The view from the living branch balcony of Ellassara Castle was breathtaking, but my thirty-five-year-old corporate worker brain wasn't looking at the scenery. I was looking straight down at the central courtyard training grounds.
A few hundred feet below, a dust cloud rose from the dirt arena. At the center of the ring stood Vice Captain Sharn Vah Ironbark. Even from this height, the 2,347-year-old veteran looked absolutely terrifying. Her muscular arms effortlessly balanced a massive, two-meter Orichalcum-edged halberd. At her side, the faint, golden phantom aura of her Sovereign Sabre-Tiger beast soul rippled through the hot air, its claws digging into the dirt.
She was running a full vanguard detachment of Royal Guard knights through a brutal, old-school MMO-style defensive rotation.
"Too slow!" Sharn’s gravelly roar bounced off the castle walls, cutting through the heavy thud of metal plates. "If you drop your shield line for a fraction of a second, an Strong monster will split your party trinity before your backline casters can even draw a mana breath! Again!"
Down in the ring, an elite vanguard knight stepped into the path of a swinging wooden training beam, desperately flaring his defensive aura to absorb the massive kinetic blow.
Standing on the organic wood balcony, my small ten-year-old child's hands gripped the grown-cedar railing, with Kristorf standing directly behind me like a massive, unmoving wall of Orichalcum steel to anchor my blind spot . My human mind was completely locked onto their physical movements down below, trying to visually calculate the strike-force velocity and guess the cooldown timers of their skills. Without a proper character sheet or system menu to reference, I was completely blind to my own numbers. I had no idea what my baseline attributes looked like, or just how broken my core grid truly was. All I knew was that I was trapped in a fragile young child's frame, forced to observe this world's terrifying high-tier physics from the sidelines.
Incredible, I thought, my mind running a cold, industrial audit on their defense grid as I watched the knights train. Kristorf's active mitigation entirely seals the perimeter. No matter which crooked noble faction is behind these altered ledger files, attempting to slip an administrative spy or a silent blade past him into this wing is a mathematical suicide run. The court vipers stand zero chance against a frontline bunker of this caliber.
Suddenly, my unawakened Primordial Owlbear soul corridor underwent a violent, involuntary neurological reflux.
My uncoordinated young muscles fired with a liquid, predatory grace, forcefully snapping my head away by twisting my neck around a fluid, unnatural hundred-and-eighty degrees backward to face the interior of my bedchambers—
Nope! Absolutely not! I am a human being! I am a corporate professional from the United States! My main mandatory diet in this castle is cooked meat, and I spent three decades eating burgers, fries, and pizza! I will literally starve to death before my mouth chews on a candied cockroach! Look at my face, Melawin! Look at how grossed out I am! Take it away! Seriously, how many times do we have to file this paperwork? No matter how many memos I issue, no matter how many times I push the plate away with absolute, jaw-clenched human defiance, the staff just shrugs and keeps serving them to me! They treat my visceral disgust like a cute childhood phase, completely determined to sneak these crunchy, multi-legged abominations into my weekly nutritional rotation out of sheer, unyielding elven tradition!
—and squeezing my eyes shut to look as absolutely, completely disgusted as humanly possible.
But while my conscious mind was screaming its corporate defiance, my underlying physiology completely betrayed me. The second the rich, savory, and sweet scent of the dried insects hit my system, my stomach let out a massive, thunderous, and profoundly hollow growl that echoed loudly across the quiet room . A sudden, uncontrollable rush of saliva flooded my mouth, my unawakened beast soul practically clawing at my soul corridor to force my small hands to reach out and scoop up a fistful of crickets.
Head Maid Melawin Dah Ironbark stood right by my magnificent, custom-grown royal bed—an incredibly fancy structure masterfully woven from the living, emerald-infused branches of the World Tree—holding the silver platter of candied crickets with a warm, maternal smile.
Down in the courtyard below, the thunderous echo of my stomach growl carried with such freakish, hollow velocity that Vice Captain Sharn’s tiger ears violently twitched mid-drill . Dropping her halberd into her storage ring, her Sabre-Tiger aura exploded around her boots in a flash of kinetic gold . With a single, unhinged structural leap, she launched her muscular frame hundreds of feet straight up into the air, vaulting cleanly over the balcony railing past a completely unbothered Kristorf and landing with soundless, heavy feline grace onto the polished bedroom floorboards.
Crossing her arms, she rested her chin on her hand as she stared at me with an unblinking, dead-pan expression.
"Princess," Sharn spoke in a low, amused gravelly whisper. "Your head is doing that terrifying bird thing again. Turn it back around before you completely give the Head Maid a heart attack. If your stomach is growling that loudly, stop fighting your biology and eat the Horizon insects. You have etiquette lessons in an hour."
I gulped . Etiquette lessons. My absolute, ultimate corporate nightmare.
The sheer, overwhelming dread of sitting through hours of rigid high-born posture drills and mind-numbing tea-pouring protocols hit my brain with such sudden force that my conscious mental defenses completely stalled . Distracted by the impending administrative horror, my hand moved entirely on autopilot. My underlying beast-kin instincts seized the gap, unconsciously reaching straight toward the silver platter and grabbing a massive handful of dried treats .
Hmm... wait a minute. This actually isn't half bad, my subconscious mind drifted as my teeth crunched down. It’s crisp, perfectly caramelized, and carries a strangely sweet, rich savory glaze...
Then, my focus snapped back . I looked down at what I was actively chewing, and absolute horror slammed into my chest. I had just taken a massive, enthusiastic bite out of a giant, candied grasshopper that was easily five inches long .
Embarrassed beyond all human measure, my primitive biological survival mechanisms instantly redlined. My system went into full panic mode. Get me out of here! Break perimeter! Abort mission!
Before Sharn or Melawin could utter a single word of surprise, an explosive burst of raw mana erupted from my shoulder blades. With a sharp, loud crack, a pair of snow-white, angel-like owl wings violently sprouted right from my back, scattering loose downy feathers across the royal bedsheets. Terrified by my own sudden plumage, an involuntary, high-pitched owl hoot escaped my throat. Driven by pure, unhinged flight reflex, I launched myself off the polished floorboards, spread the magnificent white wings, and flew straight past Kristorf and out the glass doors, diving off the living branch balcony into the open air of Yggdrasil.
The wind rushing past my freshly sprouted white wings was a freezing, chaotic blur . I didn't actually know how to pilot this newly mutated hardware, but my Intermediate-Rank flight reflexes were handling the aerodynamics on pure autopilot. Angling my primary wing feathers, I managed to convert my panicked, undignified dive off the castle balcony into a long, silent glide path. I swept downward, cutting cleanly through the thick sylvan fog and leaving the high spires of Ellassara Castle far behind me
Before Kristorf or Sharn could mobilize the palace guard platoons to track my flight path, I smoothly skimmed the upper leaves and slid right down into the bustling streets of the luxury noble district.
The second my boots touched the polished wooden bark-path, my angel-like wings folded back into my spine with a soft, compliant click, disappearing entirely beneath the heavy silk folds of my royal tunic. I immediately blended into the crowd, my small ten-year-old child's hands smoothing down my clothes as my corporate-manager brain initiated a real-time tracking pass on the local terrain.
Alright, tactical relocation successful, I thought, letting out a long human breath of pure relief. I have exactly fifty-five minutes before those etiquette lessons start. Let's do some ground-level market research.
I started exploring the clean, winding avenues of the high-born district. The architecture here was stunning—elaborate townhouse store fronts grown straight out of the massive cedar boughs, their windows crafted from thick, polished amber glass. High-born elven families strolled past me, their furred fox and lynx tails puffing out proudly from their tailored robes. They didn't give me a second glance; to them, I was just another minor aristocratic child wandering the retail loops.
Suddenly, a spectacular, rich aroma drifted through the cool morning air, instantly slamming into my nasal passages.
It wasn't the bitter, metallic tang of raw mana radiation, and it certainly wasn't the dried, buggy musk of the palace kitchen staff. It was warm. Yeast-heavy. Caramelized. It smelled exactly like a high-end bakery back in the United States.
Following the scent trail like a heat-seeking missile, I navigated a cobblestone corner and came across a quaint, cozy bakery nestled beneath a massive canopy root. The wooden sign swinging above the door was carved with glowing, low-grade druidic runes that emitted a faint, comforting heat.
Standing right behind the open-air wooden display counter was the bakery's owner. She was a Befredon elf—possessing the signature sharp, elegant facial features of the high-born bloodlines, but her lineage was beautifully mixed with striking feline traits. A pair of soft, fluffy gray cat ears twitched contentedly through her long hair at the ambient noise, a matching thick gray cat tail swayed slowly behind her apron strings, and she possessed a delightfully pleasant, slightly chubby frame that radiated grandmotherly warmth.
The moment her slitted golden eyes locked onto my small frame, her face lit up with a warm, dimpled smile.
"Well, hello there, little missy!" the cat-eared elven baker cooed, her gray tail giving a cheerful, welcoming flick. "You look like you've walked a long way down from the upper rings. Here, let me offer you a fresh morning treat!"
She reached down into a steaming grown-cedar tray, using a pair of wooden tongs to lift a massive, perfectly golden pastry. It was absolutely glistening under a thick, decadent layer of maple frosting.
My mouth instantly flooded with an uncontrollable rush of saliva, my stomach letting out a dangerous, low rumble. But my thirty-five-year-old corporate worker brain immediately ran the budget audit, forcing me to take a polite step back. Thanks to Duke Kornel Dah Evergreen's administrative tampering, my princess stipend was strictly restricted to 50 Silver Coins a month, and I hadn't brought a single piece of copper out of my bedchambers.
"Thank you for the offer," I spoke, keeping my voice completely flat and professional as I gave her a small, respectful bow. "However, I must decline. I currently possess zero baseline liquidity on my person, and I cannot legally authorize an un-funded transaction."
The cat-eared elven baker blinked in total bewilderment, her fluffy ears flattening slightly as she tried to process my bizarre, high-level corporate slang . Then, she let out a hearty, booming laugh that rattled the bread baskets.
"Funds? Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about coins, child!" the baker insisted warmly, leaning across the counter to press the warm pastry straight into my small hands. "Consider it a house welcome. A young girl shouldn't be wandering the market district on an empty stomach. Eat up!"
The warmth of the dough radiated right through my fingers. Overwhelmed by the rich, sugary scent of the maple glaze, my primitive biological survival mechanisms completely took over.
"Thank you for the hospitality," I mumbled.
I opened my mouth and took a massive, enthusiastic bite.
My eyes instantly widened in sheer, unmitigated shock. It was an absolute explosion of flavor. The pastry dough was incredibly light and flaky, melting on my tongue like cotton candy. But the real masterpiece was the center. The moment my teeth pierced the core, a warm, thick, profoundly rich and gooey cream filling flooded my mouth—perfectly balancing the heavy sweetness of the maple frosting with a deeply savory, complex, and luxurious nutty undertone. It tasted better than any premium donut I had ever eaten back on Earth.
"Incredible," I gasped, wiping a stray drop of glaze from my chin, my modern corporate brain completely blown away by the culinary engineering. I looked up at the gray-furred elven baker with genuine, breathless awe . "The chemical harmony of this filling is elite. What exactly is the base element for the cream inside?"
The cat-eared baker smiled proudly, her gray tail puffing up with delighted joy as she leaned in close, whispering her secret recipe with a happy wink.
The sheer shock of realizing that a five-inch grasshopper and sweet cricket paste taste better than a premium Earth donut completely shatters her human dignity [CR01]. Recognizing that her modern corporate brain is completely outmatched by her ravenous, hybrid predator biology, she officially gives up the administrative fight and surrenders to her bug-eating nature.
"I'm so glad you love it, missy! It’s my specialty—sweet cricket paste!"
A violent wave of profound psychological shock slammed straight through my thirty-five-year-old Earth-man brain. I froze mid-chew, the warm, gooey, and undeniably spectacular pastry still resting against my tongue. My internal corporate stoicism completely glitched out. Bugs. I am standing in the middle of a high-end luxury district, actively drooling over a baked confectionary built entirely out of crushed, caramelized forest vermin.
But as my modern human mind screamed in absolute horror, my tongue was actively singing a different tune. It was a complete disaster for my dignity. The rich, nutty, and savory cream was undeniably, unquestionably elite . There was no copy-paste anime cheat code here; this was the raw, biological reality of my new existence. Because the soul is tied to the body, my physical, unawakened Primordial Owlbear tongue didn't care about American fast-food menus or corporate hygiene protocols—it recognized high-potency, pure structural fuel.
I looked down at the half-eaten maple bun in my small hands, my jaw slightly trembling as a sudden, clear realization hit me with the force of an audit deadline. I was completely outmatched. I was going to lose this internal battle against my own predator physiology, and there wasn't enough administrative red tape in the world to stop it. My conscious human pride had fought a losing, exhausting ten-year rearguard campaign against the palace staff, but this donut was the definitive turning point.
Fine, I thought, a silent, deeply defeated corporate sigh echoing through my soul corridor as I closed my crystal blue eyes. You win, biology. I give up. No more memos. No more jaw-clenched defiance on the balcony. If my mutant system requires me to chew on multi-legged forest entities just to vent my radioactive mana battery without my cell walls melting down, then I am officially signing off on this nutritional budget. From this microsecond forward, I am done fighting my nature. I am an insect-eating predator.
I opened my mouth, abandoned the last remaining fragments of my Earth-man dignity, and took another massive, completely unbothered bite out of the sweet cricket roll, chewing with absolute, cold-calculated enthusiasm.
I swallowed the final, spectacularly rich mouthful of the sweet cricket roll, feeling my stomach’s thunderous growl completely subside as my system processed the high-potency fuel. I wiped a stray smear of maple frosting from my cheek, looked back up at the slightly chubby, cat-eared Befredon elven baker, and locked my face into a calm, polite corporate smile.
"Thank you very much for the hospitality," I spoke, giving her a small, formal nod across the open-air wooden counter. "The culinary engineering on this pastry was absolutely exceptional. Next time I frequent this sector of the lower loops, I will ensure I return with proper baseline coin to settle the ledger.
The cat-eared elven lady let out another hearty, booming laugh, her thick gray tail swishing with delighted amusement behind her apron strings.
"Coins, coins! You really are the most serious little thing I’ve ever met!" she chuckled, leaning her elbows against the counter as her fluffy ears twitched toward me with warm curiosity. "Well, what’s your name, little lady? I can't just let my favorite new customer walk away without a proper introduction."
I paused, my thirty-five-year-old corporate worker brain instantly running a localized security audit on the query.
If I give her my full aristocratic title—Princess Kirra Fay Befredon—this entire marketplace is going to descend into total bureaucratic chaos, I thought, my crystal blue eyes remaining completely flat. The merchants will panic, the Royal Guard perimeter will flag the coordinates, and I will be treated like an fragile piece of royal porcelain. I just want to blend into the retail loops without the administrative overhead.
"Hi," I answered smoothly, offering a small, casual wave of my ten-year-old child's hand. "My name's Kirra."
he baker's dimpled face softened into a wide, glowing grin, her slitted golden eyes wrinkling with genuine warmth as she reached down to adjust her baking trays.
"Well, it is a pleasure to officially meet you, Kirra!" she smiled, giving her fluffy gray tail a cheerful flick . "My name is Jasmen. You make sure to come back and see me anytime you're hungry, okay? There's always a warm seat and a fresh maple bun waiting for you at my counter."
"I will add it to my operational agenda, Jasmen," I replied, giving her one last polite nod before turning on my heel to step away from the cozy root-front store.
I headed down the main road, passing various shops looking for a weapon or armor shop to see if I could find a blacksmith I could one day learn from. But as I was walking, my feathery ears picked up on what sounded like two kids arguing. I headed toward the sound and turned down an alley. When I got to the end of the alley, it opened up into a clearing with a huge playground that looked like it came straight out of fairy land—well, I suppose it does, I snickered to myself. As far as my modern thirty-five-year-old Earth-man brain was concerned, I was trapped inside a full-blown, stereotypical high fantasy world, completely oblivious to the fact that the soil beneath my boots was actually choking the radioactive ruins of twentieth-century America.
Then I saw a girl with armadillo ears and a tail hitting a girl curled in a ball. It was Talestia Dah-Evergreen, a high-born Befredon elf fiercely letting loose her predatory aggression. The poor child sobbing on the ground was a small, defenseless Befredon elf with wide eyes, long white rabbit ears nestled in her long, vibrant sky-blue hair.
"I'm gonna be the next Beast Queen, not the Princess!" Talestia screamed 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!"
"P-Please stop... tweet!" the blue-haired elven girl wept, burying her face in her knees as her signature vocal tic slipped out in terror.
Hearing my own classification as a corporate system error thrown around like a playground insult locked my jaw into a cold line. I stealthily snuck up behind the girl doing the bullying. As I closed the distance, my mind felt quite conflicted. Should I really hit a girl? I questioned, my internal moral code stalling for a fraction of a second. Well... I suppose I am a girl myself now. And she is actively hitting this other girl, so it's only right. You shouldn't hit someone unless you're ready to be hit yourself.
Without a proper character sheet or system menu to reference, I was completely blind to my own numbers. I had no idea what my baseline attributes looked like. All I knew was that my uncoordinated young muscles fired on pure instinct, moving with a liquid, precise grace . Reaching out my small hand, I grabbed the armadillo bully by her shoulder to spin her around, and right as she swung into view, I delivered my absolute best left hook straight into her face.
The impact of my small fist hitting her jaw didn't sound like a typical playground slap. It was a dense, sharp, and terrifyingly solid crack that echoed loudly across the open fairy courtyard.
Talestia Dah-Evergreen didn't just stagger—she was violently propelled sideways, her small body skidding backward through the dirt as her heavy, ring-plated armadillo tail thrashed frantically against a miniature wooden castle tower to catch her balance. She crashed hard into the dirt, her long green hair a completely disheveled mess as she clutched her bruised face, staring up at me in absolute, wide-eyed bewilderment.
I stood completely motionless in the center of the clearing, blinking down at my small hand in mild confusion. Huh. Well, that was surprisingly smooth, I thought, flexing my tiny fingers. As far as my conscious corporate mind was concerned, I was just a regular human who had landed a lucky strike through the raw power of a sudden adrenaline rush. I was completely blind to the reality of my own system hardware. I couldn't see the invisible, white-hot trails of residual Mana radiating off my knuckles, nor did I realize that my uncoordinated muscles had just automatically executed a perfect, zero-latency rotation arc that only a master vanguard or a high-tier assassin could replicate. To me, I was just an angry thirty-five-year-old American turning her shoulder into a punch.
Talestia forcefully scrambled to her feet, her leathery armadillo ears violently twitching in pure, unadulterated shock as she spat a mouthful of dirt onto the grass.
"Just who do you think you are?!" the armadillo bully shrieked, her face flushing bright red with a mixture of absolute humiliation and rising fury. "Do you know who I am?! I am the future Beast Queen, Talestia Dah-Evergreen!"
I didn't even blink. I completely ignored the belligerent little girl, not even bothering to waste my breath telling her my name or my royal title. Let her scream at the wind. She would find out exactly who I was soon enough at the debut appraisal ceremony, and the sheer corporate satisfaction of that impending reality check caused a miniature, cynical grin to creep across my face.
"Completely turning my back on the shouting noble heir, I walked right past her fury and reached down into the mud to grab the tiny, trembling hands of the rabbit-eared elven girl. I gently pulled her to her feet, angling my body to completely shield her small frame from Talestia's furious view. I brushed a loose strand of sky-blue hair away from her white rabbit ears, keeping my face perfectly calm.""Are you alright?" I asked softly, my crystal-blue eyes relaxing as I brushed a loose strand of sky-blue hair from her white rabbit ears.
The young elven girl stared up at me through wide, tear-filled eyes, her long ears violently trembling in absolute, breathless awe as she tightly clutched her pouch of blacksmithing slag against her chest .
"J-Just... who are you?" she stammered, her voice dropping into a soft, trembling whisper. "Why... why would you help a glitch like me... tweet?"
I gently pulled her to her feet, angling my body to completely shield her small frame from Talestia's furious view. I brushed a loose strand of sky-blue hair away from her white rabbit ears, keeping my face perfectly calm.
My name is Kirra," I answered smoothly, offering a small, casual wave of my hand. "It’s nice to meet you.
"I really don't want anyone out here knowing my royal title, I thought to myself, my corporate worker brain instantly running a localized security audit on the conversation. And honestly, I really don't care if I become the ruler of this kingdom or not. Running an entire woodland empire sounds like a massive, exhausting weight of responsibility if you ask me. I’ve had enough of executive management. I just want to secure my own baseline survival metrics without the administrative overhead. Most people don't understand the burden of rule and blindly pursue it to their own detriment."
"Let's get out of here," I whispered calmly, ushering her toward the mouth of the alleyway. "And you're not a glitch. My Head Maid told me once that once we turn fifteen, we learn to control our abnormal behaviors. So don't worry about anything that other girl says."
Tweet's large, tear-rimmed eyes widened slightly, her long white rabbit ears twitching as she absorbed my words . She let out a small, shaky breath, her sky-blue hair catching the dim sunlight filtering down between the weapon smithies. "Y-You really think so... tweet?"
"I don't just think so, I run the projections," I replied with a confident, stone-faced nod, guiding her out of the shadows and back onto the main cobblestone road. Besides, I know a thing or two about dealing with unhinged biological variables. If my modern adult brain can survive my own skull involuntarily rotating like an owl's just because I smelled a plate of crickets, then we can absolutely manage a few mammalian-hybrid quirks once the system updates at fifteen.
"Besides, what's your name?" I asked, turning to give her a steady, calculating gaze. "As I said before, I'm Kirra. And do you know your way around the city? I'm actively looking for a blacksmith shop."
Fraya tightly clutched her leather pouch of slag, her white rabbit ears giving a sudden, nervous flutter at my request as her face flushed with a mixture of surprise and profound relief.
"M-My name is Fraya Dah-Ironbark," she replied softly, keeping her voice low as she looked up at me through her long, sky-blue bangs. "My... my father is a runesmith. That's a type of blacksmith that can actively enchant their own work while they forge it. His shop is located right here in the luxury noble district, nestled at the far end on the northeast sector right by the boundary wall. I'll take you there... tweet!"
A runesmith, my thirty-five-year-old corporate worker brain echoed, my internal calculator instantly running a high-priority efficiency pass on the asset. Perfect. That is the exact manufacturing specialization I need to solve my long-term survival puzzle. If her family understands how to carve physical rune words straight into raw metal before quenching it, and knows the technique for filling those letters with powdered Magit, I can learn it from them and craft my own gear. No more restrictive, multi-layered princess dresses. No more useless aristocratic silk. I can engineer my own physical layer of defense out of pure industrial utility.
"Lead the way, Fraya," I said with a steady, stone-faced nod, guiding her down the cobblestone avenue away from the hidden playground. "Let's initiate our site visit."
As we walked toward the northeastern boundary of the lower loops, the grand wooden canopy houses of the hyper-nobility slowly thinned out, replaced by the massive, towering structure of the inner root wall that carved through the city's interior. The ambient air grew progressively warmer, thick with the comforting, heavy scent of burning charcoal, ozone, and the distinct, ringing clank-clank-clank of a high-pressure mechanical forge echoing down the alleyway.
At the absolute dead-end of the northern avenue, built right into the living wood of the inner root wall, sat a towering, blackened stone and timber structure. Billowing columns of clean white smoke rose from an organic cedar chimney stack, and the front entrance was flanked by heavy racks of unrefined ironwood ore and scrap metal.
We had arrived at the Ironbark Runesmithing Forge. The building was grown right out of the tree, its dark structural timber seamlessly merging with the living grain of the inner root wall. But as I stepped across the threshold into the radiating heat of the workspace, what perplexed me even more were the wood smelting blooms.
Back on Earth, metallurgy followed a strict thermal equation: you burned coal or coke in an industrial kiln to liquefy metal ore inside stone blast furnaces. Here, my thirty-five-year-old corporate worker brain ran headfirst into a complete violation of thermodynamics. There were no stone brick structures or iron crucibles. Instead, thick, hollowed-out stumps of living ironwood trunks sat directly on the workshop floor, pulsing with a blinding, white-hot elemental glare. The metal ore wasn't melting inside the wood—the living wood cells themselves were actively siphoning the thermal impurities right out of the iron blocks, acting as self-contained, organic smelting reactors that defied everything I knew about material manufacturing.
A towering Befredon elf stood over the nearest glowing bloom, his muscular forearms covered in deep charcoal soot. Unlike his daughter Fraya, his lineage was bound to a different beast soul entirely. A pair of long, elegant, and spiraled gazelle horns swept back from his brow, a short, tufted gazelle tail twitched against his heavy leather apron, and his long elven ears were pinned back to block out the deafening roar of the forge flames. He stood with the lean, powerful grace of a high-tier plains runner, completely dominating the space as he lifted a massive ironwood mallet.
This was Fraya's father. The master runesmith.
"Father, I’m home... tweet!" Fraya called out, her voice barely carrying over the fierce, roaring snap of the wood smelting blooms . "I... I brought a friend with me!"
The towering Befredon elf slowly paused his rhythm, lowering his massive ironwood mallet with fluid, practiced grace . He wiped a thick smear of charcoal soot from his brow, his long, elegant gazelle horns catching the fierce white-hot elemental glare of the forge vents as he turned his torso toward us.
"Oh, hello," the master runesmith spoke, his voice a warm, melodic rumble that instantly filled the workspace. Her father’s face softened into a gentle, dimpled smile as his short gazelle tail gave a contented twitch against his heavy leather apron. "I see you made a friend, Fraya. That’s very nice."
Fraya fidgeted nervously with her leather apron strings, her long white rabbit ears twitching as she took a tentative step forward. "Y-Yes, Father... and my new friend wanted to learn some blacksmithing. She was wondering... if you could show her around... tweet?"
The master runesmith opened his mouth to reply, but before a single syllable could form, his golden slitted eyes suddenly locked onto the open front entrance of his shop. The color instantly drained from his face. His fluffy elven ears flattened flat against his skull in absolute, wide-eyed terror.
At that exact microsecond, an icy, suffocating cold chill ran straight down my spine. Every survival reflex inside my ten-year-old child's frame violently redlined.
"Well... this is where you ran off to, Kirra," a deep, echoing voice purred from the threshold. It held the unyielding, mountain-shaking acoustic authority of a god.
My muscles locked up. Moving with agonizing, liquid slowness, I forcefully turned my body around.
Right as I swung toward the door, the master runesmith 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?!"
Standing just inches behind my shoulder, completely blocking out the morning sunlight, was Artwin Fay Befredon—my father and the Regent King of the Realm. He was dressed in his full, towering sovereign robes, his face an unblinking, unreadable mask of absolute royal gravity. And standing directly flanking his left shoulder like a massive, unmoving bunker of Orichalcum steel was Kristorf Van Paladin, his snapping turtle beast soul subtly humming in the air, proving that my 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," King 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."
The King turned his towering, sovereign frame slowly toward me, 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."
I froze dead in my tracks.
My modern thirty-five-year-old corporate brain violently misfired, a cold, panicking alarm bell screaming straight through my head. That’s right. I’m a princess in a high fantasy kingdom. Which means I will eventually have to marry a man I don't even know. Crap! Do they already have someone figured out?!
The sheer terror of an arranged political contract slammed into my chest, instantly threatening to override my stoic corporate facade. Time to change the subject. Immediately. Deflect the operational directive! Redefine the parameters!
"But Daddy," I blurted out, forcing my voice to take on the most innocent, high-pitch child-like inflection I could manage while tugging lightly on the heavy gold embroidery of his long sleeve. "Can you hire him to teach me blacksmithing, too?"
King 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 his leathery snapping turtle ears twitched slightly in the warmth of the forge. The King looked down at me, then looked over at the trembling, gazelle-horned runesmith who was still flat on his face in the dirt.
"Hmm," the King pondered to himself, a long, heavy hand coming up to touch his chin as he carefully evaluated the unexpected corporate proposal. "Only if he agrees... and you take your etiquette lessons seriously."
"Yes, Father, I will," I responded immediately, offering a solemn, ironclad corporate nod to lock down my side of the negotiation parameters.
King Artwin smiled softly, then 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 chest as he waved a dismissive hand. "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 . He looked at the King, then down at my small ten-year-old child's frame, 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 nod to Kristorf Val 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."