The royal dining hall was bathed in warm midday light, sunlight pouring in through tall arched windows and settling softly over polished stone and gilded pillars. Heavy curtains of crimson and gold hung motionless, shutting out the bustle of the palace beyond, leaving the space calm, dignified, and quietly expectant. The long dining table, carved from dark wood and inlaid with subtle lion motifs, stood at the heart of the room like a stage prepared for something more than an ordinary meal.
Seated around it were the pillars of the Lionheart Kingdom itself. The king sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed yet commanding, the weight of rulership carried with practiced ease. Beside him, the queen maintained her graceful composure, her gaze attentive and observant, missing little even in moments meant for rest. Across from them sat the prince and princess, both present in body and mind, their attention already drawn toward the unusual spread before them.
Before each of them lay not the familiar royal cuisine refined over generations, but something subtly different—dishes that carried unfamiliar shapes, colors, and aromas. Steam rose gently from baskets of freshly baked bread, the surface golden and softly cracked, releasing a warm, comforting scent unlike the dense loaves usually served at court. Plates were arranged with care, presenting neatly stacked sandwiches, crisp-edged potato dishes, and small bowls of vibrant accompaniments whose sharp and fresh fragrances cut pleasantly through the richness of the hall.
The table itself looked abundant, almost festive. Thin slices of grilled bread layered with melted cheese rested beside golden-brown fried chicken tucked between soft bread. Nearby were neatly formed potato wedges, hash browns with rough, crunchy surfaces, and bowls of finely shredded vegetables lightly dressed and chilled. Slender rings of pale onions glistened faintly in clear brine, while another dish offered a cool, creamy mix of cabbage that contrasted with the heat of the freshly cooked foods.
Despite the abundance, no one had yet reached for their cutlery. The atmosphere carried a quiet tension—not unease, but curiosity. This was not simply lunch. It was an introduction.
A few steps behind the royal family, the butler stood poised and dignified, hands folded neatly behind his back, ready to speak when called upon. The servants lining the walls moved with careful restraint, as though aware that this meal, humble in origin yet bold in concept, carried significance beyond taste alone.
In the stillness of the dining hall, surrounded by dishes born from a young noble girl's strange ideas and relentless experimentation, the royal family of Lionheart sat on the verge of discovery—about food, about innovation, and about the quiet ripples already spreading through their palace.
The king was the first to move.
He lifted one of the warm loaves from its basket, turning it slowly in his hands. The crust gave a faint, promising crackle beneath his fingers, far lighter than the dense ceremonial breads he was accustomed to. With a small, intrigued hum, he tore it open.
Steam escaped at once, carrying a gentle, almost sweet aroma that spread across the table. The interior was pale and airy, strands pulling softly before separating.
"…This is bread?" he asked, more to the room than to anyone in particular.
Queen Elizabeth Frosta Lionheart leaned slightly closer, her eyes narrowing with interest rather than suspicion. She accepted a piece when the king passed it to her, testing its texture between her fingers before tasting it. Her expression shifted subtly—composure intact, but curiosity unmistakably awakened.
"It's light," she said after a moment. "Not merely in weight, but in presence. It doesn't sit heavily on the tongue."
The prince, already less restrained, followed suit. He took a decisive bite, chewing once—then paused.
"…Why is this dangerous?" he asked flatly.
The princess blinked. "Dangerous?"
"If this is served regularly," he continued, eyeing the loaf with mock seriousness, "people will never accept the old bread again."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the servants lining the wall.
Encouraged, the prince reached next for one of the sandwiches—crisply fried chicken layered between the soft bread, its surface glistening faintly. He bit in, and the sound alone drew attention: a sharp crunch followed by a muffled, stunned silence.
He swallowed.
"…I see."
The king raised an eyebrow. "You see what?"
"I see why no one touched anything yet," the prince replied. "This feels… improper."
The queen took a smaller bite herself, more measured. The contrast between the crisp exterior and the tender meat within caused her eyes to soften just a fraction.
"It's balanced," Elizabeth said quietly. "Texture, temperature, seasoning. Nothing overwhelms the other."
She glanced toward the bowls of accompaniments. "These, then, are meant to be eaten together?"
At her gesture, the butler stepped forward with a smooth, practiced motion.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, voice calm but carrying clearly through the hall. "The young lady designed these dishes to complement one another. Rich foods paired with acidity and freshness, to prevent fatigue of the palate."
He gestured first to the glistening rings of onions. "These are onions preserved briefly in a vinegar solution. They cleanse the mouth between bites."
The princess hesitated, then tried one.
Her eyes widened—not at sharpness, but at how quickly the richness of the fried food faded, leaving her palate refreshed.
"…That's clever."
The king chuckled softly and reached for a hash brown, breaking it in half to reveal its fluffy interior beneath the crisp surface.
"And this?"
"Grated potatoes, bound only by their own starch," the butler replied. "Fried at a controlled temperature. The goal is contrast—crunch without greasiness."
The king tasted it.
Then another.
Then he stopped, set it down carefully, and exhaled.
"This girl," he said slowly, "is not merely cooking."
Elizabeth met his gaze, understanding immediately.
"She's thinking."
The butler inclined his head. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Which brings me to the matter of the establishment she wishes to open."
At once, the room's atmosphere shifted—from indulgence to intent listening.
The butler inclined his head slightly, waiting until the royal family's attention returned fully to him.
"These dishes," he said, gesturing subtly toward the table, "are the result of the young lady's recent experiments in Eddleguard. She has refined them there, using locally sourced ingredients and repeated trials."
The king listened while tearing another small piece from the soft bread, thoughtful now rather than amused.
"And this is not merely indulgence," he said. "There is intent behind it."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the butler replied. "She has expressed her wish to open an establishment in Eddleguard itself. Not here in the royal capital."
The prince looked up, surprised. "Eddleguard?"
"A border city," the princess added, recalling. "Active, but not central."
"Precisely," the butler said. "She believes it to be… suitable. A place where novelty would be welcomed, yet expectations would not be stifled by tradition."
Queen Elizabeth Frosta Lionheart regarded the spread once more, her eyes moving from dish to dish, as though seeing beyond the food itself.
"She chose a city where experimentation would breathe," she murmured. "That alone says much about her temperament."
The king reached for one of the potato wedges this time, its crisp exterior breaking cleanly under his fingers.
"She did not ask for royal patronage?" he asked.
"No, Your Majesty," the butler answered. "Nor has she requested permission. Only that the concept be understood."
The princess sampled the chilled vegetables, pausing at the cool contrast against the warmth of the meal.
"These foods are… approachable," she said. "Not ceremonial. They invite the eater in."
"Yet they are deliberate," Elizabeth added. "Every element has a role."
The butler allowed himself the faintest smile. "That is the impression she wished to leave."
A quiet moment followed as cutlery finally moved in earnest, the earlier hesitation replaced by slow, appreciative tasting. There was no rush now—only careful attention, as though each bite revealed another layer of thought behind it.
The king set his utensils down at last.
"She has not merely introduced new dishes," he said. "She has introduced a new way of thinking about meals."
Elizabeth nodded, her expression warm but measured.
"And this," she said softly, "is only the beginning."
The sunlight continued to pour through the arched windows, illuminating a table no longer untouched—and a future that had begun to take shape, quietly, far from the capital, in a city called Eddleguard.
The first to break the renewed silence was the princess.
She had spread a thin layer of the pale, glossy butter onto a still-warm slice of bread, hesitating only a moment before tasting it.
"…Oh."
That single sound carried enough weight to draw every eye to her.
She looked down at the bread as if betrayed. "It's sweet," she said, incredulous, "but not like dessert. It melts and—why does it feel comforting?"
The king tried it next, eyebrows lifting as the honeyed aroma bloomed.
"This is dangerous," he declared again, far less joking this time. "Butter softened with sweetness… it encourages overeating."
Elizabeth smiled faintly as she sampled it herself. "No," she corrected gently. "It encourages staying."
The bread disappeared faster after that.
When the smashed burgers were brought forward, even the servants stiffened slightly. The brioche buns were glossy and golden, cradling uneven patties whose edges were dark and crisp, cheese melting lazily over charred onions and softened tomatoes.
The prince picked one up without ceremony.
"…It's heavy," he observed, weighing it in his hands. "But not crude."
He bit in.
The sound was messy. Juices ran, cheese stretched, the patty cracked beneath his teeth.
He froze.
"…This is unfair."
The king laughed. "Explain yourself."
"The meat," the prince said, chewing slowly, reverently. "It's not just beef. It's richer. Softer. The fat— it carries everything."
Elizabeth tasted hers more carefully, closing her eyes just long enough to notice the layers.
"The char adds bitterness," she said. "The tomatoes cut through it. And the bread—slightly sweet again. It holds the weight without collapsing."
She opened her eyes and glanced toward the butler. "This was intentional."
"Every ratio," he replied simply.
The king finished his burger in thoughtful silence, then wiped his hands.
"This would sell," he said. "To soldiers, to merchants, to nobles pretending they are neither."
The chilled glasses of soda came next, beads of condensation sliding down crystal.
The princess lifted the lemon soda first, sniffed it, and took a cautious sip.
Her shoulders relaxed instantly.
"It's sharp," she said, delighted. "Bright. It wakes the mouth."
The prince tried the orange soda and blinked. "This tastes like fruit," he said. "But… playful."
"Carbonation," the king noted after tasting both, amused. "A drink that bites back."
Elizabeth sipped the lemon soda again, nodding slightly. "These aren't meant to replace wine," she said. "They reset the tongue."
Finally came the simplest-looking pairing: golden grilled cheese sandwiches, their surfaces evenly browned, accompanied by bowls of steaming tomato soup.
The king dipped the sandwich without hesitation.
The crunch gave way to molten cheese, followed by the smooth acidity of the soup.
"…Hah," he exhaled. "This one understands people."
The princess followed suit, eyes widening as she dipped again, slower this time.
"It's warm," she said softly. "Not just hot. Warm."
The prince leaned back after finishing his portion, expression unguarded.
"If this is what she serves," he said, "people won't come to be impressed."
"They'll come to feel full," Elizabeth added.
"Not only of food," the king said, glancing at the table now marked by crumbs, empty glasses, and quiet satisfaction.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The dishes had done that work for them.
The king paused mid-sip, the faint fizz of lemon soda still lingering.
"By the way, Wilhelm," he said casually, as if the question had only just occurred to him, "did she mention anything about the cost of these dishes at the restaurant?"
The butler straightened at once.
"Yes, Your Majesty. She has a rough structure in mind. It is not yet finalized," he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. "But she did prepare a provisional list."
The soft rustle of paper sounded unusually loud in the quiet hall.
Wilhelm unfolded it and began to read.
"French fries, per serving—one hundred copper coins, or one silver."
The prince let out a short laugh. "That's… reasonable."
"Chips," Wilhelm continued, "priced by seasoning and preparation. From fifty copper to one hundred fifty copper."
Elizabeth's gaze sharpened slightly. "Tiered pricing," she murmured. "She's accounting for labor and rarity."
"Fried chicken," Wilhelm said, voice steady. "Two silver per portion."
The king hummed. "After tasting it? That borders on generosity."
"Onion rings—one silver."
The princess tilted her head. "People will order those without thinking."
"Chicken sandwich—four silver."
The prince whistled softly. "That one's dangerous. Cheap enough to tempt, expensive enough to feel special."
Wilhelm did not pause.
"Burger—ten silver."
This time, the room reacted at once.
"Ten?" the prince echoed.
The king, however, smiled.
"With that patty," he said calmly, "anything less would cheapen it."
Elizabeth nodded. "It sets an anchor. Everything else feels affordable by comparison."
"Grilled cheese and tomato soup, served together—five silver."
The princess smiled faintly. "Comfort, priced like comfort."
"A full loaf of bread—one silver."
The king glanced at the basket, now half empty. "That alone will draw crowds."
"Honey butter—fifty copper per serving."
Elizabeth exhaled, amused. "She understands restraint. Too much sweetness invites excess."
Wilhelm shifted the paper slightly.
"Takeaway packaging—free of charge."
The prince blinked. "Free?"
"She does not wish to discourage common customers," Wilhelm replied evenly.
Then he continued.
"High-end packaging—ten silver per item. Includes a preservation spell with a duration of seven days."
The king leaned forward slightly now.
"And the last?"
Wilhelm hesitated for just a breath.
"Novel preservation package. One gold coin. Preservation duration approximately two months."
Silence followed.
Not shock—calculation.
Elizabeth was the first to speak. "That isn't for food," she said quietly.
"No," the king agreed. "That's for gifts. Travel. Influence."
The prince let out a slow breath. "She's not just selling meals."
"She's selling time," the princess said softly.
Wilhelm folded the paper and returned it to his pocket.
"That is the entirety of the list, Your Majesty."
The king leaned back, fingers tapping once against the armrest.
"…Eddleguard is going to change," he said at last.
And this time, no one laughed.
Wilhelm lifted the paper again, eyes scanning the lower half.
"There is more," he said.
The king gestured lightly. "Go on."
"The beverages," Wilhelm read.
"Carbonated water—fifty copper."
The prince raised an eyebrow. "She's charging for bubbles?"
Elizabeth smiled. "She's charging for restraint. That price invites curiosity without commitment."
"Orange soda—one silver."
"Lemon soda—one silver."
The princess nodded thoughtfully. "Equal footing. Preference, not hierarchy."
The king took another sip of the lemon soda, considering. "Fair. Clean. No confusion."
Wilhelm shifted his stance slightly, the tone of his voice changing—not heavier, but more deliberate.
"And now," he said, "the dining floors."
That alone sharpened the room's attention.
"For the second floor," Wilhelm continued, "which she intends as a common dining hall—each table is priced at ten gold. Unlimited drinks included."
The prince nearly choked. "Ten gold per table?"
"Per sitting," Wilhelm clarified calmly.
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed—not in disapproval, but calculation. "That discourages lingering crowds, yet rewards groups."
"And unlimited drinks," the king added. "People will talk about that."
Wilhelm nodded and moved on.
"The third floor consists of private dining rooms. Price—fifty gold per room."
The princess leaned forward slightly. "And?"
"Complimentary chips, french fries, and beverages," Wilhelm said. "Unlimited."
The king laughed, low and appreciative. "She knows exactly what people order when they stop counting coins."
Elizabeth's smile was thin but impressed. "Privacy, abundance, and perceived generosity."
Wilhelm did not pause.
"And lastly—the VIP lounge."
The air shifted.
"Pricing is flexible," he said. "Minimum one hundred gold. Larger reservations may exceed that."
The prince exhaled slowly. "That's not a meal."
"No," the king agreed. "That's access."
Elizabeth folded her hands atop the table. "Visibility without vulgarity," she said softly. "Those who enter won't boast about food. They'll boast about being allowed inside."
Wilhelm finished and lowered the paper.
"That is the full structure as she presented it."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then the king broke the silence with a quiet chuckle.
"She hasn't opened a restaurant," he said.
"She's built a ladder."
Elizabeth looked toward the sunlit windows, already imagining whispers traveling far beyond Eddleguard.
"And everyone," she said gently, "will choose which rung they belong on."
Wilhelm hesitated, then added calmly, as if reading weather rather than fate,
"There is one final note, Your Majesty."
The king waved a hand, already relaxed again. "At this point, I doubt anything can—"
"These prices," Wilhelm continued, "are provisional. They will remain in effect for approximately two months only."
The king paused.
Wilhelm went on, voice unwavering. "After that period, the price of each item may increase—by a factor of two to seven."
The king inhaled to respond—
—and promptly choked.
A sharp cough echoed through the dining hall as he hastily reached for his drink, face reddening while the prince thumped his back a little too enthusiastically.
"Father—! Slowly!"
When the king finally recovered, he stared at Wilhelm in disbelief.
"Two to seven times?" he croaked. "Is she planning to sell food or declare war on hunger itself?"
The princess covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Elizabeth sighed, already amused. "Your Majesty, please refrain from dying over projected margins."
The king wiped his mouth and leaned back, glaring at the ceiling.
"At seven times," he muttered, "even my treasury would start asking whether it's worth the fries."
Wilhelm, perfectly straight-faced, added, "She believes demand will justify it."
The king let out a helpless laugh.
"…Remind me," he said, "never to let that child negotiate taxes."
The room eased into laughter, the tension broken—yet beneath the humor lingered a single, undeniable truth:
those prices would rise because people would let them.
Wilhelm chose that moment to speak again, his tone as calm and respectful as ever.
"Your Majesty," he said, "there is one additional matter."
The king, still half-amused, waved him on. "Yes, yes—what now?"
"At her fifth birthday," Wilhelm continued, "you promised that any establishment she founded would be exempt from taxation."
The words landed.
The king's smile froze.
Silence stretched—thick, heavy, unmistakable.
The prince slowly turned his head.
The princess blinked once.
Queen Elizabeth Frosta Lionheart closed her eyes.
"…I did," the king said at last.
Wilhelm inclined his head. "It was witnessed and recorded."
The king stared at the table, at the crumbs of bread, the empty glasses, the innocent remains of a meal that suddenly felt very expensive.
Then he leaned back.
"…I was outplayed," he said softly.
The princess burst out laughing. "Father, you were ambushed by a five-year-old."
"She smiled," the king muttered. "Politely. Asked for nothing unreasonable. Just—'a small promise.'"
Elizabeth opened her eyes, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips.
"And you agreed," she said, "without conditions."
The king let out a hollow laugh and covered his face with one hand.
"Five years old," he said. "Barely taller than the table. And she laid a trap so patient it waited years to close."
Wilhelm remained perfectly neutral.
"She has excellent memory, Your Majesty."
The king dropped his hand and looked up, resignation and reluctant admiration mixing in his expression.
"…I suppose," he said, "this is what it feels like to be cooked."
Laughter filled the dining hall once more—but this time, the king laughed the loudest.
Well, thinking it through properly," she said, folding her hands atop the table, "the prices make sense."
The king looked at her, still half-amused. "You're siding with her?"
Elizabeth met his gaze evenly.
"She is kind," she continued. "She offers healing freely to those who cannot pay. That alone has shaped how people perceive her."
The prince nodded slightly, listening now.
"But she is still a noble," the queen said, unhurried. "And this is a noble establishment. The price reflects that."
Her eyes shifted briefly toward the remains of the meal.
"Moreover," she added, "as a woman, she cannot inherit her parents' estate. Whatever future she builds must be built by her own hands."
The princess's expression softened.
"At the end of the day," Elizabeth concluded, "this is not charity. It is independence. And measured by that standard—these prices are reasonable."
The king exhaled slowly, then smiled.
"…When you put it that way," he said, "it would almost be rude to complain."
Wilhelm inclined his head in agreement.
And in the quiet that followed, the royal family understood that this was not merely a discussion of food or coin—but of foresight, dignity, and a young noble girl who had already begun carving out her place in the world.
The conversation gradually eased, drifting away from numbers and promises and returning to the quiet comfort of the table. Plates were cleared, glasses refilled one last time, and the midday sun began its slow descent, casting longer shadows across the gilded pillars of the dining hall.
What remained was not the taste of bread or sweetness of soda, but the lingering impression of intent.
The royal family had not merely sampled unfamiliar dishes—they had glimpsed a future shaped by careful thought, patience, and audacity wrapped in kindness. Somewhere far from the capital, in Eddleguard, a young noble girl was laying stones one by one, building something that did not rely on inheritance or decree.
The king rose from his seat at last, his earlier laughter settling into something quieter, more reflective.
"A promise is a promise," he said, almost to himself.
Queen Elizabeth Frosta Lionheart smiled faintly, already certain that the ripples from today's meal would travel far beyond this hall.
And as the doors of the royal dining chamber closed behind them, one truth lingered in the warm, fading light—
this was only the beginning.