Chapter 13: Breakfast and Intrigue

DEMON COURT CHAMBERS

It was two days after winning the competition and it was time for the Demon Court breakfast again.

The scent hit first.

Rich, smoky, and laced with spices that made even the marble pillars seem to lean closer.

Somewhere beyond the heavy blackwood doors, Cael’s latest creations steamed on silver trays, four dishes, as per the Demon Court’s now-infamous “breakfast rule.”

Inside, anticipation buzzed like a nest of hornets.

Cael stood off to one side, bleary-eyed, his hair doing its best impression of a startled hedgehog. He’d been awake before sunrise…dragging himself to the kitchens to prepare the first-ever demon–human fusion breakfast.

Now, with the work done, he watched the gathering like a rabbit at a wolf convention.

The Court was already in formation.

The Generals sat to the left, a row of barely leashed predators:

* Draz, arms folded, glaring at the flagstones as if sheer will could bring the food faster.

* Varka, idly cracking walnuts with her bare hands and tossing the shells at Molg’s chair.

* Thorne, coaxing lazy wisps of shadow into the shape of a fox that kept licking his goblet.

* Molg, growling whenever someone so much as coughed in his direction.

The Advisers huddled together, voices a low susurrus:

* Nyssa, brows arched so sharply they could cut parchment.

* Vizier Krohl, muttering to himself about tides, storms, and destiny.

* Chronicler Sessh, ink splattered across his ledger from impatient pen taps.

The Ministers filled the right flank, looking more like a traveling carnival than a government:

* Guldor, sneering at everything, including the air.

* Dreev, polishing his monocle with such zeal it might catch fire.

* M’renn, tapping her mop handle against the floor, smoke curling from its smoldering tip.

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* Poxxi, wheezing in rhythm with the ticking of the wall clock.

* Blightbell, feeding crumbs to her glowing fruit.

* Snurk, clutching a ladle like it was the staff of a holy relic.

DEMON COURT REPORT STARTING

A knock from the doors signaled the start. The four dishes were in place outside. The ranking awaited.

Ashara leaned back in her throne, eyes bright. “Let’s hear your week, then.”

One by one, the Court stepped forward to present their “greatest deeds.”

Varka led with a grin, boasting of smashing a border raid in record time.

Thorne claimed an “accidental” sinking of a rival trade fleet.

M’renn declared she’d cleaned the Royal Fountain without anyone dying this time.

Snurk proudly announced he’d perfected a ten-minute lava stew recipe. No one looked impressed.

Then Vizier Krohl stepped forward, voice heavy with smugness.

“Prince Vaedranis of the Obsidian Gulf has requested an audience with the chef of the winning team from the competition.”

A ripple went through the Court. Even Molg stopped growling.

Ashara’s smile didn’t falter, but it sharpened. “Did he now?”

Krohl inclined his head. “Indeed.”

She tapped her nails against the armrest. “Negative points to your side, Vizier. Strange tides do not enter my harbor unannounced.”

The rest of the presentations passed quickly, and when all was said and done, Ashara stood.

“Varka takes the crown this week. The rest, you know where you stand. Go.”

CHAOS STARTED

The doors flew open.

The top ranks surged out first, a blur of muscle, armor, and magic, and the smell hit them full in the face.

For a moment, the older demons froze, the aroma was painfully familiar, a whisper from Fred’s era, and then they pounced.

Plates clattered. Elbows flew. Varka claimed an entire platter, Molg barked someone into retreat, and Thorne attempted to smuggle a portion into his cloak only to be tackled by Nyssa. The food vanished in minutes.

Lower ranks arrived to find scraps…or nothing at all. Bargaining turned to bluffing, bluffing to brawling. A chair sailed across the hall. Poxxi wheezed out a battle cry.

Ashara laughed aloud and, with a flick of her fingers, waded into the chaos, her own breakfast already secured by Cael earlier.

Cael himself dove under the massive table, curling up near her boots as her magic flared, blocking a stray fireball and a flying goblet.

“How did Fred survive this every week?” he muttered, clutching a serving spoon like a dagger.

Another thought wormed in, colder:

“And why does some far-off prince want to meet me? …Is this another Veydran situation?”

Above him, Ashara smirked faintly, eyes never leaving the chaos.

Somewhere to the side, Chronicler Sessh’s pen scratched into the ledger:

A new prince enters the game… appetite unknown.