The Grand Foreign Affairs office of Ellassara Castle was heavy with the scent of ancient wood, sharp ink, and Duke Kornel Dah Evergreen’s insufferable complaints about tax ledgers. King Artwin Fay Befredon sat tall at the head of the long grown-cedar table. He was a towering mountain of a man possessing the sharp, striking features of a high-tier warrior king, though his fierce, battle-hardened face was currently pulled into a tense, heavily distracted scowl.
He could barely focus on the parchment sheets. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind kept flashing back to the breakfast table three hours ago. He kept seeing his five-year-old daughter Kirra tearing into a medium-rare steak with her bare toddler hands before her neck went crack—spinning her tiny skull a staggering 180 degrees backward to look at him completely upside down.
Standing right beside his high seat was Prime Minister Subwin Dah Silverwood. The truly ancient Befredon elf looked remarkably striking, possessing short black hair, matching black eyebrows, and deep, knowing purple eyes that shone with the wisdom of his sixteen thousand years of faithful service. His floppy, silver-furred ears twitched at the ambient noise of the room while his puffy silver-furred tail shifted slightly behind his fine robes as his eyes scanned a messy stack of border reports.
"The numbers do not lie, Artwin," Subwin murmured, pointing a wrinkled finger at the map, his deep purple eyes narrowing. "The monster sightings along the peripheral trails have increased threefold over the past ten moons. Worse, the scouts are reporting fresh dungeon spawns rupturing the leylines right outside our borders. If we do not deploy the vanguard lines—"
BANG!
The massive grown-cedar double doors of the Foreign Affairs office violently burst open, slamming against the bark walls with a deafening crash that made every elven noble in the room jump out of their skin.
Charging straight into the center of the hall was Guard Captain Kristorf. The veteran Paladin stood about six feet tall, his long green hair breaking free from his practical warrior's ponytail as he sprinted past the shocked aristocracy. His deeply weathered face was completely stripped of its usual combat composure, and his heavy silver Mithril plate armor clinked with frantic, chaotic volume as he slid across the smooth tree-ring floorboards. He didn't check his perimeter, and he completely ignored the gasping nobles. He locked his sharp eyes straight onto the King and let out a breathless, panicked shout.
"Artwin! Kirra grew wings and flew off the balcony!"
The entire throne room froze. Prime Minister Subwin’s ancient purple eyes widened to the size of saucers, and his floppy silver ears flattened straight against his short black hair in pure shock as his spectacles nearly slid off his nose.
King Artwin froze mid-sentence, his furry wolf ears pinning flat against his hairline as his massive tail violently slapped against the back of his chair. For a split second, his fierce kingly mind tried to process the report. First she spins her neck like an owl at breakfast, now she has wings?
Artwin's hand slammed onto the desk, his razor-sharp claws digging deep into the pristine grown-wood. He locked eyes with his co-husband, his warrior instincts instantly redlining.
"We must find her at once, Kristorf!" Artwin boomed, his voice rattling the amber resin window panes. He surged to his feet, completely knocking his high chair backward onto the floorboards.
He didn't even look back at the desk as he snatched his tattered traveling cloak from the wall, his furry wolf ears twitching in pure adrenaline while his massive tail swished behind him with fierce urgency. He cast a sharp, warning glare at the wide-eyed lords and ladies who were whispering behind their silk robes. "Out! All of you, get out! This council is adjourned!"
"Subwin, you have work to do!" Artwin barked over his shoulder, his tail swishing behind his robe.
"Your Majesty! You cannot go putting a—" Subwin started, his ancient voice raising to call after the fleeing monarch.
But it was entirely useless. Before the legendary statesman could even finish speaking his warning, King Artwin and Captain Kristorf vaulted cleanly past the shattered threshold of the grown-cedar doors, sprinting down the corridor like a pair of high-tier vanguard scouts on a battlefield. Left entirely alone in the massive, quiet Foreign Affairs office, Prime Minister Subwin let out a long, deeply landscape-weary sigh. He slowly raised a wrinkled hand to his face, burying his features in a massive, thoroughly defeated face-palm, completely flabbergasted by his two sovereigns running away to hunt down an owl-princess.
Down in the clean, winding avenues of the luxury district, the two massive Befredon warriors were currently crouching low behind a large, rustic marketplace display of giant winter squash.
King Artwin had his traveling cloak pulled tightly over his broad frame, his black-furred wolf tail tucked carefully inside his tunic so no one would track his scent. His furry wolf ears twitched anxiously under his hood, his sharp, handsome features squinting past the orange gourds. Beside him, Captain Kristorf was crouched low. The veteran was actively using a silent magic trick from his Snapping Turtle soul to keep his heavy silver armor from clinking a single time against the natural terrain.
"There she is, brother-husband," Kristorf whispered, adjusting the gold-etched spyglass to focus past the sylvan fog. "She has landed right outside the townhouse storefront grown beneath the canopy root. She is approaching the gray feline baker."
"Is she safe? Did she hurt her wings?" Artwin strained his neck, his razor-sharp claws digging nervously into a massive squash.
"Her wings folded into her spine seamlessly, sir," Kristorf noted calmly, his emerald-green ponytail swaying slightly. "But she is speaking to the baker now... and her linguistic metrics are entirely bizarre again."
"What is she babbling about this time?" Artwin muttered, his tail swishing behind his robe.
"She just told the cat-eared woman that she 'possesses zero baseline liquidity on her person' and cannot 'legally authorize an un-funded transaction,'" Kristorf translated deadpan, his ancient eyes blinking in total academic bewilderment.
Artwin placed his face in his clawed, red-furred hands, letting out a low, agonizing groan. "Where does she learn these words, Kristorf? We only read her the old legends of the heroes from the 82nd era every three days! Is our five-year-old child secretly a possessed tax scholar from a fallen world?"
"I cannot calculate the logic," Kristorf replied. "But the feline baker is laughing. She has bypassed the liquidity deficit. She has handed the Princess a warm pastry glistening under a thick layer of maple glaze. Our girl is taking a bite."
Through the market crowd, the two co-husbands watched Princess Kirra take a massive bite of the golden donut. They saw her tiny, white-fuzzed bird ears twitch with pure happiness, her crystal blue eyes widening as the sweet cream center flooded her mouth.
But then, they watched the baker lean across the open-air wooden counter and proudly whisper her secret recipe: Sweet cricket paste.
Artwin's breath completely hitched. He gripped Kristorf’s heavy, gleaming silver shoulder plate, his razor-sharp fingernails scratching slightly against the Mithril. "Kristorf! Look at her! She has frozen mid-chew! What if she vomits on her royal silk? Melawin spent hours fastening those golden buckles this morning!"
"Hold your ground, brother-husband," Kristorf said, his deep voice dropping into a comforting, steadying rasp as his heavy, weathered hand anchored the King's shoulder. "Look at her jaw profile. She isn't throwing it up. Whatever unknown predatory bird beast spirit is sleeping inside her core, it has recognized the food. She is going to eat it."
Sure enough, through the spyglass lens, they watched the five-year-old princess close her eyes, abandon her weird defiance, and violently chomp down on the remaining pastry with absolute, fierce enthusiasm.
Artwin let out a soft, rumbling breath, his chest easing as his wolf tail swished softly beneath his traveler's cloak. Watching her willingly swallow the crickets now was pure relief. It had been five long, agonizing years since that emotional wave hit him at the breakfast table on her fifth birthday—back when she first lunged for that medium-rare steak under her mother's portrait and they realized her true biology. For five years since that day, they had been trying everything to get her to properly stick to the predator diet they discovered. Seeing her finally accept the insects on her own, without throwing a tantrum or fighting it, felt like a massive weight lifting off his shoulders. She was finally sticking to the diet.
"Look at her go, Kristorf... She's finally eating the insects on her own," Artwin muttered, a proud smile breaking across his rugged face. "Even if she has to hide them inside a sweet dessert pastry to accept it, her body is finally getting the proper fuel. Five years of trying to get her to eat properly, and she finally does it for a pastry. Our late wife's bloodline is completely safe. She's taking to the diet."
"She eats with the hunger of a true vanguard warrior," Kristorf agreed, sliding the spyglass back onto his belt, though his own weathered face relaxed into a rare, happy expression.
Before they could turn back, Kirra turned on her heel and began marching away from the bakery storefront, heading down the wide, meticulously crafted main cobblestone road deeper into the luxury noble district. The two men seamlessly trailed her, keeping to the shadows of the living shops woven seamlessly out of growing trees.
Suddenly, she turned down a narrow lane that opened up into the manicured mossy grounds of the high-born playground courtyard. The two fathers slipped behind a beautifully curved wall of living bark, peeking through the hanging ivy canopy.
Standing in the middle of the moss was Talestia Dah-Evergreen—the spoiled five-year-old daughter of Duke Kornel. Her armadillo ears were twitching and her heavy, leathery tail was thrashing the dirt in pure aggression as she repeatedly struck a smaller child curled into a ball. The sobbing girl was little Fraya Dah-Ironbark, the blue-haired, rabbit-eared daughter of Head Maid Melawin, clutching her leather pouch of blacksmithing slag against her chest.
"I'm gonna be the next Beast Queen, not the Princess!" Talestia shrieked down at her, her armadillo tail thrashing the dirt. "She was born after her mother's death while I was already born, so I'll get the title, you little glitch!"
Artwin’s wolf ears pinned flat against his hairline in pure fury, his tail violently slamming the trunk of a living streetlamp. His claws extended, ripping into the bark wall. "Kornel's brat dares to speak of Layressea's death in the public noble rings? She dares to strike Melawin's daughter?!"
"Hold your ground, Artwin," Kristorf whispered, his hand tightening on the pommel of his blade, his own jaw tense. "Do not move. Look at our girl. She is already moving into a flanking position."
Princess Kirra didn't hesitate. Her tiny five-year-old body moved with a liquid, precise grace that completely defied her young muscles. She snuck right up the blind spot behind the screaming armadillo bully.
"What is her stance?" Artwin whispered, his breath hitching. "She has no weapon."
"She doesn't need one," Kristorf noted, his ancient purple eyes widening behind his spyglass. "Look at her shoulder rotation, brother-husband. Her center of balance is completely locked. She is turning her entire weight into the strike."
Kirra reached out her small hand, grabbed Talestia by her noble robes, and forcefully spun her around. The moment the armadillo girl swung into view, Kirra turned her shoulder and delivered an absolute, flawless left hook straight into her jaw.
CRACK.
The dense, sharp impact echoed loudly across the courtyard. The raw force propelled Talestia sideways, sending her skidding through the dirt where she crashed hard into the mud, her green hair a disheveled mess as she clutched her bruised face in total shock.
King Artwin froze, his mouth falling completely open as his wolf ears twitched in absolute bewilderment. He looked at his co-husband. "Kristorf... Did our five-year-old daughter just execute a perfect martial rotation strike?"
"She did," Kristorf replied, his voice carrying absolute, breathless awe as he lowered the glass. "A perfect weight transfer. No waste of movement. Not even the elite shadow-vanguard train their squires to strike with such terrifying efficiency. She turned her entire torso into the punch like an adult warrior."
Down in the clearing, Kirra stood completely motionless, casually flexing her tiny fingers in mild confusion as if she had just landed a lucky strike through a simple rush of adrenaline. He watched as she completely ignored the shrieking, humiliated Evergreen heir who was spitting dirt onto the grass. Instead, the princess turned her back on the bully, reached down into the mud, and gently pulled the trembling, blue-haired daughter of Melawin to her feet, shielding her small frame from view.
Artwin wiped a genuine, emotional tear from his rugged cheek, his chest heaving with pride as his wolf tail let out a massive swish under his cloak. "Look at her, Kristorf... She left her bleeding in the dirt and walked away to protect Melawin's little one. She protected the bloodline of the staff who guards her, and she broke Duke Kornel's pride right inside their own noble playground."
"A magnificent display of warrior instinct," Kristorf agreed, checking the sky as the sun markers shifted. "However, brother-husband, she is currently ushering the rabbit-eared child out of the shadows and back onto the main cobblestone road toward the luxury weapon smithies."
Artwin signaled with a sharp tilt of his head. Keeping their strides perfectly silent, the King and the Paladin tracked the two small girls as they moved down the northeastern sector of the luxury noble district. Artwin watched from the canopy shadows as the grand wooden houses of the hyper-nobility slowly thinned out, replaced by the towering structure of the inner root wall that carved through the city's interior.
Even from a distance, the King's keen senses picked up on the changing air. It grew progressively warmer, thick with the heavy scent of burning charcoal, ozone, and the distinct, ringing clank-clank-clank of a mechanical forge echoing down the avenue.
At the dead-end of the avenue, built right into the living wood of the root wall, stood a blackened stone and timber structure. Billowing columns of clean white smoke rose from an organic cedar chimney stack, and heavy racks of unrefined ironwood ore and scrap metal flanked the entrance. Kirra and the small Ironbark girl didn't hesitate; they stepped right across the threshold into the radiating heat of the workspace.
Artwin and Kristorf closed the distance seamlessly, stepping up to the open front entrance. From the threshold, Artwin surveyed the entire interior layout in a single, calculating sweep.
Thick, hollowed-out stumps of living ironwood trunks sat directly on the workshop floor, pulsing with a blinding, white-hot elemental glare as they functioned as organic smelting reactors. Standing over the nearest glowing bloom was Master Abalbron. The towering Befredon runesmith stood with his long, elegant gazelle horns catching the fierce white-hot glare, his short gazelle tail twitching against his heavy leather apron as he paused his rhythm and lowered a massive ironwood mallet.
Artwin watched his five-year-old daughter standing in the center of the heat, her posture completely stone-faced and steady. The small rabbit-eared girl was fidgeting nervously, gesturing toward Kirra and explaining that her new friend wanted to learn blacksmithing and see the forge.
Then, Abalbron's golden slitted eyes suddenly locked onto the open front entrance of his shop where Artwin stood.
The color instantly drained from the runesmith's face. The master smith's elven ears flattened flat against his skull in absolute, wide-eyed terror. Artwin let the silent, suffocating cold chill of his raw sovereign aura spill into the room, intentionally redlining the survival reflexes of everyone inside the workspace.
"Well... this is where you ran off to, Kirra," Artwin purred from the threshold. He allowed his deep, echoing voice to hold the unyielding, mountain-shaking acoustic authority of a god, completely washing over the ring of the wood smelting blooms.
Right before his eyes, his daughter's muscles locked up. He watched with a quiet, internal amusement as she forcefully turned her small body around with agonizing, liquid slowness. At the exact same microsecond, Master Abalbron dropped heavily to his knees, slamming his forehead straight onto the soot-covered floorboards in a state of absolute, trembling panic.
"Y-Your Majesty! Welcome to my humble shop! How... how can I help you today?!" the smith cried out from the dirt.
Artwin stood tall, completely blocking out the morning sunlight as his full, towering sovereign robes settled around his boots. His face remained an unblinking, unreadable mask of absolute royal gravity, while Kristorf stood directly flanking his left shoulder like an unmoving bunker of Orichalcum steel, his snapping turtle beast soul subtly humming in the air to prove that her five-minute flight off the balcony had initiated a maximum-level palace security tracking drawdown.
"I’ve just come to collect my little girl, Abalbron," Artwin spoke, his deep, resonant tone washing over the echoing ring of the wood smelting blooms with a surprising, gentle warmth. He looked down at the master smith kneeling in the soot. "She skipped her etiquette lessons today. But, on the other hand, I am glad she seems to have made a friend."
Artwin turned his towering, sovereign frame slowly toward his daughter, his unblinking eyes softening just a fraction, though his royal posture remained absolute. "Come along, Kirra. You have etiquette lessons to get to. You don't want to embarrass yourself at the debut party... or in front of the one you marry one day."
He watched as his daughter froze dead in her tracks, her small frame going completely rigid as if a cold, panicking alarm bell had just screamed straight through her head. Artwin kept his face unreadable, but inside, his protective fatherly instincts were highly amused as she clearly panicked at the mention of a future political contract. He could practically see her mind racing to find a way to shift the subject and redefine the parameters of the conversation.
"But Daddy," Kirra blurted out suddenly. She forced her small voice to take on the most innocent, high-pitched child-like inflection she could manage, reaching out her tiny hands to tug lightly on the heavy gold embroidery of his long, sweeping royal sleeve. "Can you hire him to teach me blacksmithing, too?"
Artwin blinked, a sudden look of complete, uncharacteristic surprise flashing across his regal elven features. Flanking his shoulder, Kristorf Van Paladin didn't move an inch, but the Captain's leathery snapping turtle ears twitched slightly in the radiating warmth of the forge. Artwin looked down at his daughter, thoroughly flabbergasted by the unexpected proposal, then looked over at the trembling, gazelle-horned runesmith who was still flat on his face in the dirt.
"Hmm," Artwin pondered to himself, a long, heavy hand coming up to touch his rugged chin as he carefully evaluated the child's request. "Only if he agrees... and you take your etiquette lessons seriously."
"Yes, Father, I will," Kirra responded immediately, offering a solemn, ironclad nod that looked entirely too serious and calculated for a five-year-old child.
Artwin smiled softly, the fierce warrior mask entirely slipping away as he turned his towering royal frame back toward the master runesmith. "What do you say, Abalbron? Will you teach my little girl blacksmithing in her free time? And your girl is more than welcome in the palace at any time; I will let the guards and your wife know as well."
The gazelle-horned smith didn't move an inch, his shoulders still visibly trembling against the soot-covered floorboards as he tried to process a literal King offering a domestic playdate invitation to a lower-loop artisan family.
"Oh, and my bad," Artwin added smoothly, a rare, genuinely warm chuckle vibrating through his massive chest as he waved a dismissive hand toward the floor. "Raise your head. We are just two fathers here."
Abalbron slowly lifted his forehead from the dirt, his long elven ears twitching as his elegant, spiraled gazelle horns caught the white-hot glare of his own wood smelting blooms. The smith looked up at Artwin, then down at the small princess, and finally back to his blue-haired daughter, Fraya, who was watching from the shadow of the racks with her wide rabbit ears pinned back in absolute, breathless awe.
"It... it would be the absolute highest honor of my life, Your Majesty," Abalbron breathed, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble of profound relief and gratitude as he stood up, smoothing down his heavy leather apron. "I will teach Princess Kirra the ancient ways of the hammer and the Magit-quenching runes with everything I have."
"Excellent," King Artwin concluded, giving a short, decisive nod to Kristorf Van Paladin. Flanking his left shoulder, the massive vanguard bunker stepped aside, completely clearing a path through the shop threshold. "Let's return, Kirra. Your tutor is waiting."