People talked, as they always did. It did not stop. The town square of Holden was buzzing with anticipation as the chief judge raised his hands, silencing the crowd. His voice, amplified by some contraption, rang out clear and strong.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Great Soap-Off!” he announced, eliciting cheers from the spectators. “Today, we witness the clash of tradition and innovation, experience and ingenuity. Let the competition begin!”

At his signal, the soapmakers sprang into action. The air filled with the clatter of utensils, the sloshing of liquids, and the sharp scents of various ingredients.

Old Man Giles began mixing his tried-and-true recipe. His movements were sure. Nearby spectators watched in awe, murmuring.

“Look at him go,” whispered a young apprentice to his master. “They say his soap can soften the roughest hands in just one wash.”

The master nodded sagely. “Aye, and it should. Giles has been making soap since before your parents were born. Lord Theodore might have his fancy new methods, but there’s no substitute for experience.”

Across the square, Widow Mabel from Corinth was not falling behind. Her table was a riot of colors, and she worked with a fierce intensity.

“Now there’s a true artisan,” remarked a well-dressed merchant to his companion. “I’ve used Mabel’s soaps for years. They say she knows secrets of soapmaking passed down from the elves themselves.”

His friend scoffed. “Elves? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just good, honest craftsmanship. Not like that newfangled stuff Lord Theodore’s peddling.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it,” the merchant replied. “Have you tried his soap? It’s... different. Special.”

***

Meanwhile, at his station, Theodore worked with focus. Unlike the other competitors, who guarded their processes jealously, Theodore worked openly, and allowed any curious onlookers to observe his methods.

A group of young women watched him, giggling and whispering among themselves.

“He’s so handsome,” one sighed, and Theodore rolled his eyes. Hormones. “And so clever with his hands.”

“Clever, yes,” another agreed, “but do you really think he can compete with real soapmakers? He’s just a lord playing at crafts.”

An older woman nearby overheard and interjected, “Don’t underestimate him, girls. I’ve used his soap, and let me tell you, it’s something special. My joints haven’t felt this good in years.”

The girls exchanged skeptical glances but continued to watch, intrigued despite themselves.

This is embarrassing... Theodore thought. You know I can hear you, right? Why not move somewhere else and let me work!

***

As the competition progressed, hours went by. A lot of people in the audience got bored and simply left. Judges moved from station to station, observing techniques, asking questions, and making notes on their parchments.

Roland, standing at attention near Theodore’s station, couldn’t help but swell with pride as he watched his charge work. He overheard two guards from neighboring towns discussing the competition.

“Look at Lord Theodore,” one said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who would have thought a noble would get his hands dirty like that?”

The other guard chuckled. “I heard he was a right prat when he first came here. Seems Holden’s changed him.”

Roland smiled to himself. If only they knew the half of it.

“Sir Roland,” Leto called him, and he excused himself, walking behind the young man as he led him to Sir Thomas.

“We have a lead,” Sir Thomas said, and Roland’s face turned grim.

***

In a corner of the square, the soapmakers from the Merchant Guild had set up their own elaborate station. Their setup was efficient, to say the least, with multiple artisans working in perfect synchronization.

The Guildmaster supervised the operation with a keen eye. He noticed a group of merchants from rival guilds watching their progress with undisguised interest.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said the Guildmaster, unable to resist a bit of showmanship.

One of the rival merchants snorted. “Impressive? That’s a bold claim.”

“Why don’t we let the judges decide? After all, the proof is in the lather, as they say.”

As the rival merchants moved on, grumbling among themselves, the Guildmaster turned back to his team. They were good—the best soapmakers. But his eyes kept drifting to Lord Theodore’s station. There was something about the young lord’s methods that intrigued him. Innovation, yes, but also a deep understanding of the craft that belied his years.

Well, it’s a win-win.

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He repressed a small grin

***

Hours passed by and the initial excitement gave way to a tense focus. Each soapmaker was deep in their craft, knowing that every detail could make the difference between victory and defeat.

Near the judges’ table, a group of local nobles had gathered, their fine clothes standing out among the more practical attire of the townspeople.

“I still can’t believe Theodore is actually competing,” one lady said, her voice a mixture of amusement and disdain. “It’s hardly befitting a man of his station.”

A portly lord nodded in agreement. “Indeed. In my day, nobles sponsored craftsmen; we didn’t lower ourselves to manual labor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” interjected a younger noble, his eyes fixed on Theodore’s workstation. “There’s something admirable about it, don’t you think? A lord who’s not afraid to work alongside his people.”

The lady sniffed disapprovingly. “Admirable? Perhaps. But it’s not how things are done. Mark my words, this... experiment of his will end in embarrassment.”

In the people of Holden, opinions were divided—some nodding in agreement with the nobles’ criticisms, others bristling at the dismissal of their lord’s efforts.

***

At the edge of the square, partially hidden in the shadow of a large oak tree, stood a hooded figure. His eyes darted from competitor to competitor before fixing on Theodore’s station.

This was the moment he had been waiting for. Months of planning, of infiltrating Holden’s defenses, all leading to this opportunity.

Well, the opportunity would have been different had it not been for that old coot—Montague. The Night Whispers had been patient, biding their time as Theodore’s influence grew. But no longer. Today, they would strike a blow that would shake the young lord’s confidence and undermine his growing power.

The hooded man’s hand dipped into his cloak, fingers closing around a small vial. Its contents, a carefully concocted mixture of herbs and minerals, would ruin any soap it touched. One drop in Theodore’s mixture, and his prized creation would be worse than useless—it would be harmful.

He began to move, weaving through the crowd. This close, he could see the concentration on the young lord’s face, the careful precision of his movements. For a moment, the hooded man felt a twinge of... was it admiration? Regret? He pushed the feeling aside. He had a job to do.

Just a few more steps. His fingers tightened around the vial. The crowd’s noise faded to a dull roar in his ears. This was it. This was—

“Excuse me, sir,” a firm voice cut through his focus. A hand gripped his arm, and he found himself face to face with one of the town guards. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back. No unauthorized personnel near the competitors.”

The hooded man froze. He could break free, make a run for it. But that would cause a scene, draw attention. More importantly, reveal his identity.

No, better to retreat, to find another opportunity.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, allowing the guard to lead him away. “My apologies. I was simply trying to get a better view.”

As the guard escorted him back to the spectator area, the hooded man’s eyes never left Theodore’s station, grinding his teeth.

***

Back at the competition floor, oblivious to the narrowly averted sabotage, Theodore was in his element. His hands moved with practiced ease, measuring, mixing, stirring. But it was his mind that truly shone, calculating ratios, adjusting for ambient temperature and humidity, making split-second decisions that could mean the difference between good soap and great soap.

He was aware of the eyes on him—some curious, some skeptical, some outright hostile. But he paid them no mind. His focus was entirely on the task at hand.

“Time!” The chief judge’s voice rang out, cutting through Theodore’s reverie. “Step away from your stations. The soap-making portion of the competition is now complete.”

A collective exhale seemed to sweep through the square. Competitors stepped back, some looking confident, others nervous. The spectators, who had been watching in rapt silence, burst into excited chatter.

Theodore wiped his brow. He had done his best. But would it be enough?

The judges began their rounds, carefully examining each competitor’s soap. Old Man Giles stood proudly by his traditional creation, while Widow Mabel nervously adjusted the display of her colorful, fragrant soaps. The Merchants Guild’s team huddled together, whispering and casting glances at their rivals.

Theodore stood alone, watching the judges’ reactions as they moved from station to station. He caught snippets of their comments:

“Interesting texture...”

“Unusual scent combination...”

“Traditional, but well-executed...”

When they reached his station, Theodore straightened, ready to answer any questions. The lead judge, a stern-faced woman with streaks of grey in her hair, picked up one of his soap bars, turning it over in her hands.

“Unusual consistency,” she murmured, her tone giving nothing away. “And the scent... lavender and... something else I can’t quite place.”

“Chamomile,” Theodore supplied. “With a touch of eucalyptus.”

The judge raised an eyebrow but said nothing, making a note on her parchment before moving on.

As the judges completed their rounds, the spectators began to speculate wildly. Opinions flew back and forth:

“Did you see Old Man Giles’ soap? Smooth as silk, I’ll wager.”

“Widow Mabel’s looked nice, but can it compare to Lord Theodore’s?”

“The Merchants Guild’s soap looked impressive, but is it really better than the traditional methods?”

The chief judge stepped forward once again. The crowd fell silent, all eyes fixed on him as he unrolled a scroll.

“After careful deliberation,” he began, his voice carrying across the hushed gathering, “we have reached a decision. The winners of the Great Soap-Off are...”

Theodore found himself holding his breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

“In third place,” the judge announced, “with their innovative blend of traditional techniques and modern scents... Widow Mabel of Corinth!”

A cheer went up from the crowd as Widow Mabel stepped forward, her face beaming with pride. She accepted a small trophy and a purse of coins, waving to her supporters.

“In second place,” the judge continued once the applause had died down, “demonstrating exceptional skill and consistency... the Merchants Guild!”

Another round of applause, louder this time. The Guildmaster stepped forward to accept the prize, his chest puffed out with pride. He shot a glance at Theodore.

The square fell silent once more as everyone waited for the announcement of the first-place winner.

The chief judge cleared his throat. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The winner of the Great Soap-Off, demonstrating unprecedented innovation, quality, and potential for positive impact...”

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the crowd before settling on Theodore.

“Lord Theodore of Holden!”

For a moment, the square was utterly silent. Then, as if a dam had burst, the crowd erupted into cheers, applause, and not a few shocked exclamations.

Theodore nodded. Expected.

Turning his head to look at the Merchant Guild, his eyes turned cold.