The moment Damon stormed out, the entire energy of the room shifted. One second he was the evening's entertainment, and the next, every merchant and noble within earshot was looking at him differently.

Oh no.

Lord Hendricks materialized at his elbow first.. The man had been hovering nearby during the whole Damon thing, pretending to examine a particularly boring painting while obviously eavesdropping. Now he pounced like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"Theodore! About those aqueduct proposals—"

"The proposals are in my study. I can have them sent over." He smiled. Hendricks nodded firmly, appreciating how quick Theodore had cut to the chase.

And suddenly there were three more people crowding around. Where had they come from? Some noble Lady Natasha with her merchant guild representative. Lord Cloud from the construction union. Even Baron Fitzgerald, who hadn't spoken to Theodore once in the past two years.

"If we're discussing infrastructure, my guild has concerns about the new storage facilities." Lady Natasha said smoothly.

"The refrigeration units." Theodore said.

"The cost—"

"Will pay for itself in reduced spoilage within eight months. I have a demonstration model if you'd like to see efficiency reports."

"I heard rumors about ice production without significant mana expenditure," Lord Cloud cut in. "The construction union is very interested in cooling systems for worker comfort."

"The technology is scalable," he said, which was the business way of saying 'yes, you can make money off this.' "But installation requires trained technicians. We're setting up a certification program."

More people closed in on him. His [Parallel Processing] was kicking into overdrive, splitting his consciousness into threads just to keep track of all the conversations.

"The sewage processing facilities," someone else said. Theodore didn't even see who. There were too many people now. "My holdings in the east would benefit from the technology. Could I interest your workers in building something in my holdings?"

"Submit a proposal," Theodore said automatically, smiling at everyone.

The next hour was spent on business just like that, with Theodore making deals, listening to proposals, and the like.

His brain was melting. This was what Mother had wanted, wasn't it. Seven major infrastructure contracts, with a lot more minor ones. Three different guild agreements. Five merchant family partnerships. All negotiated between avoiding aggressive noble daughters and eating tiny sandwiches. Mother had been playing four-dimensional chess while Theodore had been complaining about having to wear formal robes.

She was probably watching right now, doing that tiny smile thing that meant she was proud but would never say it out loud. Theodore tried to spot her in the crowd, but there were too many people. When had the entire gathering converged on his corner?

"Prince Theodore. I hear you're entering the tournament."

Another voice, silky smooth. Duchess Ravencroft, if he remembered correctly. Which he did, because his brain catalogued everyone automatically now, filed away their names and holdings and political leanings just in case he needed the information later.

Oh good. A subject change. Wait, no, not good. The tournament was a whole different kind of problem.

"Mother insisted," he said, which was his standard response to anything he didn't want to do but had to anyway.

"Such a dutiful son." Was she being sarcastic? Theodore couldn't tell. Noble speech was weird. "My nephew is competing as well. Perhaps you've heard of him? Julius Ravencroft?"

Theodore had not heard of him

"He's quite skilled with battle magic," the Duchess continued.

Good for him.

"The tournament should be interesting, then" he said with a smile.

"Indeed. I look forward to seeing your performance."

It went on like this for another eternity. Or maybe just another hour. Hard to tell when your consciousness was scattered across a dozen different directions. But finally, blessedly, Theodore caught sight of Mother across the room.

She gave him The Nod.

The 'you've done enough, you can escape now' nod.

The best nod in the entire world.

"Gentlemen, ladies. It's been illuminating, but I have early obligations tomorrow," Theodore said, already backing away.

"Of course, the tournament," someone said.

He fled before anyone could trap him in another conversation.

Theodore escaped into the cool night air and immediately wanted to collapse. His brain felt like someone had put it in a blender and hit puree. But he couldn't go home yet. Had to check on Freya first, make sure she hadn't set anything on fire today.

Well, anything that wasn't supposed to be on fire.

***

The walk to Freya's "workshop" was blissfully quiet.

Nobles, negotiations, nothing. No one trying to marry him or challenge him to stupid magical competitions. Her workshop was still lit up when he arrived, which meant she was either working late or had forgotten to extinguish the lamps again. Given the smoke coming from the chimney, probably working late.

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He knocked and entered.

She was at her pottery wheel, surprisingly, not actively destroying anything. "Oh, hey. How was it?"

She didn't look up from the clay she was shaping.

It… actually looked like a pot.

Wow.

"Contracts, a foreign prince tried to humiliate me, I avoided marriage traps, and ate those little cakes with berries." Theodore collapsed into a chair. "So... successful?"

"Show off," she said automatically, but she was smiling. "Which foreign prince?"

"Damon of Zenonis."

"The pompous one with the perfect hair?"

"That's the one."

"What'd he try?"

"Children's mana game. Wanted to prove I was still the wastrel prince, I think."

"And?"

"I accidentally maintained some few hundred spheres while thinking about aqueducts."

"You're such a show off."

"I wasn't trying to show off!"

She laughed, and Theodore felt some of the tension from the evening drain away. This was nice. Normal. Well, their version of normal.

"You nervous about tomorrow?" she asked, starting to reshape the clay.

"Why would I be nervous? It's just signing my name on a piece of paper. It's a formality. We're already in the tournament."

"And then fighting people."

"That's later. I'm compartmentalizing."

"You're avoiding."

"That too."

She looked up at him then, studying his face. "You're actually nervous."

Was he? Theodore examined the feeling. He was not concerned about the fighting itself, but the attention. The thousands if not millions of people.

"It's going to be exhausting," he admitted.

"The fighting?"

"The everything else. You know there's going to be parties, right? Gatherings specifically for competitors. More networking. More politics."

"More of those little berry cakes though."

"Silver linings," Theodore agreed. "You're competing right?"

"Obviously." She went back to her pot. "Been working on some new techniques."

"Is that why the south wall is scorched?"

"That was an accident."

"It's always an accident."

"Sometimes it's on purpose."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Freya working her clay, Theodore watching and letting his brain finally, finally stop processing seventeen things at once. Just one thing. Just this. Nice and simple.

"Think your pottery's getting better," he said eventually.

"Think you're lying."

"Only a little."

She flicked clay at him. He deflected it with a small barrier.

"What do you think the mystery event is?" Freya asked suddenly. "For the tournament."

Oh right. Three events. Culling rounds, mystery event, final bracket. Theodore had been trying not to think about that either.

"Knowing our luck? Something humiliating."

"Interpretive dance battle."

"Competitive poetry."

"Magical cooking contest."

"Please no. I can barely make tea."

"You literally designed a revolutionary refrigeration system."

"That's different from cooking."

"How is that different from cooking?"

"Cooking requires... I don't know, intuition? Creativity? I'm not creative."

He was just a fraud ripping things off Earth.

"And somehow that's simpler than following a recipe?"

Theodore considered this. "Yes."

The pot collapsed again. Freya glared at it like it had personally betrayed her.

"Want me to—"

"If you magically fix my pot, I will throw you into the kiln."

"Noted."

***

The tournament grounds were absurd.

Not normal absurd, like 'why did someone gold-plate a bathroom' absurd. This was 'someone decided to build five coliseums and connect them with bridges and then add floating platforms and also magical barriers and by the way there's seating for two hundred thousand people' absurd.

The registration entrance had the magical displays overhead spell out "WELCOME WARRIORS" in letters made of fire.

"This is excessive," he muttered.

"They have to make it special."

"Special is one word for it."

"Would you prefer 'ostentatious'?"

"I'd prefer 'nonexistent.'"

The line moved forward slowly. Every competitor had to go through magical assessment—checking for curses, illegal enhancements, dangerous artifacts. Theodore watched the person ahead of him step through an archway that glowed seventeen different colors before declaring them "APPROVED" in a voice that probably reached the next kingdom.

"Subtle," Freya observed.

"Like a brick to the face."

"Speaking of—" She pointed across the crowd. "Your friend's here."

Damon. Of course. Standing with a contingent of other Zenonis competitors, all wearing matching robes because apparently they needed everyone to know they were a team. He was glaring at Theodore.

"Should I wave?" Theodore asked.

"Please don't."

"I'm going to wave."

"Theodore—"

He waved. Damon's face turned an interesting color.

"You're a child," Freya informed him.

"Hello pot, meet kettle."

"What's that? Are you calling me a pot?"

Theodore blinked. Nope. Not going to answer that one. It was a trap.

The line kept moving.

"Roughly two percent survival rate by the last round." He said.

"You could just forfeit."

"Mother would actually kill me."

They reached the assessment arch. Theodore stepped through. The magic washed over him, probing, searching. For a moment he worried it might detect something weird about his soul situation but it just cycled through its rainbow of colors and declared him "APPROVED" in that same booming voice.

"Next!"

Registration table. The official looked half-asleep despite it being morning.

"Name?"

"Theodore Lockheart."

The man's head snapped up. "Prince Theodore?"

"Unfortunately."

"I—yes, Your Highness. Rules are—"

"No killing, no permanent maiming, no outside assistance, no weapons or items or artifacts above Grade Three enchantment, defeat through incapacitation or verbal surrender, victory conditions vary by event." Theodore had read the primer Mother forced on him. "Anything else?"

"...No, Your Highness."

"Great."

He signed the forms, received a competitor's badge—enchanted to prevent forgery and track his position during events as well as record the events privately for the organizers—and stepped aside for Freya to register.

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