Arila Vellion was living the dream.
Not the epic quest dream with enchanted loot drops, fire-breathing dragons, and unlikely friendships forged over campfires—no. This was a sweeter, fluffier dream. The kind where your lounge robes were enchanted to repel both stains and judgment, your divine fox familiar doubled as a living cuddle pillow and a personal heater, and your kitchen was stocked like a dessert deity's private vault. She had flour in her hair, powdered sugar on her sleeves, and hope in her heart.
The kingdom might still have been whispering in salons and enchanted scroll threads about her wyvern-slaying, barefoot-dancing, gala-derailing escapade—but Arila had moved on.
Well. Sort of. Mostly.
Okay, she still had mild flashbacks every time someone mentioned "cake" and "nobility" in the same breath, and she occasionally woke up in a cold sweat muttering about fondue fountains and strategic lightning placement. But now? Life was calm. Peaceful. Filled with the kind of bliss only molten chocolate and small-scale magical combustion could bring.
Every morning began with a symphony of chirping birds, filtered sunlight, and Ninko stretching like a dramatic feline across her duvet, tails flicking like a runway model in slow motion. This was immediately followed by Professor Daelen Rowe trying to kill her. Not literally—but if one were to measure enthusiasm by the number of arcane drills before breakfast, then yes, there was definitely attempted murder happening.
"You're holding the lightning like it personally offended you," Daelen said without looking up from his clipboard, the glint from his rune-engraved glasses catching the morning sun.
Arila, hair half-falling out of her braid and eyes still crusted with dreams, groaned. "That's because it did. It woke me up."
Daelen simply muttered something about magical discipline and told her to try again.
To her credit, she had improved. Her elemental fusion spells no longer resulted in impromptu weather disasters. Her water constructs had stopped throwing tantrums. And her lightning? It only sparked at mildly inconvenient times now. Progress. Ninko, however, remained unimpressed, perched like a judgmental god on a nearby branch, nine tails flicking with the slow rhythm of quiet condemnation.
But after those brutal training sessions, Arila did what any rational magical prodigy recovering from near-death elemental exhaustion would do.
She baked.
Specifically, she attempted to create desserts that were both delicious and just slightly dangerous. Chocolate lava cakes that literally steamed. Caramel so rich it required a coin purse. Frosting that shimmered with edible stardust. Of course, this meant the Vellion kitchen had become an official danger zone. Flour avalanches, frosting floods, a terrifying moment with animate whipped cream—it was chaos. Beautiful, chaotic sugar-fueled joy.
"Success," Arila declared, her hair now held back with a ribbon that was definitely on fire ten minutes ago, "is ninety percent sugar and ten percent delusion."
Ninko, now stationed on top of the fridge like a suspicious pastry judge from another realm, merely flicked an ear and blinked.
The seventh batch of lava cakes detonated with dramatic flair. A faint chocolate cloud wafted upward like a summoning spell.
When lunchtime rolled around, Arila was riding a sugar high strong enough to bend both physics and reason. She plopped into her dining chair with the posture of a person who had faced a confectionery battlefield and emerged victorious. Her cheeks were streaked with cocoa, and her left sleeve appeared to be caramel-glued to her arm.
That victorious twinkle in her eye didn't even make it past the soup course.
Caelan Vellion, her father—regal, composed, and not easily rattled—cleared his throat. Not the casual kind of throat-clearing. The throat-clearing. The one that came before announcements. Or lectures. Or dramatic disasters.
"We've received two letters this morning," he said, sliding two elegant envelopes across the table like they were enemy intelligence reports.
Arila's spoon froze midair.
"First," Caelan continued with the calm, inevitable tone of a man delivering magical taxes, "a formal notice from the royal palace. Prince Lucien will be visiting the estate. Tomorrow."
Arila blinked. Slowly. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "He will be accompanied by Sir Darian."
The spoon clattered to the table with the dramatic timing of a stage play. Arila stared at the letters like they might spontaneously combust if she blinked hard enough.
"And the second," Caelan went on, lifting the second envelope with barely concealed amusement, "is a formal summons from Divine Royale Academy. Orientation is in one week."
"Orientation—Lucien—what—I—why—all at once—?" Arila stammered. Then promptly shoved three sugar-dusted cookies into her mouth like they were the only thing keeping her alive.
Evelaine arched a graceful brow. "Is she hyperventilating or just chewing with extreme emotion?"
"Bit of both," Lira replied, patting Arila gently on the shoulder. "My lady, remember to breathe between sweets."
"I can't!" Arila gasped through a mouthful of almond macaron. "I'm buffering!"
Evelaine leaned forward with mock concern. "Darling, shall I fetch the lemon tart?"
"No need," Arila muttered, slumping forward onto the tablecloth in slow motion. "Just bury me in meringue and tell my story with a tragic musical number."
Somewhere in the background, a servant dropped a tray.
Back at the royal palace, in a sun-drenched study lined with books and far too many tea options, Prince Lucien sat reading over the details of his upcoming visit.
He looked—annoyingly serene. Like a man who was prepared for anything, including flaming desserts and magical sass.
Darian stood nearby, the official straight man to Lucien's accidental chaos magnetism.
"They'll be expecting us tomorrow," Lucien said, folding the letter with a sigh.
"Are you sure about this?" Darian asked, arms folded like a walking warning sign. "Visiting in person might... complicate things."
Lucien gave a tired smile. "Better that than let my parents orchestrate some overly dramatic royal engagement ball. Again."
"So this is... what? A personal reconnaissance mission?"
Lucien raised a brow. "Let's call it preliminary diplomacy."
Darian snorted. "She did obliterate a wyvern barefoot."
Lucien's lips curved into something dangerously close to a grin. "Yes. But it's the sarcasm I'm most curious about."
Meanwhile, at the Vellion estate, Arila had spiraled so far into sugar-based emotional collapse that she now sat on the kitchen floor. Her hair was sticking up in powdered sugar spikes. Cocoa smudged her cheek like war paint. She was surrounded by parchment, broken cookie bits, and the silent judgment of multiple kitchen spirits.
Ninko stretched across her lap like a pampered pillow, lazily licking frosting from one paw.
"I had peace," Arila whispered to the ceiling. "I had cinnamon rolls. I had a vision of a future without royal flirting and academic doom."
She threw a crumbled biscuit at nothing in particular.
Ninko yawned.
"I'm not ready for Lucien: Part Two. I used up all my cool points during the wyvern thing! What if I trip? What if he brings pastries and they're better than mine? What if I melt into a puddle of sugar and dramatic panic in front of his smug, princely smirk?"
Silence. The cookie missed the wall and bounced off a teapot.
Ninko gently nudged a marshmallow into her hand.
Arila sighed. "You're right. If I'm going to face flirting, chaos, and the living nightmare that is academic orientation week, I'm going to need more sugar. Possibly a battle plan. Or six."
She hauled herself to her feet with the weary determination of someone preparing for a duel—armed only with frosting.
"To the chocolate reserves," she said solemnly.
Ninko meowed in divine agreement.
To be continued...