Chapter Four: Of Feasts, Fakes, and Very Suspicious Pies
Elliott Bramble had survived being crowned, public speaking, and a direct encounter with a woman who looked like she'd poisoned at least six people before breakfast.
Naturally, the next logical step in his royal charade was a formal banquet with half the nobility of the continent—and at least three confirmed necromancers on the guest list.
"Do I really have to go?" Elliott whined as servants fitted him into yet another set of clothes that looked less like an outfit and more like a glittery circus tent.
Dorian handed him a jeweled goblet. "Yes. You're the king. Kings don't get sick days."
"Can't I just wave from a window and throw snacks? The people love snacks."
"You're giving a toast."
Elliott stared at him. "Do I look like I have toasts preloaded? I barely know which fork to use!"
"That's easy. Use whichever one isn't booby-trapped," Dorian replied.
"…What?"
The Banquet of Mild Terror
The Great Hall sparkled with chandeliers, golden tapestries, and the scent of roasted things Elliott hoped were animals and not the leftovers of failed revolts. Nobles in their finest silks whispered behind embroidered fans, and every third person seemed to be trying to make eye contact with Elliott like they wanted to seduce him, stab him, or politely offer an alliance with the Eastern Marsh Confederacy.
He sat at the head of the long table, flanked by Prince Dorian on the right and Lady Seraphine Vex on the left.
"Majesty," Seraphine said smoothly, "I do hope you enjoy the feast. The chefs have prepared your favorite: pigeon-liver pie with sugared turnips and nettle foam."
Elliott blinked. "Sounds… textured."
"It's traditional," Seraphine purred. "And full of symbolism."
"So is a whoopee cushion," Elliott muttered under his breath.
The Toast That Wasn't
When it came time for the king's toast, a herald rang a bell shaped like a golden duck, and the entire room turned toward Elliott.
He stood, shakily, and raised his goblet.
"To, uh… food!"
Several nobles raised their eyebrows.
"And tradition," he added quickly, "which I definitely understand and deeply respect. Especially the bit with the foam."
Lady Thistlewaite, seated further down the table, narrowed her eyes.
Elliott kept going. "May our plates be full, our forks be accurate, and our drinks be only mildly poisoned."
A few gasps. A few chuckles. A few suspicious glances toward the wine.
Elliott cleared his throat. "That was a joke. Obviously. Haha. Ha…"
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Dorian said loudly, clapping. "Let's eat!"
Meanwhile, at the Pie
Elliott took one bite of the pigeon-liver pie and almost choked on texture and tragedy.
He leaned toward Dorian and whispered, "What is this?"
"An acquired taste."
"Who acquired it? And why didn't we stop them?"
Before Dorian could respond, a pageboy rushed into the hall and whispered frantically in Seraphine's ear. She went still.
Then: "Your Majesty, may I have a word? Privately."
Elliott nodded, grateful to escape his pie-related suffering.
The Royal Antechamber of Secrets
Once inside a quieter room with suspiciously few portraits and far too many empty armor stands, Seraphine shut the door.
"A spy was caught in the castle kitchens," she said. "He was wearing a tunic bearing the symbol of Grottenvast."
"The kingdom that hates us?"
"One of the kingdoms that hates us," she corrected.
"They're jealous of our pies," Elliott muttered.
Seraphine ignored him. "The spy was planting something. In the wine."
Elliott gasped. "I knew that toast joke would age poorly."
"You're being targeted," she said simply. "We don't know why. Yet."
"I mean, it could be the fact I'm pretending to be king while knowing nothing about ruling?"
Seraphine gave him a look like she was deciding whether to stab him now or later. "Exactly."
Elliott slumped into a chair. "So what do we do?"
"You survive. Publicly. Convincingly. If someone's trying to test you, they won't stop at wine."
"Great," Elliott muttered. "Next it'll be exploding bath salts or a cursed spoon."
Seraphine gave him a hard smile. "You joke. But you should absolutely not touch your bath salts tonight."
Later That Night: Bathtub Paranoia
Elliott sat in his enormous gilded bathtub, poking at the bubbles with the wariness of someone expecting a sea monster.
"I miss being a poor actor," he sighed.
Then a voice echoed faintly from behind the wall: "Tomorrow… he will fall."
Elliott leapt from the tub so fast he slipped, knocked over a candle, and set fire to a towel.
So ended his first royal banquet.
End of Chapter Four