Chapter 141: Pastry

Sir Gallahan hastily shoved his glowing light-stick behind his back.

The four hardened warriors turned to face Kaelus, looking exactly like children caught with their hands deep inside a cookie jar.

"Y-Your Grace!" Captain Pyros barked, snapping a salute so hard he nearly bruised his own forehead, sweating profusely. "We were... executing the final phase of the curriculum! Visual mana-acclimation!"

"We pushed her to the absolute limit, Your Grace!" Sir Gallahan lied flawlessly, his voice trembling slightly. "Her cardiovascular dominance is unparalleled!"

Kaelus did not speak. He slowly walked forward, his boots crunching softly against the ash. He bypassed the terrified, sweating knights entirely and walked directly up to Seraphina.

Seraphina looked up at him, holding her crystal goblet of juice. She didn’t look exhausted. She looked incredibly refreshed, hydrated, and smug.

Kaelus looked down at her.

He looked at the tiny, rounded balsa-wood stick resting on her lap. He looked at the circle of expensive, cooling ice-crystals perfectly arranged around her.

He remembered his dramatic, intense speech that morning. ’Do not coddle her. Forge her in fire.’

He looked at the palm frond Pyros had dropped.

A slow, incredibly dry, utterly defeated sigh escaped Kaelus’s lips.

The terrifying warlord raised a hand and aggressively pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a massive headache building behind his eyes.

"Seraphina," Kaelus said, his voice flat, exhausted, and completely devoid of all military authority. "Did you... ’train’ today?"

Seraphina blinked, her dark eyes shining with absolute innocence.

"Yes, Papa Duke," Seraphina chirped happily, lifting her tiny balsa-wood sword. "I did two whole laps around a chalk circle. And I learned the Tiger’s Wrath. It goes ’Rawr’."

She demonstrated the tiny, paw-like gesture and let out the soft squeak.

Behind Kaelus, Captain Pyros let out a muffled, strangled sob, clutching his chest again. Sir Gallahan had to bite his own armored glove to keep from squealing.

Kaelus slowly turned his head, his violet eyes locking onto his three Vanguard commanders and the Chief Fire Instructor. The glare he leveled at them possessed no killing intent, but it was incredibly, lethally judgmental.

"You are all," Kaelus whispered, his voice dripping with pathetic disappointment, "the most useless, compromised, absolutely pathetic excuses for military instructors in the history of the Empire."

"We accept this judgment, Your Grace," Sir Lucas bowed deeply, entirely unashamed. "But her ’Rawr’ is tactically flawless."

"Dismissed," Kaelus grunted, waving a hand in absolute defeat. "All of you. Out of my sight before I demote you to stable duty."

The knights practically sprinted out of the Crucible, entirely relieved to have survived the Archduke’s wrath.

Kaelus was left alone in the massive arena with his hydrated, perfectly relaxed, entirely un-forged daughter.

He looked down at her.

The fatherly panic that had plagued him all morning completely evaporated, replaced by a strange, warm, exasperated fondness.

He had been terrified she would break under the pressure, completely forgetting that she possessed the terrifying, superpower-like ability to make grown, bloodthirsty men act like doting grandmothers.

Kaelus reached down, effortlessly scooping her up into his arms.

"Come, Mushroom," Kaelus sighed, shaking his head, a faint, defeated smile touching his lips as he carried her toward the exit. "Your grueling, agonizing training is over for the day. I believe you have earned a nap."

"Can I have a pastry first?" Seraphina asked, resting her head on his shoulder. "Sir Gallahan said caloric deficits are dangerous."

Kaelus rolled his eyes, pushing the heavy iron doors open.

"You are an absolute menace," Kaelus murmured fondly, stepping out of the Crucible. "But yes. You may have a pastry. Just... do not ’Rawr’ at the baker. I do not wish to deal with the medical paperwork if you stop his heart."

As they walked down the sunlit corridors of the Obsidian Gate, leaving the ridiculous, failed training session behind them, Seraphina smiled secretly into Kaelus’s shoulder. She hadn’t learned how to compress dark mana today, but she had learned something far more valuable.

The Vanguard of the North was completely under her tiny, balsa-wood-wielding thumb. And the grumpy hedgehog was absolutely, undeniably helpless against her.

Training was exhausting.

Being a spoiled Sovereign was infinitely better.

***

The sprawling, volcanic architecture of the Obsidian Gate was a testament to Archduke Leonidas Valen’s philosophy of life: if something was worth doing, it was worth overdoing to the point of ridiculous excess.

This philosophy extended from his military strategies directly down to his fortress’s culinary department.

Duke Kaelus von Nacht carried Seraphina through the sweeping obsidian corridors, ignoring the terrified, awe-struck stares of the passing Southern servants. True to his word, he was bypassing the grand dining halls and heading straight for the Citadel’s primary patisserie, a massive, open-air pavilion located near the inner gardens, dedicated entirely to the production of high-end, luxury confections for the Archduke’s guests.

"I want the one with the pink frosting," Seraphina announced, her chin resting comfortably on Kaelus’s mythril-plated shoulder, her tiny balsa-wood sword still clutched in one hand like a scepter of absolute authority. "And maybe one with the shiny yellow fruit on top. Sir Gallahan said yellow fruits are high in essential vitamins, and I am a growing child!"

"You are a growing menace," Kaelus corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. He adjusted his grip, ensuring the heavy fabric of his dark cape was acting as a soft barrier between her legs and his armor. "But you successfully survived an assassination attempt by a balsa-wood stick today. I suppose a dual-pastry acquisition is an acceptable reward."

They entered the patisserie.

The air inside was an intoxicating, overwhelming cloud of caramelized sugar, baking bread, and rich, imported vanilla. Dozens of master bakers, clad in pristine white aprons, were rushing frantically around massive, rune-powered ovens.

The moment the terrifying Reaper of the North stepped into the pavilion, the bustling activity ground to a terrified halt.

A head baker, wearing a tall chef’s hat, practically sprinted across the polished tile floor, dropping into a deep bow as he greeted the Duke.