Dinner with my father was… surprisingly normal.
He looked like a weary silver-haired duke who hadn't slept in three centuries, yet he smiled faintly when I entered the dining hall, acting as though I had spent the whole day wandering through the garden.
"Oh, my daughter," he said, voice warm and tired, "I hear you've been resting in the gardens all day. I hope the sun was gentle on you."
"Yes, Father," I said, trying not to chortle at the absurdity of pretending I've been lying on grass instead of dealing with bouncing shadow bears and negotiating corporate-style employment contracts. "It was… restful."
The table was modest but edible. Soup—clear and meatless, as expected—some boiled vegetables, and a plate of dry bread that tried its best to be dinner.
I made it through with grace and a carefully practiced mmm for effect.
Father brightened as he delivered the news.
"The Magic Tower reports… that the dark magic covering our lands is fading. Slowly, but it is weakening. It seems… it's no longer as potent as it once was."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Really? That's… curious. And good, I suppose. But—what if we send some trusted men to the mines instead? Perhaps to investigate the source of this fading magic? Or the effects of… the curse?"
His eyes flicked up at me, thoughtful, then nodded.
"Yes. That is wise. Send scouts. Gather information. I trust your judgment."
I grinned internally.
Yes. Because nothing says strategy like sending other people into danger while you sip tea and negotiate with your shadow army.
The wraiths were invisible now, of course, hovering silently outside my father's perception, but I could still hear that muffled chipmunk-like grumbling.
"Poor mansion," they muttered. "Poor owner. And our dark magic… dying. We've… we've failed."
I rolled my eyes, swirling my soup.
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Cry me a river, my little chubby interns of doom. You'll be fine as long as you remember who owns the ring."
And somewhere, far in the back of my mind, I knew—between the famine, the mines, and the knights about to arrive—things were only about to get messy.
But for now…
I had dinner.
I had power.
And I had my tiny, floating, darkly magical, ridiculously adorable army.
Victory.
*****
Several Weeks Later…
To summarize the past few weeks, a LOT has happened.
Like… "kingdom DLC expansion patch" level happened.
The famine was lifting.
Not gradually. No.
Nature apparently pressed the refresh button.
The cracked earth that used to look like dragon-scale dandruff was now soft, dark, and moist enough to grow anything short of a magical beanstalk to the heavens. Villagers who had once looked like background characters in a zombie movie were suddenly gaining weight, color, and hope. HOPE, can you imagine?
The rain returned.
Rain—the old romantic, dramatic, plot-trigger rain—finally remembered our kingdom existed and started showing up again. At first gentle drizzles, then fat, glorious, earth-soaking droplets. Kids ran under it. Farmers cried. I stood in it once and did a dramatic telenovela spin because why not?
The crops stopped being crispy dead things.
Once upon a few weeks ago, you could pick up a carrot and it would snap like burnt paper. Now?
Everything was GREEN.
Leaves were green.
Stems were green.
The fields were green.
The farmers were green from rolling around in joy, probably.
Every morning, more sprouts popped up like they were attending an urgent meeting called by Mother Nature.
The ocean finally decided to stop being a giant salt-flavored graveyard.
Fishermen who once cast nets into nothing but disappointment came back screaming about movement in the water.
"FISH!"
They cried in disbelief.
"THEY'RE BACK!"
Fish were big, shiny, twitching things that actually MOVED instead of floating belly-up like sad metaphors.
The mines? Glowing with success now that the dark magic had vanished like a bad ex.
Where once miners couldn't even breathe from the choking miasma, now they could see crystal-studded walls again. Pure mana stones—glittering like dragon tears—were being carted up daily.
Economy: revived.
Industry: purring like a well-fed cat.
Miners: complaining about hard work again, which meant they were alive and thriving.
The people rejoiced.
They were dancing, drinking, possibly flirting harder than ever because famine-level stress was out and "we're not dying tomorrow" energy was IN.
My father rejoiced.
Even though his version of rejoicing looked like:
– a deeper sigh
– a softer frown
– and one extra cup of bitter tea.
Emotions weren't his thing. But I saw the relief in his shoulders.
The wraiths complained—endlessly.
They were now on the equivalent of a forced keto diet since the dark magic buffet disappeared.
And they were NOT okay.
"Lady Employer," the chubby leader squeaked, "we cannot live on AIR!"
"You are MADE of air," I reminded them.
"We are made of MALICIOUS AIR! There is a difference!"
Without thick, flavorful dark magic saturating the land, they couldn't snack.
So they stuck close to me—specifically, to the ring—like starving raccoons hovering around a donut.
They tried to eat the shadows under my bed. They tried to chew the corner of my wardrobe.
One tried to nibble on my own shadow—I kicked him gently like one kicks a beach ball.
It was chaos.
Chaos wrapped in cuteness wrapped in supernatural hunger.
The wraiths complained—they were now on a forced diet since the dark magic buffet disappeared.
And me?
I was suffering.
Because the moment the messenger announced the words "Sir Alex Canva will arrive by sundown," my soul left my body, my brain melted, and my inner fangirl attempted to jump into a volcano from the sheer pressure of excitement.
This was the Sir Alex Canva.
The knight who wrote poetry like he swallowed Shakespeare whole.
The man strong enough to carry a horse but gentle enough to braid hair if the plot demanded.
The main character.
The male lead.
The one man in this world whose muscles had their own fan club.
And he was coming here.
To my ruined, sad, pitiful mansion.
Where I—reincarnated, fat, magicless, sass-powered me—was living.
I wanted to die.
In a glamorous way, though. Preferably in slow motion.
When the knock thundered through the mansion, the old maid, Coffi's aunt, opened the door…
And I swear, heaven cracked open.
Standing on the front steps was a literal wall of muscle and beauty, framed by the silver light of sunset like the universe had paid for professional lighting.
His armor gleamed.
His jawline could cut diamonds.
His hair flowed like a shampoo commercial.
His eyes—emerald and glowing with purpose—did not touch me even once.
Behind him, his knights stood in formation, each one handsome enough to cause spontaneous pregnancy.
And I?
I stood beside my father, gripping the fabric of my dress, trying not to drool, faint, or combust.
"Duke Alistair," Sir Alex Canva said, voice deep enough to cause a small earthquake. "I've come to report on the investigations into the famine and the dark magic's recession."
My father nodded with dignity.
I nodded with I-am-trying-not-to-salivate energy.
Sir Alex did NOT look at me. Not even once.
Did NOT acknowledge my presence.
Did NOT even give me a polite glance.
Which was RUDE.
I was RIGHT THERE.
I had a FACE.
And a personality.
And boobs.
"Welcome to our home," my father said. "We are grateful for your arrival."
Sir Alex bowed slightly, impeccably. "We will serve with loyalty for as long as needed."
Oh LORD, even the way he stood radiated discipline, honor, and "pick me up and use me as a shield."
One of the knights behind him murmured something. Sir Alex gave him a short nod. His muscles flexed under his armor and I swear I heard angels faint.
I, meanwhile, was vibrating like a Nokia phone on maximum alert.
I leaned slightly toward my father and whispered from the corner of my mouth,
"He's so handsome I think my fat just tried to hide in shame."
Father gave me a side-eye sharp enough to kill. "Seraphine, behave."
"I am behaving," I whispered. "Barely."
Finally—FINALLY—Sir Alex's gaze flickered to me.
Just for a second.
A MINISCULE second.
His face remained neutral. Professional. Heroic.
Mine?
I blinked like someone had hit the reset button on my soul.
"Lady Seraphine," he said politely. "It's good to see the Duke's daughter is well."
WELL?!
SIR.
I AM NEVER WELL. I am fat and obsessed with your muscles.
Not well…NOT WITH YOU AROUND.