bed," Henry whispered, very proud of himself, "and counts your toes."
Coffi screamed.
Joff threw a stick at Henry. "WHAT KIND OF GHOST HAS A FOOT FETISH?"
Chubby rolled over on his back. "I will kick the ghost. Problem solved."
I looked at him in disbelief. "You are shorter than the average pillow."
"MY POWER IS EMOTIONAL," Chubby declared.
The fire crackled. Someone farted. (Probably Joff.) And the night ended with Coffi insisting we sleep in a cluster "so the toe ghost can't take us individually."