S-rank.

Even now, I knew little and cared less about the outlandishness of those who insisted on slapping a rank onto every little thing they did. Opening a door? D-rank. Failing a curtsey? A-rank. Sneezing in a polite manner? F-rank.

If it existed, there was a way to measure it. It was the favoured hobby of brigands, strategists and the bored.

But most of all—adventurers.

And amongst them all, there was one rank which they held above all others.

The one deemed so impressive that not even a princess in her tower could escape from the wild murmurs about it. And now it had been assigned to me.

In a common shop.

By a receptionist showing the same professional smile she offered to brand new adventurers.

Just like that.

Yes … it was a disgrace!

Here was a rank which symbolised the full eccentricity behind the Adventurer's Guild!

A lauded reward given to those who accidentally rescued the most cats by virtue of not loitering all day in the bottom of a wine barrel! For such stunning abstinence, I was now deemed worthy of their most sober honour! … And all without the least bit of formality or gloating!

That’s right!

I had to create my own carpet of poorly spun dresses!

Why, the fact that the Adventurer's Guild saw fit to assign this rank to me with such nonchalance was like being casually insulted by the passing squawk of a Reitzlake gull!

Not only was it an affront … but there wasn't even any spite behind it!

To drop such a humiliation upon me without even an echo chamber of drunken laughter and sniggering receptionists as they saw their schemes come to fruition was more than an opportunity missed! It was a mandatory requirement ignored!

Thus … I refused to acknowledge it!

Yes, just like the maids who tried to eject me from my bed.

It was as simple as that.

S-rank? This was utterly irrelevant. I was princess rank.

What care did I, Juliette Contzen, have for the quirks of commoners?

If rowdy peasants in inns could regularly name every passing barmaid the fairest of them all, then so could an organisation of wandering drunks assign me whatever rank they mistakenly deemed an accolade.

My current status as masterfully incognito was a result of convenience only. I would be rid of it the moment I'd returned home. And with a deeply treasured artifact atop all else that was already promised to me, I was now well on my way to fully funding my guild replacement programme.

Indeed … I was now one step closer to my goal!

All endeavours required sacrifice. In this case, that was a smidgeon of time as I rolled my eyes.

That I was willing to endure this to see every adventurer replaced by handpicked lackeys and fluffy chihuahuas was proof that I was a princess of the people. And just like the straightness of my hair, I would neither err nor stray from my royal task.

That's why—

“Absolutely not!!”

My eyes snapped open.

What I saw immediately made them want to close again. Because far from the comforts of my bedroom, I saw instead the pale moonlight filtering through the clouds upon a town square. A somewhat puzzling sight which made me question if I was even awake.

… But no matter!

I refused to be cowed by the desperation of a guild hoping my humiliation would see me defeated before my enduring will.

Thus, I clenched my fists as I instantly rose … and then fell back down again!

Because there, sitting upon my lap, was the largest cat I'd ever seen.

Most likely since it wasn't a cat.

It was a dire panther.

“Mrrowwrh?”

I blinked … and it blinked back.

Sleek, dark fur. Large golden eyes. A glossy nose. Springy whiskers. And paws boasting claws only slightly less sharp than the fangs which revealed themselves as it peeked up at me.

Yes.

I was deeply confused.

As a soft breeze tussled my hair, I rubbed my eyes, helping to shoo away the fatigue from everywhere except my legs. However, that wasn't just because there was a large predator lounging upon the most delicate pillow it would ever experience.

It was instead because I was sitting on the least appropriate seat available.

The hard ground.

I peered around me … then found my ancestor, Prince Earlan the Stout, whose marble shin was very much as durable as his name would suggest. A calming, if rigid presence against my lower back. And also one of the few present to see my disorientation.

The marketplace had been emptied.

The lines of curious goblins and their sacks of ill-gotten gain were now gone, leaving only confusion and normal sized ledgers in their wake. Here and there, a few stallkeepers looked up in vain as they packed up their wares before returning with the dawn.

They'd likely enjoy a short day.

After all, the goblins were doubtless already gone—either to their matrons to begin the complaints process against the Adventurer's Guild, or to the start of a new venture culminating in a sinister castle.

In fact, only a single vendor still boasted a brisk business.

After all—

“Omnomonomonomom~”

He only needed a single customer.

Behind a familiar cart was a satisfied halfling.

However, no matter how pleased his smile was, it was little compared to the happiness of a certain clockwork doll, her mouth stuffed like a squirrel full of acorns and thus someone I had no association with.

“What do you think?” he said to the famished maiden, whose puffed cheeks slightly resembled Coppelia. “Not bad, huh? Goblin tastes with halfling ingenuity. A strange combination, but we've collaborated on stranger ventures.”

After a moment, the cheeks returned to normal as all the acorns went down.

Ah. It really was Coppelia.

What a relief. As bountiful as my kingdom was, no harvest was sufficient for two of her. Especially since this halfling was doubtless more than willing to burn through our granaries using only his cart.

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“Amazing!” she said, holding out her palms for more. “You need to sell this to the goblins too!”

The halfling chuckled.

Using a pair of tongs, he dipped into his pot and retrieved a pair of golden, round shaped … things. The aroma of something deeply unhealthy filled the air of a clear spring evening.

He dropped one onto Coppelia's waiting palm.

The other, he offered towards my direction.

“Ah, I see our sleeping maiden has awoken,” he said cheerfully, shaking the thing waiting at the end of his tongs. “Weary day, I take it?”

The dire panther stretched and opened its mouth.

The halfling obliged by tossing the food sparkling with a golden sheen straight into its jaws. Barely a second later, the large feline returned to its lounging state upon my lap.

I poked at the dire panther.

It didn't move, and so I began to rub its sides instead. This was my life now.

“My days are weary by profession,” I answered, doing my best to at least shuffle my position. “Nor are my evenings spared, either. Especially since I'm sitting on the ground … while something’s sitting on me.”

For a moment, I considered asking why I would be lying against a statue in the middle of a town square as if I'd been carried and then suddenly abandoned.

Then, I watched as Coppelia's cheeks slowly expanded … and all my questions were answered.

Yes.

There were many mysteries in the world. But why a princess would find herself forgotten when the magical cart of happiness came was not one of them.

“My apologies for the cat,” said the halfling, drawing nothing more than a low purr from the large creature in question. “Personal space, I'm afraid, is an unfamiliar thing to her. Little of that can be found in the great outdoors.”

“Then I envy that cat. Little of it is found indoors as well. But at least escape is more likely.”

“True. I wouldn't be in the business of damaging the taste buds of all who came across me if I couldn't make myself scarce afterwards.”

The halfling paused to study the remains of a busy marketplace, before dipping his tongs into his pot once more.

“A shame that won't be an issue this time. I believe I arrived just too late to introduce myself to goblins. And there goes my next great plan. But good news—I now have extra stock. You must be famished. Allow me to offer my newest invention. On the house.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering if every helping of this new invention Coppelia had sampled was on the house as well.

I decided I’d let her find out.

“What is it … ?” I asked, as curious as I was fretful.

The halfling smiled with confidence even as his pot began to shake.

“Joy in breadcrumbed form. The life we of the road choose to lead is hard. But while I cannot offer to take away the weight of a dire panther sitting on your lap, I can at least offer some respite for your stomach. Would you like to try?”

Out came the tongs, squeezing something which was likely as nourishing as the missing napkins.

The halfling politely walked over and offered it above the dire panther. The feline gave a flick of a tail, but opted to let me experience the remorse which was everything which came from this dangerous cart.

My hand did nothing but treasonously reach out to accept.

“You … You said it was designed for goblin tastes … what does that mean, exactly?”

“I mean it's an opportunity for new markets gone begging. After all, it's a moss cake.”

“A moss cake?!”

I was aghast.

Why, I hadn't even eaten a regular moss cake!

For one thing, I had no idea what that was ... and looking at the thing layered in breadcrumbs like a pigeon's royal banquet, I still didn't!

“A moss cake with a twist,” insisted the halfling. “It’s coated in a layer of spicy breadcrumbs, filled with goat's cheese, a whole tomato slice and a dose of my secret seasoning.”

I felt dishonoured just hearing it.

A moss cake. Here was a thing so inappropriate for a princess's palate that it would not even be mentioned near the Royal Villa. A thing clearly smothered in grease, boasting nothing but a fine breadcrumbed surface, a squishy and moist bounce, the scent of melted cheese and the warm steam rising invitingly in the night.

I swallowed a gulp as memories assailed me.

“You need to try it,” said Coppelia between rare mouthfuls. “Trust me, you'll never think of moss the same way again!”

“This … This isn't actually moss, is it … ?”

“It's goblin spinach.”

Coppelia turned towards the halfling. She stared.

“It's goblin spinach,” he agreed after a pause.

My lips quivered.

Eventually, however, I gathered myself with a deep breath and shook my head.

“I see … my apologies, Sir Halfling, but I regret I must decline. I’ve a reputation as an implacable gourmand to uphold, and while I accept your usual fare is created to exceptional standards, not even creativity can save a moss cake. This is far too exotic for my delicate palate. I simply cannot allow myself to enjoy something which is clearly om nom nom nom nom sooooo good … ?!”

It happened again!

The spell of bewitchment!

“Great, huh?” said Coppelia, her gluttonous delight half the spellwork. “It’s crunchy with a soft interior!”

I rapidly shook my head … all the while I continued to chew.

Salty. Greasy. Coarse. Heavy.

Yet again, my delicate taste buds, nurtured by a strict diet of strawberry shortcakes in the middle of the night, were now being lost amidst a portable, bitesize and handheld fondue of melted cheese.

… It was genius! But also terrible!

“W-Why does this not result in revulsion?!”

“Magic,” said the halfling, holding up his palms. “But not the type any mage can do. Want another? I've plenty of leftovers.”

I looked towards the tongs being invited back into the pot.

All I saw were my princess points dwindling by as much as 0.01%. I shook my head once more.

“Thank you, but I shall pass. I fear this isn’t good for my station … or constitution.”

“Exactly,” said Coppelia much to my surprise. “Moss cakes are a snack. You can't have too many or it'll ruin the main thing. Speaking of which, where are the sandwich melts?”

“Ah.” The halfling's smile dipped. “I'm afraid I've no ingredients for sandwich melts.”

Coppelia gasped.

I'd never seen her look so betrayed. Not even when I once stole the nice pillow from her.

“That's awful! … Want me to get you a cow? Because I can get you a cow.”

“No, uh, I don't need a cow. It's actually the brioche I'm missing.”

“Got it! What do you want me to kill?”

“For brioche? Whoever governs bad luck, I suppose. It's nothing you or I can do. Marinsgarde has much to offer, but not in the way of fresh stock to put inside my cart.”

I offered the look of confusion that deserved.

“Excuse me? Is there some sort of food shortage in Marinsgarde?”

“Of brioche ingredients? Sure. Can't find a slab of butter to save my life. Eggs aren't much easier to find and sugar has gone the way of the golden moose.”

I gasped in horror.

“There's a shortage of butter, eggs and sugar? … But those are the constituent ingredients for cake! How … How does anyone not starve?”

The halfling chuckled.

He stopped when he saw my distressed expression.

“Uh, well, other things are still available, so I wouldn't worry. Just a few luxuries is all. Besides, the people here have moss cakes. And normal ones are fairly frugal to make.”

“That is hardly an excuse! Have the traders forgotten to barter with those other than goblins?”

“I’d say it’s most likely that many traders never arrived. The Wessin Bridge is closed.”

I was shocked.

The Wessin Bridge guarded the estuary into Reitzlake. While its primary function was to defend the river passage, the bridge itself connected the northern and southern halves of the coastline. It was the span which connected Wirtzhaven and Trierport on either side.

And it was never closed.

“Why would that be? Did a warship try to invade the royal capital and crash into it?”

“Oh, it's nothing like that. It's just blocked because of the locals.”

I raised my arms in exasperation. A dire panther shifted, demanding to be rubbed again. I duly obliged.

“That's a terrible place to loiter! Why can't they do that in an inn?”

“Well, uh, I don't think they're loitering.”

“No? What are they doing, then?”

“Last I heard, they were protesting.”

I could do nothing but stare … all the while my mouth slowly widened.

“Excuse me? What do you mean by … ‘protesting’?”

“Well, I mean what I mean? They're airing their grievances.”

“Who is? The local peasantry? The farmers?” My hand slowly covered my mouth. “... A peppy farmer, perhaps, freckled, muddy, barely older than I am and wielding a pitchfork?”

“I, uh, can't really say. I haven't been there. But most protests involve farmers. And sometimes they can be peppy, freckled and muddy. Occasionally they might have pitchforks as well.”

My lips were suddenly very dry.

“… And what are they protesting against, exactly?”

“Well, the usual, I imagine. The lack of security, the cost of goods, the wealth of the royal–”

The halfling paused, suddenly becoming very still.

“But I wouldn't overly worry,” he suddenly said with a breezy smile. “It's just been a rough few months, what with all the mess in the royal capital, the poor harvest, the pirates and then the sky turning black. Then there's all the usual problems. Wolves, thieves and rogue fruit slimes. I'm sure it'll pass once everyone feels more assured. It’s not like it’s a rebellion.”

The halfling continued his smile as he awaited my reply.

After a moment, he turned to Coppelia.

“... Is she okay?”

“Hm? Oh, she's fine.”

“Are you sure? She's just staring. Blankly.”

“Mmh~ it's what happens when fainting isn't enough. Hey, can we have some moss cakes to go? I think she'll need them.”