Chapter 6: The Princess Wants a Poster Boy

The royal banquet hall of Aurelia had been designed by someone who believed subtlety was a personality defect.

Gold leaf climbed the pillars like an invasive species. Crystal chandeliers floated beneath the vaulted ceiling, suspended by enchantments that hummed faintly whenever someone important lied. Stained-glass windows taller than Noah’s old apartment building depicted heroic kings trampling horned silhouettes beneath shining boots, every demon painted with the same expression of theatrical guilt. A fountain in the center of the hall poured sparkling wine instead of water, because apparently nobody in Aurelia had ever heard the words budgetary restraint and felt a chill of recognition.

Noah Bell stood at the entrance in borrowed formalwear stiff enough to qualify as light armor and wondered if the collar was supposed to strangle him or merely remind him of his place.

“You’re fidgeting,” Liora murmured beside him.

“I’m being assassinated by tailoring.”

The cat-eared knight’s whiskers twitched. She wore a dark blue dress uniform with silver piping, a compromise between courtly expectation and her obvious desire to be able to kick someone through a window at any moment. Her ears, usually sharp with irritation, had flattened in a way Noah had learned meant she was listening to twelve conversations at once and disliking all of them.

“Try not to look like prey,” she said.

“That advice would’ve been more useful before you brought me into a room full of predators wearing perfume.”

Across the hall, the predators had already noticed him.

Nobles turned in glittering clusters, laughter thinning as eyes slid toward the summoned hero. Fans paused mid-flutter. Wineglasses hovered near painted lips. Young lords with sculpted hair assessed his posture, his sword, his shoes. Older men weighed him like livestock. Noble daughters, wrapped in silk and jewels and the kind of dangerous boredom that toppled dynasties, brightened with collective interest.

Noah’s stomach performed a small, private resignation.

I survived quarterly reporting. I survived a vending machine. I can survive rich people with forks.

A trumpet fanfare detonated from the balcony above.

“Presenting Her Royal Highness, First Princess Seraphina Aurelia Solbright, Jewel of the Eastern Crown, Voice of the Dawn Covenant, Patron of the Rose Chapel, Defender of—”

The herald kept going.

Noah leaned toward Liora. “Is there a skip button?”

“If you find one, tell me.”

Princess Seraphina descended the grand staircase as if gravity had signed a favorable treaty with her.

She was luminous in a gown of sunrise silk, all rose-gold shimmer and white lace, her pale hair arranged in braided loops threaded with tiny gemstones that caught the chandelier light like captured stars. She smiled with practiced warmth, one hand gliding along the banister, the other lifted in a graceful acknowledgment of the room’s adoration.

She was beautiful in the same way a ceremonial sword was beautiful: polished, symbolic, and entirely capable of opening someone’s throat.

Noah had met her briefly after the war map incident. She had watched him dismantle three generations of royal propaganda using a hovering spreadsheet only he could see and had not blinked once. That frightened him more than the archbishop’s sputtering or General Halbrecht’s vein throbbing like a warning beacon.

Seraphina reached the bottom stair, accepted a flute of wine without looking, and crossed the hall directly toward Noah.

The noble clusters parted before her like curtains.

“Sir Noah,” she said, and somehow made his title sound less like a clerical error. “You came.”

“Your Highness,” Noah said, bowing with the careful uncertainty of a man who had learned etiquette from three panicked servants and one pamphlet titled How Not to Offend the Court Before Dessert. “The invitation used the phrase ‘royal command’ in gold ink.”

Her smile deepened. “And yet you make obedience sound like wit. How refreshing.”

Liora made a noise low in her throat.

Seraphina’s blue eyes flicked to her. “Dame Liora. You look very… alert.”

“I was trained to keep heroes alive, Your Highness.”

“How fortunate. We all have great hopes for him.”

Noah did not like the way several nearby noble mothers perked up at the word hopes.

Seraphina turned back to him and extended her arm. “Walk with me before dinner. There are people I must introduce you to.”

There was no reasonable way to refuse a princess offering her arm in front of half the kingdom’s ruling class. Noah took it. Her sleeve smelled faintly of orange blossom and expensive schemes.

They moved through the hall together, Liora trailing half a step behind like a storm cloud with ears.

“You caused quite a stir today,” Seraphina said softly, beneath the music. “The council has not been so lively in years.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be. Most of them were overdue for exercise. Several nearly stood up.”

Noah risked a glance at her. She was still smiling at the room, nodding to courtiers as if discussing weather rather than institutional collapse.

“I just pointed out the numbers didn’t match.”

“Yes,” Seraphina said. “That is what makes you dangerous.”

“I’d prefer useful.”

“Dangerous people are often useful. Useful people become dangerous once they realize it.”

Before Noah could decide whether that was a compliment, threat, or job description, she guided him toward a heavyset man with a beard trimmed into geometric tiers.

“Lord Penrose,” Seraphina said. “May I present Sir Noah Bell, the summoned hero.”

Lord Penrose bowed with the kind of stiffness that suggested his pride had joints. “Hero. House Penrose commands the northern grain roads. Should you require supply wagons for your inevitable campaign, we stand ready to discuss mutually honorable arrangements.”

Noah heard: I intend to overcharge the army during wartime.

His Divine Spreadsheet flickered to life at the edge of his vision.

DIVINE SPREADSHEET
Subject: Lord Penrose
Estimated Grain Transport Markup: 38%
Road Maintenance Compliance: 61%
Hidden Leverage: Eldest son owes gambling debt to House Marcell

Noah’s smile froze.

He had learned, over the past few days, that reacting visibly to invisible holy data made people nervous. He had also learned that not reacting made him feel like he was being haunted by an accountant.

“Grain roads,” Noah said. “That must give you frequent contact with the northern millers.”

Penrose blinked. “Naturally.”

“Then you know Baroness Marcell’s river barges have been underutilized since the east bridge washed out.”

Across the cluster, a narrow woman in emerald silk went very still.

Seraphina’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Noah’s arm.

Penrose’s beard seemed to bristle. “The Marcell barges are ill-suited to military transport.”

“For troops, sure. For grain, no. If your wagons carry from the northern estates to Marcell’s upriver docks, and her barges move the bulk shipment south, you cut axle wear, shorten delivery by four days, and reduce spoilage.” Noah paused, then added because he could not help himself, “Also nobody has to rebuild the east bridge before winter, which I’m guessing the treasury would appreciate.”

A silence opened around him.

Baroness Marcell’s fan lowered. “House Marcell has long sought closer cooperation with our northern neighbors.”

Lord Penrose glanced at her, then at Seraphina, then at Noah. Something calculating moved behind his eyes. “An… interesting proposal.”

“Purely theoretical,” Noah said quickly. “I don’t know your full capacity numbers.”

His spreadsheet obligingly displayed them.

AVAILABLE BARGE CAPACITY: 72% idle
PENROSE WAGON FLEET OVERUSE: 127% recommended load
PROJECTED SAVINGS: 14,200 crowns/quarter

Stop helping.

Seraphina laughed, light and musical. “How charming. He solves disputes before the soup course.”

“I wouldn’t call it solving—”

But Penrose and Marcell were now exchanging guarded remarks with the fascinated hostility of two cats discovering a shared sunbeam. Seraphina moved Noah onward before he could apologize for accidentally creating a logistics partnership.

“That,” she murmured, “was the first civil sentence Penrose has spoken to Marcell in six years.”

“I didn’t know they were feuding.”

“Obviously.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Only if you dislike being credited with miracles.”

Noah looked longingly at a passing tray of tiny pastries. “I dislike being credited with anything by people who tax peasants.”

Seraphina’s smile remained perfect. Her eyes sharpened. “Careful, Sir Noah. That sort of sentiment gets mistaken for virtue. Virtue is very fashionable when attached to a handsome man with divine approval.”

He nearly tripped.

“Handsome?”

“Did no one tell you?” She glanced at him sidelong. “How negligent of us.”

Behind them, Liora coughed into her fist. It sounded suspiciously like choking on annoyance.

The next introduction involved a silver-haired duke who collected military titles the way children collected shiny rocks. The Duke of Veyr insisted that cavalry remained the soul of warfare, then described a campaign plan that involved charging across marshland toward fortified demon positions he had apparently invented from patriotic imagination.

Noah nodded politely while his spreadsheet drew little red skull icons over the projected route.

TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: Catastrophic
Horse Survival Probability: 18%
Actual Demon Fortifications in Area: None
Primary Threat: Mud

“Have you considered,” Noah said, “not sending horses into a swamp?”

The duke stared at him as if Noah had suggested eating the national anthem.

Seraphina’s lips twitched.

“The heroic charge is an honored tradition,” the duke said.

“So is dying of infected blisters if you do it wrong.”

Liora made a tiny strangled sound. Noah could not tell if it was disapproval or delight.

The duke’s mustache quivered. “And what would the hero suggest?”

Noah looked at the invisible terrain overlay blooming above the duke’s wineglass. “Use the old peat cutters’ causeway here. Send infantry, not cavalry. Establish dry supply caches at these three points. If you absolutely need horses, keep them on the ridge and use them for message relay, not glorious drowning.”

One of the younger officers standing behind the duke leaned forward despite himself. “There’s a causeway?”

“Buried but intact. Probably.”

The spreadsheet flashed.

PROBABILITY: 94%

“Ninety-four percent probably,” Noah amended, then regretted it.

The duke harrumphed. The younger officer looked as if someone had opened a window in his skull.

Seraphina swept Noah away before the duke could recover his dignity.

“Second alliance,” she said.

“What?”

“Colonel Ardent behind the duke has been trying to modernize Veyr’s campaign doctrine for three years. He now has divine backing and a specific causeway to investigate.”

“That’s not an alliance. That’s me telling a man not to murder horses.”

“In politics, those are often the same thing.”

Music swelled as they approached the banquet tables. Servants in white and gold moved with choreographed efficiency, placing dishes that steamed with butter, herbs, roasted meats, sugared fruit, and sauces bright enough to be alchemical. The scent hit Noah hard. He had barely eaten since morning, unless one counted the dry ceremonial wafer the temple had given him after verifying he was “spiritually compatible with heroic destiny.” It had tasted like cardboard blessed by committee.

Then he saw the seating chart.

It stood near the head table on an ivory board framed with roses. Names had been written in elegant script, arranged by rank, faction, bloodline, insult history, and apparently a desire to provoke at least three duels before dessert.

Noah stopped walking.

Seraphina noticed immediately. “Is something wrong?”

“Who made that?”

“The Mistress of Ceremonies.”

“Does she hate everyone?”

Seraphina’s smile became careful. “She is widely respected.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Liora peered at the chart. Her ears angled forward. “Oh. That will be blood.”

“Lady Marcell is seated next to Penrose,” Noah said.

“You just encouraged cooperation,” Seraphina replied.

“Not while they’re holding knives. And Duke Veyr is across from Colonel Ardent, who now thinks the duke is obsolete. The Bishop of Lanes is between two wine merchants he denounced last spring. Why is Lady Estelle seated beside her former fiancé and his new wife?”

Seraphina’s brows lifted. “You know about that?”

“The chart is screaming.”

It was worse than screaming. Divine Spreadsheet had transformed the seating arrangement into a battlefield map of social explosives. Red lines connected feuds. Yellow lines indicated romantic complications. Purple lines, ominously labeled inheritance tension, tangled around the dessert end of the table.

BANQUET FAILURE PROBABILITY: 87%
Potential Incidents: 2 duels, 1 wine assault, 4 diplomatic snubs, 1 poisoning accusation, 12 crying servants
Optimization Available? YES

Noah stared at the glowing prompt.

No. Absolutely not. I am not optimizing a dinner party.

A servant carrying soup glanced at the seating board, went pale, and whispered a prayer.

Noah sighed the sigh of a man defeated by preventable inefficiency.

“Do you have a spare quill?”

Seraphina’s expression lit with dangerous pleasure. “Several.”

“I need the guest list, faction affiliations, known dietary restrictions, unresolved lawsuits, romantic entanglements, and anyone likely to throw cutlery.”

“Dame Liora?”

Liora was already moving. “I know the cutlery list.”

Five minutes later, Noah stood at a side table with three anxious servants, one delighted princess, a suspicious knight, and an ivory seating board that had become the center of gravity for every ambitious eye in the hall.

“No, don’t put the wine merchants near the bishop,” Noah said, rearranging name cards. “Put them near Countess Velane. She likes investment and hates sermons. Bishop goes next to Lady Orwyn because her charity hospital needs chapel funding and he needs good press.”

A servant scribbled frantically.

“Penrose and Marcell not adjacent. Opposite ends of the same side with neutral buffer. Give them a reason to speak across the table, not stab sideways. Colonel Ardent next to the cartographer. Duke Veyr near the retired cavalry hero so he can reminisce instead of interfere.”

Seraphina rested her chin lightly on her hand. “You look more heroic like this than you did holding the sacred sword.”

“The sacred sword had terrible grip balance.”

“You insulted a relic of the First Saint.”

“The First Saint needed an ergonomics consultant.”

Liora’s tail flicked beneath her coat. “Put Lady Estelle where?”

Noah checked the glowing lines. “Between the poetry baron and the young widower from House Cael.”

The servant gasped. Seraphina’s eyes widened with amusement.

“Bold,” the princess said.

“Why? They share interests, no active feuds, compatible estates, and he has a low scandal index.”

“He has been mourning his wife for four years.”

“And Lady Estelle has been publicly humiliated by a man who is currently seated far away near someone with a louder laugh. I’m not saying marry them. I’m saying dinner conversation probably won’t end in thrown fish.”

Seraphina stared at him for a moment, then laughed—truly laughed, not the court version. It made several nearby nobles turn as if a bell had rung.

“Sir Noah,” she said, “you may be the most terrifying man in this palace.”

“I’m trying very hard not to be.”

“That is rarely how terror works.”

The revised seating chart took fourteen minutes and saved, according to Divine Spreadsheet, an estimated five hundred and twenty-seven future headaches. When the Mistress of Ceremonies arrived and discovered her carefully weaponized arrangement had been replaced, her face went through the stages of grief with aristocratic restraint.

Seraphina touched the woman’s sleeve. “Sir Noah offered divine insight.”

The mistress bowed so hard her pearls clicked. “Naturally, Your Highness.”

Noah mouthed sorry.

She mouthed something back that was definitely not a blessing.

Dinner began.

Noah found himself seated at the right hand of Princess Seraphina, which felt less like an honor and more like being placed under glass. Liora sat two places down, separated from him by a young noblewoman with fox-colored curls and eyes bright enough to suggest she had been waiting her whole life for a new piece on the game board.

“Lady Mirabelle Thorne,” the young woman said, offering her hand across the table before the soup arrived. “My father commands three western fortresses, but don’t hold that against me. I only command a scandalous number of shoes.”

“Noah Bell,” he said, taking her fingers carefully. “I command… apparently a seating chart.”

Her laughter chimed. “We all saw. Half the hall swooned.”

Noah glanced around in alarm.

At least four young women looked away too quickly.

Seraphina sipped her wine. “Competence is an aphrodisiac at court. Rare things often are.”

Noah nearly inhaled soup.

Liora’s spoon bent.

The first course was a clear broth with floating petals that tasted of chicken, lemon, and magic pretending not to be magic. Conversation rose around them, polished and sharp. But the predicted disasters did not occur. Penrose and Marcell, seated apart, began exchanging remarks across the table about river tolls with the cautious excitement of enemies discovering mutual profit. Bishop Lanes accepted Lady Orwyn’s praise for his charitable heart and immediately pledged two chapel healers to her hospital before realizing he had negotiated against himself. Colonel Ardent and the royal cartographer bent over a napkin, whispering about peatlands while Duke Veyr told war stories to an ancient cavalryman who corrected every date.

Divine Spreadsheet glowed smugly.

BANQUET FAILURE PROBABILITY: 19%
New Cooperative Channels Established: 3
Unintended Romantic Interest Generated: 7 and rising

Noah’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

Unintended what?

Lady Mirabelle leaned closer. “Is it true you can see the hidden order of the world?”

“Mostly I see mistakes.”

“How tragic. When you look at me, do you see one?”

Across the table, a dark-haired girl in lavender choked softly on wine. Another noble daughter slapped her back while watching Noah with predatory fascination.

Noah’s brain, trained for inventory variance and not flirtation under monarchic surveillance, opened several emergency tabs and crashed.

Seraphina came to his rescue with the mercy of someone setting a prettier trap. “Sir Noah’s gift is sacred. We must not demand parlor tricks from the kingdom’s chosen champion.”