Sophia Elise the Eighth only manages to secure three donuts with her free right hand, with the left currently occupied by a glass flute filled to the brim with seltzer fruit juice. A far cry from an actual dinner (the time was 8:00 p.m. now, the usual dinner time assuming she didn’t skip it), and in fact, some of the court physicians probably would argue that this is quite the opposite of a meal.

Hey, this is our day and we deserve to celebrate it in whichever way we want to! She proudly declares to herself.

Another part of her brain scoffs. Yeah… finding a man could always come later, after all.

Nestled between the far pillar of the northern wing of the Grand Ballroom was this small interstitial space she now finds herself in. Once used as a secondary access for servants and servers traveling from the main kitchen, recent renovations in a decade prior had turned this into a null cranny that runs into a barely used spice pantry.

It’s dark, quiet, and most importantly partially hidden from the rest of the Grand Ballroom through its drab marble coloration and curving architectural design. To find anyone here would take a level of concerted effort most half-drunk suitors and panicking siblings could barely produce, and from her own experience this is the perfect hiding spot to do whatever one wanted to do without harassment.

The Princess transforms into something horrible, terrifying, from that cold grace and incalculable presence comes a monster ripping itself out of its cage.

She quietly slips out of those terrible enamel slippers, cursing as her feet touch the cold marble tile of the floor. A ceramic dress resounding with a series of objecting clicks as she half-falls onto the ground with her back against the wall, the smoothed shards of organized material forced silent beneath her bottom.

With the streaming lines of light falling from the distant entrance she observes the scattering of colors from the sugary glaze atop the stack of liberated donuts. Like a jeweler polishing a brilliant amethyst, Sophia wallows in the thickness in each of them, appreciating the craftsmanship in each of the three different flavors. The first half coated richly in chocolate, the glaze offering a polished sheen to the darkness like stars across the galactic belt. The other is flavored in a light pink strawberry, like a lover’s virgin skin awaiting the caress of their partner. And the last is just in its most basic, perfect form. Like the Goddess’ pure love for all of humanity, a vast emotion so deep that it drove her to betray her own kind. Princess Sophia bites her lower lip as she watches the white sugar glaze start to melt in the presence of her body temperature, begging to be consumed with haste.

Happy 21st, Sophia. She wishes happily, to all her selves and nonexistent friends. Happy birthday… Sophia Elise.

She eats like an animal.

Like a starving child in a famine she consumes the three pastries without any manners, any sense of tact. Stuffing the bites of sugar into that gaping maw, barely chewing before swallowing them whole. Any threat of choking on their delicate, doughy structures washed down with a torrent of carbonized fruit juice. Crumbs escaping her genocide savagely picked up by her delicate fingers and thrown right back into the grinder, an extermination so complete that she even begins to lick her fingers clean of any remaining glaze and flavorings.

Delicious, wonderful, lovely. Life is so…

The royal lineage inside her senses something, warning her of extreme danger on fast approach to her right periphery.

A small, timid squeak is let out from something… someone deeper within the relative darkness of the null space. Unnoticed before in the past minute, but now as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit space she sees the completely still, frozen in place form of someone sitting in the dark.

Princess Sophia Elise the Eighth, Fourth of the Ensolian Imperium, daughter of Empress Annia, Duchess of the Reichlands, Supreme Commandant of the Fourth Legionnaires sits like a murderer caught with a bloody knife. Frozen, tongue still hanging in the half-lick of a droplet of glaze stuck on her ring finger, her pale blue eyes locking with those of a foreign black.

It has to be a servant. It has to be a young man eschewing his duties to the crown, hiding away in her space (after all, a servant would probably be the one to know where to hide in this labyrinthine maze of a structure). And such a situation is not exactly foreign to the employed workers of the royal family, Sophia’s own personal at-home brand of living an open secret amongst the most well paid, and well-fed workforce in the Imperium.

But it’s not a servant or simple worker, Sophia hastily concludes with overwhelming panic.

A formal uniform robe of black wool, too well tailored for a simple common worker, inlaid with barely reflective metal foils and adorned with a thin gold chain that runs from the upper… shoulder(?) down to his thin waist. She barely makes out the features of the young man, his fair skin and dark hair matching that with possibly a foreign kingdom (or some of the mixed ethnicities of the south Reichlands), while his tall and thin body tells the tale of a lowly noble son of some province to the eastern Ensolian Belt.

The critical few seconds pass as they just stare down each other in complete silence, the background sounds of both mingling guests and the ambient string quartet almost adding to the incredible awkwardness of the situation.

A long and very loud carbonized burp from her stomach seals the deal.

Yeah, we’re cooked, Sophia’s conscious committee informs her.

Far too late now for a poisoned quip or witty statement, or even his escape; with Sophia’s long, extended legs blocking the only source of egress this social encounter is forced upon these two whether they liked it or not.

“H-h-h…” The Fourth Princess of the Imperium was never good at formal, self-proctored introductions, especially to those who weren’t tutors, parents, siblings, or close relatives—especially when caught with the figurative murder weapon and copped out bodies.

Luckily, he spares her the humiliation, a gentle, unserious voice instead offers to a connected acquaintance rather than a stranger. Thin accent placing him foreign, yet close enough to share the same dialectic language. “You ate that fast, you must’ve been hungry.”

Thank the Goddess.

Sophia quickly retracts her tongue, choosing instead to wipe whatever remaining debris on her fingers onto her utterly non-absorbent ceramic dress. “I was,” she quickly, quietly answers, replacing a nervous embarrassment with an incorrectly pointed pride.

He chuckles at her cold statement. “Well, it’s good to eat when you’re hungry. I understand; it’s hard to eat…graciously at a public function.”

“It is,” Sophia instinctively answers him, with her brain and soul suddenly putting together a functional sentence and statement. “It’s a dinner party, so why would they not serve dinner?”

Sophia curses herself as she processes the sentence as it comes out of her mouth. Why does everything always come down to food with us?

The young man follows her sentiment perfectly with a small chuckle. “I came to this function expecting to be fed, really.”

“I as well,” Sophia replies, literally lying to his face.

He continues on his tirade. “I hear the food in Capital is famous for having a bit of everything bordering the Stygian Sea. The Amorian cuisine here is, from what the travel guides say, the closest you’ll get to the authentic thing. Still have to try it, assuming I can find time to.”

Sophia hated Amorain food; it was far too grainy and slimy in its disgusting eel, gelatin, and coarsely ground wheat bases.

Something—she assumes the Goddess herself—takes over her thought processes as it attempts to salvage this disastrous conversation. Respond quickly, match the pace of the conversation.

Alright. Sophia tries not to panic. Our favorite kind of ethnic food is:

She dismissively waves. “I much prefer Tiancin food.”

Silence.

The hells was that?! You do remember that Tianci is fresh out of a famine right?! The thought objects. And worse, are we gonna expand on that statement or not?!

He chuckles. “Very rare that anyone of significant nobility enjoys Tiancin Cuisine. Especially after…the past few years.”

“Of course. On the rare occasion that I do have the chance to eat it it’s quite a treat,” she continues mindlessly.

“Is it because it's novel here, or is it bec—”

Sophia interrupts, it’s bad manners but she couldn’t care less. “—Maybe. In the Ensolian Belt it’s very rare we have anything spicy. It’s mostly just sweet, sour, or salty. But my father makes the greatest huoluo ever, and he says it's a family recipe from grandfather!”

Sophia tries not to salivate at her mental imagery: a stew with broth redder than rust, strips of beef-steak braised to perfection and vegetables thankfully boiled to an indistinguishable mush—spicy enough to make even the iron-palette of Naomi Elise recoil at the first sip and foreign enough to make the rest raise eyebrows whenever it's set on the family table.

More for us to enjoy, a thought process reminisces. Oh how we’ve missed Father since he departed to Amoria two weeks ago.

Oh yeah. Another thought brings this young woman’s brain to a completely unrelated subject. Can’t imagine he’s quite happy with missing our coming of age…

The voice from the darkness snaps her back to reality. “So you’re the type to enjoy spicy foods?”

The question catches her off guard, the young woman taking the time to really think about her own personal tastes. “I suppose so. But I doubt any of the Tiancin things I’ve eaten have been truly authentic as you have put it.”

She hears the line of thought clicking its tongue. Firstly, we just said that dad’s recipe is authentic. Also, we’re lying; one of the oldest cooks in our family’s employ is Tiancin; she sneaks us a bundle of Tianci almond cookies whenever she makes them.

Sophia Elise the Eighth what are you doing right now? Get it together.

She continues off her own point, a nervous smile as she starts to panic. “But it’s good to keep an open mind.”

“I suppose it is.” The young man’s response is poignant, held with wisdom.

And held in silence, the conversation immediately fizzling out at the end of his words

But there’s still a gaze upon her, something in his lingering eyes hidden in the dark that lets this silence stretch—heavy, uncomfortable, like the churning of an ocean before a storm.

Sophia counts each second in her head, stomach turning with four donuts, an entire flute of seltzer, and quiet dread.