Once Lucia, Sean, and their group stord out of the dining hall, the place fell into eerie silence. The echo of their departing footsteps gradually faded down behind the door, leaving behind only the faint clatter of broken glass and overturned chairs.
Later on, the servants huddled in the corners and remained frozen with their bodies trembling profusely.
But then, as though a silent command had been issued, the trembling ceased. The panic drained from their faces, replaced by cold precision.
One by one, the ’servants’ straightened their backs and brushed the dust and porcelain shards from their uniforms with chanical calm. Their movents were sharp, deliberate, too disciplined for re attendants.
Monts later, the heavy back door creaked open. Fargo entered first, his boots silent against the floor, his eyes sweeping over the wreckage with calculating scrutiny.
Behind him ca Fredhardt, tall and unyielding, his silhouette frad by the dim hallway light, followed by Lucas, whose composed deanor couldn’t fully mask the tension in his jaw.
"Good work, everyone," Fargo said, his voice level but firm.
The servants instantly stood in perfect formation, their expressions firm. "Thank you, sir," they answered in unison, their voices echoing in the once-chaotic room with military precision.
Fargo’s eyes flicked across them, and he gave a small nod of approval. "At ease."
In truth, these were no ordinary servants. Every man and woman standing there belonged to the Noxcra—an elite covert unit sworn to the crown.
They had arrived at the Athyst estate the day before, then, after getting permission from the owner, who is the chef, they quietly replaced the original servants to prepare for the eting between Lory and Lucia.
Every corridor, every room, and every entrance had been swept, secured, and rigged for surveillance.
By the ti Lucia arrived, the entire mansion had already been turned into a silent operation field. The dining room beca the focus and was monitored. Every word and every move, everything was recorded and relayed in real-ti.
Fargo pressed a finger to the small device in his ear. "How’s the tracking device on the princess?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
A crisp, firm voice responded through the earpiece, slightly crackling with static. "It’s working perfectly, sir. Signal is clear."
Fargo’s jaw eased slightly. "Good. Keep monitoring the signal. Send a team to follow, discreetly. No one makes contact unless I say so."
He turned to Lucas, who stood stiffly beside the wrecked table. The King’s hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his posture perfect but tense enough to betray the weight on his shoulders.
"You sure about this?" Fargo asked, his tone laced with quiet concern.
Lucas’ gaze flickered toward the empty doorway where his sister had disappeared. "This is what she wanted," he said at last, voice firm despite the heaviness underneath. "Besides..." His lips pressed into a thin line. "She’s not alone."
Fredhardt crossed his arms, the faintest hint of a reassuring smile tugging at his stern face. "Don’t worry, Your Majesty. That man is no less dangerous than Lord Girsha."
"And more protective, if I may add," Fargo said with a short, knowing grin.
Lucas exhaled long and slow, the sound carrying both resignation and reluctant trust. "Yeah," he murmured. "It’s a good thing she asked for our help."
Fredhardt nodded once. "Yeah. Otherwise, we’d be dragging half an army just to get her back."
A mont of silence passed between them. Then, the kitchen door creaked open.
"Is Her Highness going to be alright...?" a deep, anxious voice asked.
A man stepped into the room, clutching his chef’s hat in both hands. His build was thick and solid, more suited to the battlefield than a kitchen.
His broad shoulders filled the doorway, and the scar running from his brow to his cheek made his expression look perpetually severe. The heavy moustache didn’t soften it either; if anything, it gave him the air of an old rcenary rather than a professional chef.
Lucas turned his head toward the man, surprise quickly giving way to recognition. A faint smile curved his lips. "Thomas."
The chef’s eyes widened slightly. Then, with a deep breath, he pressed a clenched fist over his chest and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
"Raise your head, Thomas," Lucas said gently.
Thomas straightened at once, posture snapping into the sharp stance of a trained soldier. Seeing it, Lucas’s smile deepened, tinged with nostalgia. The man before him had once been one of the King’s n, and a da*n good one.
Years ago, Thomas had served under the royal banner, a na whispered with respect among the ranks. But that was before his father’s scandal.
When corruption had surfaced within the upper ranks, Thomas’s father had been found guilty of conspiring with foreign investors; his betrayal had nearly compromised a border defense. Though Thomas himself had no hand in the act, the stain of his father’s na was enough to end his military career.
King Marcus had wanted to make an exception for him, citing Thomas’s years of loyalty and service. Yet Thomas himself had refused the offer. He didn’t want to tarnish the King’s honor with even the shadow of favoritism. And so, he accepted dismissal and thus he was given an honorable discharge, with full pension and his reputation intact.
That small act of integrity earned him sothing greater than any reward he received; it earned the eternal respect of the royal family as well as regret for losing the chance to serve the Lucient family ever again.
For years afterward, Thomas wandered, unmoored. He took odd jobs, construction, labor, and guard duty, but nothing felt right. Until one afternoon changed everything.
It was an ordinary day at a construction site. He had just sat down for his lunch break, a simple al of rice and a chocolate muffin, when his stomach suddenly turned on him. Muttering curses, he abandoned his dessert and ran to the restroom.
By the ti he returned, his muffin was gone. Or rather, it wasn’t gone—it was being eaten.
Right there, sitting on a wooden chair, was a tiny girl in a panda hoodie, her legs swinging freely, her cheeks puffed out with the last bite of his muffin. She wore oversized sunglasses that nearly swallowed her small face, making her look absurdly fashionable for a child.
Thomas froze. "My... muffin," he blurted out before he could stop himself.
The little girl froze, eyes wide behind her glasses. "Don’t tell , it’s...yours?" she asked, voice small and guilty.
Before he could respond, a gust of wind swept through the open window, knocking back her hood. Silky bluish hair tumbled free, shimring faintly in the sunlight.
Thomas’s breath caught. His eyes went wide. "Pri—"
A small finger pressed to her lips. "Psst! Be quiet!" the girl hissed.
Thomas imdiately slapped his hands over his mouth and darted a look around the empty corridor.
When he was certain no one else had seen, he crouched beside her, whispering urgently, "Your Highness! What are you doing here? Where are your guards? How did you—"
"Hey, calm down, young man," she interrupted, lifting a tiny hand in mock authority.
He froze mid-sentence, blinking at the cute little panda before him.
"Okay, let explain, when I go out today to watch a movie, I got separated from my brothers," she explained with an exaggerated sigh. "It happened because I was chasing an ice cream truck... and before I knew it, I ended up here." Her tone was so serious, so maturely regretful, that it made the situation all the more absurd.
Thomas gawked. "The royal family... chased an ice cream truck? Why?" he tries to make sense.
Lory’s little shoulders slumped. "You don’t understand. Uncle Stevie said I’ve been eating too much sugar lately, and it affected my sleep ti and focus. Because of that, he won’t let have any desserts. It’s been two weeks since I last had ice cream! Two weeks!" she repeated, as though declaring a tragic injustice.
"So, when I saw an ice cream truck pass by, my mind just... went blank." She said with utter remorse, like an addict back to her bad habit.
Thomas was rendered speechless. He didn’t know whether he should be worried or laugh. But one thing was certain: it was dangerous for Lory to be out here alone, and as a forr soldier, he felt responsible for her safety.
"Um... then we need to contact the Archknight. Where’s your phone, Your Highness?" he asked carefully.
Lory lifted her chin and answered matter-of-factly, "I lost it!"
"..." Thomas now wanted to cry. What should he do if so bad people took this chance to kidnap the only princess of the Harland Kingdom? Can he protect her?
Suddenly, a kick flew toward his direction. Luckily, his reflexes as a forr soldier hadn’t dulled; Thomas dodged it just in ti.
A young man in a black leather jacket, looking very much like a punk, shouted at him, "Who are you?! Where did you take my princess?!" His eyes blazed with fury.
Thomas’s eyes widened in shock. He wondered why the young man looked very familiar. He looked so much like General Zargan. "No... It’s not like that!" he tried to explain.
Before things could escalate, Lory suddenly stood up on the chair and brought her tiny hand down in a karate chop on the young man’s head. "Stop it, Fargy!" she commanded.
"Ouch!" Fargy yelped, rubbing his head. "Lory!" he whined.
Still standing proudly on the chair, Lory placed her small hands on her hips. "Don’t hurt him! This man is my savior."
"Your savior?" Fargo looked confused.
"Yes! He shared his food with , and it was tasty!" she declared righteously.
Fargo’s face darkened. "Lory, what did I tell you about not taking food from strangers?"
"Hey, he didn’t give anything...," Lory corrected, puffing her chest out proudly. "I took his food without him knowing."
"...That’s called stealing, Lory!" Fargo scolded.
Lory froze, her eyes widening in sudden realization of the terrible thing she had done. Then she turned to Thomas with a sheepish, apologetic look. "I’m sorryyy..." she said, her voice small and guilty.
Thomas waved his hands in a fluster, trying to reassure the little princess. He wanted to say, It’s okay, my father once stole five hundred million roms from the kingdom, but he wisely not from speaking embarrassing matters like that in front of the child, a cute gluttony child.
From that day on, Princess Lory beca hopelessly addicted to the chocolate muffin she had ’stolen’ from him. She kept pestering Thomas, asking where he had bought it.
When he told her that he made it himself, her eyes lit up with childlike excitent. From then on, she demanded that he make more for her and send them directly to the Cestine Palace.
It all began with a simple chocolate muffin. But Thomas, ever the perfectionist, thought it was far too plain for soone like Princess Lorient. So, he began to experint. First, he learned to make éclairs, then chocolate mousse, and soon he was diving into every culinary art he could find, stir-fried noodles, beef stew, pastries, and confections from across the kingdoms.
His dedication caught the attention of Stephan, who later offered him a scholarship to study culinary arts, on the condition that he could et the academy’s demanding standards.
Thomas accepted, and to everyone’s surprise, he turned out to have far more talent in the kitchen than he ever did as a soldier.
Years later, after earning his certification and establishing himself as a chef, Thomas applied for a position at the Cestine Palace. To his astonishnt, he was accepted.
From then on, he found his purpose once again, serving the royal family he had once protected with his sword, now with his hands and his heart. And it was all because of Princess Lorient.
So one could only imagine how heartbroken he had been when he thought she was dead.
It took him a long ti to stand again after that. Even when he regained his strength, he wasn’t ready to return to the palace. The thought of walking its halls, knowing she would never appear again, was too painful. Instead, he opened a quiet fine-dining restaurant, the Athyst.
A na of a purple stone that looks like the Lucient’s family eyes, though the gemstone still cannot compare with the Lucient’s eyes.
He told himself it was only to hone his culinary skills, but deep down, he knew there was more to it. Athyst wasn’t an ordinary restaurant. It had only one table and six chairs, reserved for guests personally chosen by Thomas himself, people he deed ’worthy to be cooked for.’
The six chairs symbolized the six people he always rembered: Princess Lory, Prince Lucas, and the four Archknights who had stood beside them.
Now, standing before Lucas once more, Thomas felt that sa ache return to his chest.
"You don’t have to worry about my sister," Lucas said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "She’s been through far worse."
"I know, Your Majesty," Thomas replied, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. "It’s just... I never knew she was still—" His voice wavered slightly. "I wish I could have talked to Her Highness more."
Lucas chuckled softly, the corners of his lips curving with faint amusent. "You will have the chance. After all, you know how much she loves the food you make."
Thomas couldn’t help but smile, though his eyes glistened faintly. "Then I’ll make sure to cook sothing tasty when she returns."
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