It was not, in fact, noon. Just barely two hours before noon in fact, the smallest of victories given to the Ensolian Princess as she happily reads out eight o’clock in the morning (the earliest ‘morning’ she had been up for quite a while in fact) on one of the great clocks within the western wing’s hallway.

  The Impericutta legionary is a shadow behind her,

  A ceramic monster unspeaking, letting the light chimes of reinforced body armor and ordnance ring as it takes its place four paces behind the young woman. A submachine gun strung on its chestplate, a powerblade at its hip, and a cold faceplate armoring over its head; a guardian drawn from the ranks of the most feared and deadly warriors of this small dirt ball orbiting Unudo brought here into the home as a… guest.

  Both the legionary and Guardswoman had taken all night to clear the rest of this wing, with the remaining rooms of the house scheduled for cleansing over the course of this next week. Knocking over crates, tasting preserved food, and checking every nook and cranny for booby trapped poison darts or shrapnel bombs.

  Hunger. Her digestive system requests through the formal chain of consciousness. Food, now.

  People in Hautwarden ate, cooked and even socialized in the same place within their houses.

  Unlike the culture of Central Ensolia, where buildings were built with the intention that food would be prepared within a kitchen and served in a separate dining room, the average home in that blasted northern region had everything squeezed into one so-called ‘living room.’ And in such arrangements, no one was safe.

  Even when she, Alice, Father and Mother visited her grandparents’ castle south of Montglace for grandma’s 70th birthday; they made the Empress herself stand in the kitchen and help make the apple strudel by hand. And the two present children too were put to work, manually whipping milk fat into fluffy cream that they both took theaving bites out of when no one was looking.

  Nothing had changed, this cultural fundamental maintained here thousands of miles away from the freezing snowdrifts and scorching, humid summers. A kitchen set into the far wall a mere twenty feet away from the very central ensolian set of dining furniture. Two sets of tables, enough capacity to hold twenty or more individuals with around twelve or more on the larger while maybe a maximum of ten on the smaller; assuming someone found the extra chairs to place across the empty spaces between each one.

  A set beneath wide support beams, a glass window set above letting through the extremely late morning sunlight and casting colors from the unlit chandelier. It was packed, décor thick with paintings, fishing poles, and various other rocks, washed up whale bones, and other oddities taken from the coastline and brought back here.

  The kitchen itself wasn’t anything to scoff at either, easily comparable to one of the Imperial Palace’s secondary kitchenettes. Stocked with pots, pans, a charcoal stove; with a split attached pantry stocked with sealed barrels as well as a cellar door leading down the steps towards a basement storeroom below.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Running water for a deep, stainless steel sink with cabinets filled with silverware, porcelain plates, and other strange decorative pieces of dining furnishings.

  Someone’s been using this place. Her visual cortex concludes, absorbing the details subconsciously. And you know who's been using it…

  The subtle charring within the stovetop’s fuel pit, the cleanliness of the cut marble countertops, and the droplets of water within the sink spin words to the Princess; a story brought to life by an overactive imagination.

  He was here. The house fills from its eyes of long wood beams, and the paintings of ancestors. The child, the son of the singer of the ancient songs.

  How Zai Tianci stood in this place, brought to life the charcoal fire and lifted from the countertops measured cups of grain, cuts of preserved meat, flowing water. How each placed pan and pot atop the four frames were put to temperature, tested with the subtle splashes of liquid oil, and how he coaxed this lump of metal into becoming the crucible of a craftsmanship fundamental to all mankind.

  Sophia runs a soft finger atop the cast iron cookware left out to dry, a single pot and a pan placed gently on a laid towel. A miracle happened here, a most beautiful thing that she had missed all because her own physicality betrayed her.

  “I’m hungry.” She says aloud, looking up towards the Impericutta legionary who just stares back at their liege.

  There’s no response from the monster, Sophia’s own internal monologue replying with the most disastrous words possible. This guardian will make due with what it has, a thin gruel of grain and water and grass. The only thing it will do is protect you against poisons, but even if you ordered it too it won’t create anything more than a thin, soupy slime for you. If you want to eat real, edible food you must create it yourself.

  Oh.

  The oldest artwork ever discovered by archaeologists was at the foot of the Wailing Fang’s “Throne,” the highest peak in all of the world. Accessible today only by an aerostatic crossing the gap, the ancients of humanity had painted out a cave filled with the odyssey of their own history. And the first one ever painted was of a simple family, five stick figures all with a crimson red in their chests (Professors within Imperial University assumed it meant some sort of familial relation), sitting surrounding a fire and sharing the roasted leg of some hunted animal.

  The first activity ever recorded by humankind was the act of cooking.

  And Sophia Elise the Eighth, Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium, needed to cook.

  The Central Consciousness Committee all begin to scream in terror, pointing and shouting as they all attempt to find blame for the horror of this obligation, at this activity they were now forced to undertake.

  How could we, in twenty one years, not even once place a single pot upon a stove?! One of the thoughts decries. Did we in our arrogance assume that our lives would forever have been fed by servants? Or even worse a traditional husband who would cook for you?!

  There’s a very long pause before one of the more timid processes raises their voice. Zai knows how to cook though…

  NOT THE POINT. The council snaps. If we don’t desire to starve today we’ll need to cook something and cook it fast!