The announcement came on a morning just like any other, carried on the wind like the scent of freshly baked bread. Posters appeared overnight, plastered on walls and bulletin boards throughout Holden and the neighboring towns. The town criers spread the news with gusto:

“Hear ye, hear ye! By decree of the Merchants Guild, in partnership with Lord Theodore of Holden, a grand soap-making competition is hereby announced! All soapmakers, from novice to master, are invited to showcase their skills and compete for glory and gold among the best of the best! Of course, those who just want to see are welcome, too!”

The news spread like wildfire, igniting not only excitement and speculation among the townsfolk, but more.

After all, people talk, and this—yeah, it practically reeked of drama and gossip.

Thus, in taverns and marketplaces, on street corners and in guild halls, the upcoming competition was the talk of the town.

Two women stood gossiping by a fruit stall, their voices hushed but animated.

“Did you hear about the soap competition?” asked the first, a plump woman with rosy cheeks. “They say Lord Theodore himself will be competing!”

The second woman, tall and thin with a sharp nose, scoffed. “Lord Theodore? Competing against real soapmakers? That’ll be a sight to see. I hear Old Man Giles from Westford is entering. He’s been making soap for nigh on fifty years!”

“Aye, but have you tried Lord Theodore’s soap?” the plump woman countered. “It’s like washing with silk, I tell you. My hands have never been softer.”

“Soft hands don’t win competitions,” the thin woman retorted. “Experience does. Mark my words, Lord Theodore might be clever, but he’s no match for the likes of Widow Mabel from Corinth.”

As they continued their debate, a young man loading crates nearby couldn’t help but interject. “Begging your pardon, ladies, but I wouldn’t count Lord Theodore out just yet. I’ve seen what he can do, and it’s nothing short of miraculous. His soap might be new, but it’s changing lives. My little sister’s rash, the one no healer could cure? Gone after a week of using his soap.”

The women fell silent, exchanging glances. The plump one nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? It’ll be quite the spectacle, that’s for certain.”

***

In a quiet corner of the town square, two veteran soapmakers huddled in conversation.

“This competition could ruin us all,” grumbled the first, an older man with calloused hands. “Lord Theodore’s already cornered the market with his fancy new soap. If he wins this competition too, we might as well pack up our shops and move on.”

The second soapmaker, a woman with streaks of gray in her dark hair, shook her head. “Don’t be so hasty, Elias. Lord Theodore may have youth and innovation on his side, but we have generations of knowledge. My grandmother taught me secrets of soapmaking that have been passed down for centuries.”

Elias sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Aye, but will that be enough? Have you seen the way people flock to buy his soap? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then we’ll just have to rise to the challenge,” the woman said firmly. “This competition isn’t just about winning; it’s about proving our worth. We’ll show everyone that there’s more to soapmaking than just a fancy new recipe.”

As they continued their discussion, neither noticed the small crowd that had gathered nearby, listening intently to their words. Among them, opinions were divided, but one thing was clear: the upcoming competition had captured everyone’s imagination.

***

Roland stood at attention outside Lord Theodore’s study rigidly. The news of the soap competition had spread through the castle like wildfire, and Roland couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and anxiety for his young charge. He remembered the day he had first been assigned to guard Theodore—a scrawny, petulant prince more interested in his own comfort than the welfare of others. Roland had expected an easy, if tedious, assignment.

How wrong he had been.

In the months since the peculiar shift in Lord Theodore’s personality, Roland had watched in awe as Theodore transformed not just himself, but the entire town.

Roland’s thoughts drifted to the soap that had started it all. He had been skeptical at first, dismissing it quite quickly. But then he had used it himself, felt the difference it made. And more importantly, he had seen the difference it made in the lives of the townspeople.

He remembered the day a mother had approached Theodore in the street, tears in her eyes, thanking him for the soap that had finally soothed her baby’s persistent rash. Or the miners who no longer suffered from cracked and bleeding hands after a long day’s work.

Not to mention the affect it’d had on the Blight at the time.

Afterwards, how he’d saved people from the crystal plague—with the help of Jack. And now,this competition. Roland knew that many doubted Theodore’s chances against more experienced soapmakers. But they didn’t know Theodore like he did. They hadn’t seen the long nights, the endless experiments, the sheer determination that went into every bar of soap.

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In his years of service, he had guarded many nobles, but none quite like Theodore. This wasn’t just a lord playing at business; this was a leader truly invested in the welfare of his people.

Roland straightened his back, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Let them underestimate Lord Theodore, he thought. Let them think this competition will be easy. They’re in for quite a surprise.

For Roland knew, with a certainty that ran bone-deep, that Theodore would not just compete—he would win.

***

Ethan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as he regarded Jack across the desk. The [Necromancer] looked tired, dark circles under his eyes betraying long nights of work.

“So,” Ethan said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. “The cure for the crystal plague. You said you’re ready to ship?”

Jack nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “It’s done. Tested and retested. I’ve even managed to refine the process. Made it more efficient. We can start production immediately.”

Ethan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Jack, my friend, you’ve outdone yourself. This... this could change everything.”

“This is as much your achievement as it is mine. Especially with the filtration system making sure there aren’t any new contaminated.”

Ethan waved away the praise. “We can debate credit later. Right now, I’m more interested in logistics. How quickly can we start distributing the cure?”

Jack leaned forward, spreading out a map on the desk between them. “I’ve been thinking about that. Given the current trade routes we’ve established with the Montague Merchant Guild, we could have the cure reaching the furthest affected areas within a fortnight.”

“Good,” Ethan nodded. “We’ll need to coordinate with Liam, ensure the shipments are given priority. And we’ll need to train [Healers] in its application.”

“Already working on a simplified guide,” Jack said, pulling out a sheaf of papers covered in his neat handwriting. “Any competent [Healer] should be able to administer the cure with minimal instruction.”

“Jack, do you realize what this means?”

Jack’s expression turned serious. He shrugged. “It’s a start, my lord. But the crystal plague is just one of the problems we’re facing. The Night Whispers, the political unrest due to the enclosed market... there’s still so much to do.”

“One step at a time,” Ethan said, reaching across the desk to clasp Jack’s shoulder. “This cure... it’s hope. And in times of desperation, like right now, that’s what people need more than anything.”

They spent the next hour discussing distribution plans, potential challenges, and strategies for getting the cure to those who needed it most. As they talked, Ethan couldn’t help but think about it. How far they’d come, he hummed. How far he’d come. From a spoiled prince to... this. Making real change, saving lives.

Well, was it really him—the spoiled prince part?

Ethan sighed... it’s long overdue. Well, I am Theodore now, no running from that. Whatever he did, it’s part of me now. I need to live with that, not run away from it.

Ethan—no, Theodore ended the meeting with Jack. He needed time to himself. Jack nodded and walked off, but he paused at the door. “Oh, I almost forgot. Good luck with the soap competition tomorrow. Though I doubt you’ll need it.”

Theodore chuckled. “Don’t be too sure. There are some formidable competitors out there.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “True. But they don’t have what you have.”

“And what’s that?”

“The ability to see beyond the soap,” Jack said with a knowing smile. “You’re not just competing, my lord, are you? Isn’t this just a ploy for marketing?”

With that, he slipped out, leaving Theodore alone with his thoughts.

***

The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, as if the heavens themselves were smiling upon Holden. From the early hours of the morning, the town square was abuzz with activity. Stalls were erected, judges’ tables were set up, and people talked amongst themselves.

Competitors from all over the region began to arrive, carrying their precious soaps and closely-guarded secret recipes. Old Man Giles from Westford, his white beard neatly trimmed for the occasion, set up his stall with the confidence of a man who had been making soap since before most of the other competitors were born. Widow Mabel from Corinth, her keen eyes taking in every detail of her rivals’ preparations, methodically arranged her display of colorful, fragrant soaps.

Most important of all, were the soapmakers of the Merchants Guild.

The morning wore on—more and more spectators began to gather. Children darted between the stalls, their laughter mingling with the serious discussions of the adults. Merchants from the Montague Merchants Guild and the Merchants Guild, resplendent in their fine clothes, strolled through the square.

This wasn’t just a local event anymore; it had the potential to shape the future of trade in the region.

Then there was the scents of countless soaps mingling—floral, herbal, earthy, and some that defied description. Each competitor had brought their finest creations, hoping to catch the judges’ eyes and the public’s favor.

The appointed time drew near, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned towards the castle, waiting for the arrival of Lord Theodore.

Whispers rippled through the gathering:

“Do you think he’ll really compete?”

“I heard his soap is made with magic!”

“Nonsense, it’s just cleverness and a bit of luck.”

“Well, we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

The tension mounted as the minutes ticked by. Then, just as the suspense was becoming unbearable, a figure appeared at the edge of the square. Lord Theodore, flanked by his ever-present guard Roland, strode confidently towards the competition grounds.

A murmur went through the crowd. Some cheered, others watched with skeptical eyes. But all were curious to see what the young lord would bring to this contest of skill and tradition.

As Theodore took his place among the other competitors, the chief judge stepped forward, raising his hands for silence.

The Great Soap-Off was about to begin, and history was waiting to be made.

And whoever won would be the one to write it.