The scent of damp earth and rotting flowers clung to the air, thick and suffocating beneath the skeletal arches of the Marrow Court. Rain, a perpetual feature of Miroslavia, lashed against the stained-glass windows depicting a snarling leviathan, its scales like obsidian shards. Sabina Vladescu, or rather, the body she now inhabited, shivered. Not from fear, but from the bone-deep chill that had seeped into her through layers of heavy velvet and somber lace. A funeral. Right. Some distant cousin, lost to the ‘Crimson Blight,’ which was Miroslavian parlance for Queen Oana’s latest purge. Her head throbbed. The last thing she remembered was a disastrous catering emergency—a spilled truffle oil vinaigrette moments before a Michelin inspector arrived. Now, this. Her stomach rumbled, a stark counterpoint to the mournful wail of the court mourners, their faces contorted into theatrical masks of grief. Sabina found herself eyeing the lavish funeral feast laid out on a table draped in funereal black, a veritable mountain of roasted meats and rich pastries. Even in this state, her professional eye noted the abysmal food safety practices: cold platters of shellfish left exposed, a brazen disregard for proper temperature control. Then, the voice. A voice like frozen silk, cutting through the dirge. Queen Oana. Her presence alone seemed to drain the last vestiges of warmth from the cavernous hall. “A day of sorrow,” Oana intoned, her gaze sweeping over the assembled aristocrats, lingering for a fraction too long on Sabina, “yet, from the ashes of grief, new bonds must form. To secure the future of our noble lines, I hereby announce the betrothal of Lady Sabina Vladescu to Prince Gavril.” Sabina recognized the script instantly. The fog in her mind cleared, replaced by a horrifyingly vivid recollection of a dog-eared paperback. *Requiem for the Eclipse*. This was it. The grimdark fantasy novel she’d half-read on a red-eye flight, whose villainess, Lady Sabina Vladescu, was summarily executed by the starved, vengeful illegitimate prince, Gavril. This wasn’t a betrothal; it was a public execution sentence, a slow, humiliating death for both of them. Oana’s cruel smile, a flash of white teeth in her painted face, confirmed it. This was the opening scene. This was the moment the book’s Sabina had crumpled, humiliated, and vowed petty revenge, sealing her own fate. The court’s reaction was a symphony of sneers, whispers, and barely concealed glee. They had always despised the Vladescus for their vast, unearned wealth and low-born origins. Now, to be shackled to the cursed, illegitimate prince, practically a ghost haunting the palace’s coldest tower—it was the ultimate disgrace. Let them sneer. Their petty judgments were nothing compared to the apocalyptic future she now faced. Sabina’s gaze, cool and assessing, swept past the sneering faces to the edge of the hall. There, hunched by a drafty pillar, stood her new fiancé. Prince Gavril. He was as she remembered from the novel’s illustrations: a wisp of a boy, all sharp angles and shadowed eyes, his dark hair falling over a face so gaunt it looked sculpted from bone. He was glaring, a raw, untamed fury simmering beneath his frail exterior. The book had mentioned his perpetually empty stomach, a hunger that would eventually twist him into the Lord of Ash, unleashing spectral beasts to devour everything in his path, starting with the Vladescu family. The source of his hatred? His mother’s murder, orchestrated by Queen Oana, and the Vladescus’ complicity. Her eyes narrowed. Starvation was an operational failure. And Sabina Vladescu, former culinary manager, knew how to manage crises. Her gaze fell on the funeral feast again. Specifically, on a heavy, cast-iron pot nestled amongst the silver tureens, steam still curling lazily from its lid. Spiced duck stew. Rich, aromatic, packed with nutrients. Exactly what a perpetually malnourished, soon-to-be world-ending prince needed. Without a word, Sabina strode towards the table, her heavy velvet gown rustling. She ignored the startled gasps, the sudden hush that fell over the mourners. With a grunt, she wrapped a gloved hand around the pot’s handle. It was heavier than it looked, but the iron felt familiar, grounding. A good, solid piece of cookware. A wooden spoon, thick and sturdy, was tucked into a nearby basket. She grabbed that too. Clutching the pot and spoon like weapons, Sabina turned, her gaze fixed on Gavril. She marched, a singular, determined figure moving through a sea of bewildered aristocrats. Her heels clicked a rhythmic beat against the polished stone floor, each step a declaration. The court watched, frozen, as the newly betrothed villainess ignored all decorum, all custom, and stalked towards the boy prince with a steaming pot of stew. Gavril’s glare intensified as she approached, his eyes narrowing to slits. He was thin, so thin his robes seemed to swallow him whole. His hands, bony and pale, were clenched at his sides. As Sabina stopped before him, the flickering torchlight in the hall seemed to dim, swallowed by a strange, formless shadow that emanated from him. A chill, colder than the Miroslavian rain, prickled her skin. Then, a faint shimmer, like heat haze, rose from his knuckles, coalescing into a brief, terrifying flicker of spectral ash—a nascent spark of his terrible power, meant to ward her off, to scare her away. Sabina, however, merely sniffed. “Abysmal nutritional metrics,” she stated, ignoring the ash, ignoring the deathly cold. She dipped the wooden spoon into the stew, pulling out a steaming chunk of duck and root vegetables. “You’re practically translucent. This simply won’t do.” Before Gavril could react, before he could even utter a syllable of protest, Sabina expertly shoved the spoon into his mouth. The stew was hot, rich, and heavily spiced with peppercorn and bay leaf. Gavril spluttered, staring at her in stunned disbelief. He choked, a rough cough tearing from his starved throat, the spice a sudden, brutal shock to his system. “Chew,” Sabina commanded, completely deadpan, as he tried to cough it out. “Proper mastication is crucial for nutrient absorption.” She pulled the spoon back, observing him with the detached intensity of an auditor analyzing an unbalanced balance sheet. His face was blotchy, his eyes watering. He looked utterly bewildered, caught between fury and a dazed incomprehension. She looked around, then back at his still-choking form. The Marrow Court was hardly an ideal dining environment. “Right,” she decided, her voice resonating with an aggressive cheerfulness that was entirely out of place in the gloomy hall. “This clearly isn’t working. Your tower. I’m moving in. Starting tonight, we initiate Phase One of the ‘Prince’s Nutritional Reclamation Project.’

A Funeral, A Betrothal, and A Pot of Stew