Back in the Kitchen
Towan just stood there.
“Did… did she just say stew was
enlightening
?”
Herb stared at the door. “Yep.”
“I don’t even know what that
means.
”
Herb let out a slow whistle, arms crossed.
The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Lady Len’s private quarters, casting delicate patterns across the plush carpets. Her personal maid,
Elise
, worked with practiced precision, weaving silver pins into Len’s golden hair as she prepared for the day.
Len, normally composed, had been lost in thought since dawn.
Elise cleared her throat.
"You’ve been quiet this morning, my lady. Did something…
happen
last night?"
Len blinked, as if startled out of a daydream.
"Hm? Oh. No. Nothing of consequence."
A pause. Then, against her better judgment—
"...He seemed so sweet."
The words slipped out, soft and unguarded.
Silence.
Elise’s hands stilled for half a second before resuming their work—but her eyes flicked to the door, where
two other maids
were just outside, pretending
very hard
not to be eavesdropping.
Len, oblivious, continued.
"Just… genuine. No pretenses. No hidden meanings in his words. It was… refreshing."
Elise swallowed.
"My lady, might I ask…
who
you are referring to?"
Len hesitated. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile—
"The boy at the tavern."
A pin
clinked
against the vanity.
Outside the door, a stifled gasp.
And just like that—
the wildfire had been lit.
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The Rumors Spread (In Increasingly Absurd Proportions)
Version 1 (The Maids’ Whisper Network):
"Lady Len called a tavern boy sweet! She smiled while saying it!"
Version 2 (The Kitchen Staff’s Interpretation):
"Lady Len is smitten with a commoner! She’s planning to elope!"
Version 3 (The Noble Aunts at Tea):
"I heard she fed him from her own hand! They exchanged vows over a bowl of stew!"
Version 4 (The Governor’s Spy Report):
"M’lord, your daughter may have been enchanted by a disguised foreign prince. Or a soup-based assassin. We’re not sure yet."
Version 5 (The Drunken Hound’s New Sign, Courtesy of Herb):
"TRY THE STEW THAT STOLE A NOBLE LADY’S HEART!
(Now 50% more
enlightening
!)"
Meanwhile, Back at the Tavern…
Towan, blissfully unaware that he is now the most talked-about man in Lockeheart, wiped down the counter as Herb stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
"What?" Towan frowned.
Herb exhaled slowly. "Kid. I just got
three
separate offers from nobles asking if you’re ‘available for private catering.’ One of them offered me
a land deed
just to ‘borrow’ you for an evening."
Towan blinked. "…Why?"
Herb rubbed his temples. "Because somewhere out there, a maid heard
something
, and now the entire aristocracy thinks you’re either a
secret romantic hero
or a
culinary seduction expert
."
Towan stared. "…I just served her stew."
Herb groaned. "That’s
worse
. Do you have
any
idea how dangerous it is when nobles decide something is ‘charmingly rustic’? Next thing you know, they’ll be
marrying
their daughters off to blacksmiths for ‘authenticity.’"
The door burst open.
A breathless messenger in House Verestra colors skidded to a halt.
"Towan of the Drunken Hound?" he panted. "You are
formally invited
to the Governor’s Winter Ball." A beat. "By
personal
request of Lady Len."
Silence.
Herb slowly turned to Towan. "…We’re doomed."
Towan accepted the elegantly embossed invitation, scanning the details—location, time, a crest that probably cost more gold to design than the tavern made in a year. He gave the messenger a polite nod as the man scurried off, likely relieved to escape the
Drunken Hound’s
questionable aroma.
"Should I go?" Towan asked, turning the parchment over in his hands like it might explode.
Herb’s face cycled through five emotions at once before landing on "mildly horrified."
"You
must
," he said, voice strained. "Unless you want Lord Verestra to ‘accidentally’ revoke our liquor license. Or burn the place down. Or
both
, for efficiency." He gestured vaguely at the bar. "That man once had a merchant exiled for
looking
at his daughter too long. You
smiled
at her. In public. Over
stew
."
Towan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I just wanted a bit of time to recover," he muttered, more to himself than Herb.
(Recover from
what
, exactly? The war? The bloodshed? The fact that he’d somehow traded battlefield stress for
nobles analyzing his soup-serving techniques
?)
Herb, ever the opportunist, leaned in. "Look, it’s a
golden
chance for intel. Nobles spill secrets faster than drunks spill ale—just stand near a potted plant and listen. Gossip is their
currency
." Then, catching Towan’s flat stare, he backpedaled. "…But, y’know.
Don’t
go if you don’t feel like it. I was just joking. Mostly."
A beat.
"…You’re going, aren’t you?"
Towan stared at the invitation again. "Yeah."