Your Honorable Head Chef (10)
"Urgent news! The Barony of Daisley has been attacked!"
The rider's voice boomed so loudly that all the retainers of the baronial castle came rushing out, surrounding him and unleashing a barrage of questions.
"What do you mean? Where the hell did Daisley get attacked from?"
"I don't know. I tried to check, but things are total chaos over there..."
"Don't tell me it's the legion? If it's not the legion, there aren't any lords in the area who'd start a territorial war..."
"So what's the damage report?!"
"The baronial castle's collapsed, and it looks like the baron and all his private soldiers are dead."
The shocking news left the retainers in a panic, milling about in confusion. Just yesterday, they'd dismissed the collapse of Baron Benson's Castle as an old minor noble's fortress finally succumbing to age and crumbling in part. But today, the neighboring Barony of Daisley had suffered the exact same fate—no, worse, with the baron and his men all slaughtered.
"What kind of lunatic would do this? To bring down a castle, you'd need siege weapons at minimum. If it's not a legion, then who?!"
"Hold on... Does that mean Benson's collapse wasn't just structural either...?"
Only then did a chill run through the retainers as they exchanged uneasy glances. Some hurried inside to report to the baron, while others prepared relay horses to send to Benson's territory immediately.
Sitting by the window on this floor, Francois overheard it all. A map of the kingdom's central region flashed in her mind. The Barony of Benson sat at the mouth of the Vurn Gorge, and Daisley lay to its west. If Benson yesterday and Daisley today, then tomorrow... Briock? What the hell was going on...?
In the afternoon, crates arrived stuffed with outfits for tomorrow's wedding. Despite the urgent news earlier, the baron was fully committed to proceeding as planned.
Surrounded by maids, Francois had to try on dozens of dresses. She sighed deeply as she stared at her reflection—corset cinched so tight her waist looked shrunken, the neckline plunging nearly to expose her nipples. Even for a political marriage, this feels like being led to the slaughterhouse like livestock.
"What about the count's son? Ugh... Do you know anything about him?"
The maid yanking the corset laces paused, tilting her head before shrugging. "Well, from what I've heard, he's in his fifties and a bit off in the head... But how much would I know about highborn folk anyway?"
"Off in the head how?"
"Who knows. You'll see tomorrow, I suppose."
The maid's tone was indifferent. It made sense—all the old servants from Francois's childhood had been fired and replaced with newcomers. Besides, come tomorrow, she wouldn't be part of the family anymore. And everyone knew the baron didn't care for her. No need to butter her up or serve her with extra deference.
After spending the afternoon selecting clothes and jewelry, bathing, and enduring the baron's wife's "inspection" laced with mockery, Francois finally returned to her room. The heat had drained her completely. Something sweet and cold would perk me right up.
Lying on her bed, she suddenly had a brilliant idea and bolted upright, heading to the annex kitchen.
The head chef looked troubled by Francois's request.
"Mousse au chocolat? What's that supposed to be?"
"It's chocolate mixed with eggs and meringue, then chilled... You don't know it?"
"Hmm... First I've heard of it."
In a noble house...? The head chef doesn't know mousse au chocolat? With all the ingredients right there?
Francois eyed the pantry door visible behind the chef's shoulder longingly. "Can I take a quick look? I know how to make it, and the stuff's all here."
"No can do. The baron strictly forbade letting you into the kitchen."
"It'll just take a minute..."
But the chef shook his head firmly. Letting her in meant getting chewed out himself, and dinner prep was already hectic. In the end, Francois settled for a lukewarm glass of sangria.
Lukewarm sangria in this heat... The worst. If only there were a cool place even in summer. No spoiled food, fresh cream anytime, and mousse au chocolat would be a breeze.
Daydreaming about impossibilities, she headed back to the main building when she spotted another rider charging in with a red flag.
"Urgent dispatch! From Briock!"
Briock was the next territory after Benson and Daisley. West from there lay Grancis, Einert, and finally Audrion here—a straight line.
Francois might not know details, but she could tell things were turning gravely serious. Territories to the west were falling one after another starting from Benson... Were the retainers right? Was a legion really on the move?
She knew about the legion from her late father's retainer meetings, where he'd often warn never to provoke them. A barony like theirs wouldn't last a day without noble council backing if they marched.
Let's see... Benson yesterday, Daisley this morning, Briock this afternoon... Then tomorrow morning Grancis, afternoon Einert... My wedding's tomorrow afternoon...! Could it get canceled?!
The thought that whatever this was might reach Audrion in a couple days didn't even cross her mind. Buoyed by excited hopes, she hurried back into the castle.
Right after news of Briock's fall hit, Audrion mobilized an unprecedented mass conscription in a single day. Every man who could hold a sword—age be damned—was drafted into the private forces.
With harvest season underway, pulling serfs like this would cripple crop yields, but there was no choice. Relays shuttled between Einert County and Audrion Barony as the baron huddled with retainers, agonizing over responses.
Not that there were many options. He just bellowed orders like "Conscript every last one!" They didn't even know what had hit or how—everyone who could tell was dead.
Rumors began swirling through the territory: the three smashed baronies weren't the work of some legion-like force, but a single individual. Naturally dismissed as absurd gossip, it faded quietly.
Francois's wedding, regrettably, proceeded as planned. The baron had pushed hard with multiple dispatches to the count, desperate to lock it in before any change of heart. In exchange, the count unilaterally declared the ceremony would be held in the barony without his attendance, given the circumstances—a clear sign of his regard for the marriage, his son, and Audrion's baron.
Even with that snub, the baron grinned ear-to-ear at shoving Francois into the count's house and rushed preparations. Sure, if Einert fell too, wedding or not it'd all be moot—but the count's house was powerful. He trusted they'd handle whatever mystery foe caused this.
Retainers shook their heads at the baron's greed in forcing the wedding amid crisis, but none dared speak up.
The front courtyard became the wedding venue, the kitchen a frenzy prepping the post-ceremony feast. Francois desperately wondered what a mousse-ignorant chef could possibly cook, but the maids kept her locked in her room.
Tight-laced in her dress since morning under constant watch, barely able to breathe, she heard the count's son had arrived—and wondered whether to cry or laugh.
Only one carriage arrived from the count's house. The baron's face froze in dismay—he'd expected fleets loaded with betrothal gifts. Then the door opened, and as the count's son stepped out, everyone's expressions mirrored the baron's.
"Heh heh heh..."
The count's son was an enormous brute. A belly ready to burst, stubby legs, constantly peeling matted hair while reeking of sour sweat.
"Smile...! Smile, damn it!"
The baron's wife forced her lips up, viciously pinching Francois's arm.
"Ow!"
As Francois yanked her arm free, the baron glared. Normally, the bride waited in her chamber and made a grand entrance last, but the baron—eager to rush it through—had dragged her out to greet guests.
"My wife's tits are huge, hee hee. Bet those royal jugs taste good. Milk coming out?"
His words, leering at Francois, stunned the crowd. From a count's second son?! In any other noble wedding, it'd be outrageous insult. But this wasn't equals—the baron just thanked his luck at pulling it off at all.
"W-well then, the ceremony..."
The baron stammered. Servants snapped to, scattering to positions. The rites flew by—only the son and one attendant from the count's side meant skipping formalities.
Francois stood arm-in-arm with him before the officiant, assaulted by acrid sweat, rancid hair oil, and blistering sun. Her head spun as the officiant droned through the tedious homily. The son giggled maniacally, muttering madness.
"Sex... Shove my dick in wife's ass, she goes 'ahhhn' and I love it... Sex... Wife's tits fuckin' massive..."
She'd planned to wreak havoc once in the count's house to spite her father, but now she just wanted to flee. Let that legion or whatever crash this place already. Smash it all to ruins. Wait, no—Einert'll probably crumble like the others soon too, right? Wedding annulled? But... they're powerful. Might hold. Then I'll be dragged off, pinned under this filthy pig... Ugh. Please, just let the whole wedding implode somehow...
Outside the castle's wooden palisade where the wedding unfolded, guards and conscripted serfs clutching crude spears stood watch.
"A wedding in this shitstorm? What the fuck."
The gate guards wiped sweat from their necks, cursing. They couldn't fathom the nobles' behavior. Rumors said eastern territories were getting obliterated one by one, yet here they were, leisurely marrying off. All because of that, harvest-season folk were conscripted, fumbling spears in the swelter.
"Hey, mister. Someone's coming over there."
A serf pointed ahead. A man strode straight toward them through the heat haze. Guards hands on sword hilts, waited lazily. No need to rush out in this blaze.
The man halted at decent range. Tall, broad-shouldered, fine build—a young man with an ornate sword at his waist.
"Who might you be?"
The guard called out. The man replied.
"I've got business with your lord."