Jana scrunched her nose, her finger tracing the sickly violet glow under the divan. It throbbed with a low hum, a bass note beneath the Lyceum’s opulent silence. “What even *is* that, Pips? Is this some kind of fancy dust bunny?” “It’s not dust, Jana! It’s… *wrong*,” Pips chittered, his tiny head swiveling, ears flattened. “It feels like a bad toothache, but for my entire being. Like something’s trying to swallow the light.” “Hyperbole, much?” Jana scoffed, though a cold knot tightened in her stomach. She’d seen enough sketchy symbols in her life – on old pierogi boxes, on the side of a suspiciously cheap blender – to know a bad vibe when she felt one. This wasn't just a bad vibe; it was a hungry one. But she had bigger problems. Namely, escaping a world where people worshipped her for having a ferret with a speech impediment. She pushed herself up, brushing phantom dust from her silk robes. “Right. Less mystery cult, more escape plan. First order of business: consolidate power. Second order of business: find a way out.” And what better way to consolidate power than to make the kingdom’s elite grovel? Jana strolled back into her receiving parlor the next morning, a smirk playing on her lips. Grand Vizier Bohumil stood patiently, flanked by the four suitors, all dressed in varying degrees of discomfort. Prince Kazimir, predictably, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Lord Olek, ever the peacock, was preening. “Good morning, my divine lady,” Bohumil said, his voice a smooth balm. “Your feast preparations are well underway.” “Excellent,” Jana chirped, settling onto a gilded chaise. Pips, still visibly shaken from his discovery, peeked out from her satchel. “But before we break bread, I’ve had a divine revelation.” She paused for dramatic effect, letting her gaze sweep over the suitors. “A… *Trial of Domesticity*.” Kazimir’s perfect brows furrowed. “A trial of… what, exactly?” “Of *cooking*, Prince Prig,” Jana said, enjoying his flinch. “Each of you will prepare for me a dish from your homeland. Something simple, something traditional. It will be a test of your resourcefulness, your dedication, and your ability to nourish your future divine ruler.” She barely suppressed a giggle. “And I mean *you*. No royal chefs. No bribing the scullery crew, Lord Olek.” Olek’s charming smile didn't falter, but a flicker of something calculating crossed his eyes. “My lady, my culinary skills are… rustic at best. Perhaps a humble stew would suffice?” “Indeed,” Jana purred. “Humble, rustic, and *made by your own hands*. Marek, no automatons. Sir Radovan, I expect something edible, not just battle rations.” She met Kazimir’s cold gaze. “And you, Prince. No overly complex, meticulously plated monstrosities that taste like sadness.” Bohumil merely bowed, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest. “As my lady commands. The Lyceum cookhouse shall be made available.” *** The Lyceum cookhouse was a chaotic roar of copper pots, clanging iron, and the terrified scurrying of scullery maids. Steam billowed from colossal ovens, and the air hung heavy with the scent of roasted meat, burnt sugar, and existential dread. Jana sat on a high stool, Pips perched on her shoulder, overseeing the spectacle. Lord Olek, true to form, had abandoned his pristine courtier robes for a surprisingly clean apron. He fluttered around a small stovetop, attempting to coax a reluctant flame from a pile of kindling. “A family recipe, my lady,” he announced, gesturing grandly with a wooden spoon. “A ‘Rostovan Delight,’ passed down through generations. My grandmother’s secret… mostly involves a great deal of butter.” He winked at a passing turnspit lad, who promptly dropped a stack of plates. Olek then tried to covertly slip a pouch of coins to the head chef, who, under Jana’s eagle eye, simply gave him a stony glare and pointedly walked away. Marek the Artificer, meanwhile, had commandeered a corner of the flagstone floor, surrounded by a dizzying array of gears, springs, and bubbling vials. A complex contraption of polished brass and whirring cogs stood before him, smoke already curling from its various vents. “Behold, Muse!” he declared, grease smudged across his cheek. “The ‘Culinary Automaton Mark III’! It shall prepare an authentic Valeriani ‘Sky-Spice Soufflé’ with unparalleled precision!” He flicked a lever. The automaton shuddered, whirred, then emitted a piercing shriek. A jet of flame shot from a pipe, blackening the ceiling, followed by a shower of flour that coated Marek and half the nearby workspace. He emerged from the cloud, looking like a dusty snowman, muttering, “Calibration issues. Minor setback.” Prince Kazimir, in stark contrast, moved with unnerving efficiency. He had claimed the largest, cleanest counter, his movements precise as he diced vegetables into perfectly uniform cubes. His ‘Volskyan Frost-Kissed Broth’ was a masterpiece of presentation: clear as glass, with tiny, artfully arranged garnishes. The aroma, however, was faint, almost clinical. He offered Jana a small, porcelain bowl. She took a tentative sip. It was… water. Flavored with a hint of something unidentifiable, but utterly devoid of warmth or soul. “Remarkable,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Such… purity.” Then there was Sir Radovan. The stoic knight, surprisingly, seemed utterly at home amidst the chaos. He wore a worn leather apron over his simple tunic, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He’d ignored the fancy ingredients, instead producing a small, battered metal pot and a canvas pouch. He worked methodically, chopping root vegetables, adding dried herbs, stirring a thick, savory base. The smell, rich and earthy, wafted towards Jana, pulling at something deep within her. It smelled like home. Not her actual home, with its pierogi and stale beer, but a home she’d only ever dreamed of. “A simple field stew, my lady,” Radovan explained, his voice a low rumble as he placed a steaming bowl before her. “Made from the rations we carry on long patrols. It’s filling.” Jana took a spoonful. The flavor was robust, comforting, each bite a warm embrace. It was honest. More honest than anything she’d tasted since arriving. A pang of something she refused to name, something soft, twisted in her gut. Olek, wiping his hands on his apron, sidled up to her. “A truly… rustic endeavor from the good knight, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Novakova? Though I daresay my Rostovan Delight, once perfected, would outshine it.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping. “It’s remarkable how many ‘ancient prophecies’ turn out to be… discovered by a single individual, isn’t it? Say, Vizier Bohumil. A remarkable scholar, to be the sole interpreter of such a grand text.” His gaze was innocent, but the implication hung heavy in the air. *Bohumil. Sole interpreter. Prophecy.* Jana’s trust, already a fragile thing, fractured a little more. Before she could fully process Olek’s casual poison, Marek stumbled over, his face still streaked with soot, a wild look in his eyes. “Fascinating residual energy signature!” he exclaimed, holding up a small, shimmering device that pulsed with a faint green light. “From your… *otherworldly* nature! It’s unlike anything I’ve ever charted within Bryzia’s Aetheric spectrum. May I… may I take a sample? For purely scientific inquiry, of course.” Jana froze, her spoon hovering inches from her mouth. He knew. He *knew* she was an outsider. The casualness of his revelation hit her harder than any insult. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She could only stare, the hot stew growing cold. “Well,” she managed finally, her voice tight. “This has been… illuminating. Radovan, your stew is the clear winner.” She pushed the bowl away, the deliciousness now tasting like ash. “The rest of you… need to find a new calling.” Kazimir’s face tightened, his jaw working. His meticulously prepared, bland broth sat untouched. The humiliation was a raw, visible wound. He watched her, his ice-blue eyes narrowing to slits. Later that evening, the opulent quiet of her chambers was shattered. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, making Pips squeak and dive for cover. Kazimir stood there, breathing hard, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. “What game are you playing?” he snarled, advancing. His hand crackled with a frigid, pale blue light. He grabbed her arm, spinning her, and slammed her against the wall, the chill of his ice magic seeping through her silk robe. “*What game are you playing?*”

The First Ridiculous Contest