A few hours of boring-politics-talk later, the feast had barely settled in my stomach—though it would take hours to digest all that pizza, hamburger, rice wine, and coffee-induced power surge—when my father, in all his slightly clumsy but overly proud glory, announced the next stop: the CHUBBY FACTORY.
"Oh, yes! You must see it, Your Majesty!" he said, practically bouncing like a child. "Everything runs under Lady Seraphine's guidance. Truly… unprecedented!"
I followed behind, sass radiating with every step, my arms crossed. Coffi and her aunt scurried beside me, trying not to spill anything they carried, while Chubby padded behind like a silent, judgmental, and terrifying shadow.
The King's entourage—the royal guards, princess, and a dozen high-ranking delegates—trailed behind my father like a golden, heavily armored parade.
