Chapter 3

Morning in Keimonomimi Village unfolded with its usual, hard-earned tranquility. A golden haze drifted lazily over the wheat fields, softening the edges of the world, while the warm scent of freshly baked bread rolled through the streets from Fifi's inn and settled comfortably into every open window. Lucien sat at his small wooden table with his back straight and his shoulders unburdened, cradling a cup of tea whose steam curled upward like a promise. For once, no problems demanded solving, no disasters lurked just beyond his sight, and he allowed himself the rare indulgence of believing the day might remain uncomplicated. For precisely four minutes, the world was perfect.

The illusion shattered with a violent crash. The door to the inn slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls, and Fifi stumbled inside as though fleeing a battlefield. Flour dusted her from head to toe, clinging to her hair and freckling her clothes, her apron twisted and half untied as if it had lost a struggle. Her ears twitched wildly atop her head, swiveling like frantic antennae searching for salvation, and Lucien did not even need to look up from his tea to know that peace, once again, had abandoned him.

"Lucien! Emergency! Cake emergency!" she cried, bursting into the room and waving a wooden spoon like a sword raised for battle. Flour puffed into the air with every frantic motion, and her tail bristled beneath her apron. Lucien, unfazed, merely lifted his cup and took a calm sip of tea, watching her over the rim.

"I assume you didn't accidentally summon a cake elemental again?" he asked mildly.

Fifi puffed out her cheeks, affronted. "Not this time! I—uh—may have promised to host a birthday party at the inn tomorrow!" The words tumbled out in a rush, as though saying them quickly might make them less dangerous. Lucien lowered his cup at last, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

"For how many people?" he asked.

Fifi's ears flattened as she began counting on her flour-smeared fingers, each number making her shoulders sink a little further. "Well, there's the birthday girl, Mimi. Then her brothers and sisters… her parents, grandparents, and—oh!" She brightened suddenly. "Her uncle, who only eats food shaped like carrots."

Lucien raised a brow. "Carrots? That sounds like an Usagimimi case." His gaze sharpened as it settled on her, the calm in his expression giving way to something more ominous. "Fifi… how many siblings does the birthday girl have?"

She winced, lips pressed tight, clearly hoping the answer might evaporate if she waited long enough. Lucien stood, closing the distance between them, and folded his arms. "Come on, Fifi," he said, voice low and patient in a way that suggested he was bracing himself. "How bad is the damage?"

Fifi let out a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping as surrender finally claimed her. "…Seventeen kids," she admitted quietly, "not including the birthday girl."

Lucien blinked once. Then again. "Seventeen?" he repeated, incredulity seeping into his voice.

"Uh-huh," Fifi replied, nodding weakly.

Lucien stared at her for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "You agreed to feed an entire Usagimimi warren," he said flatly. "Fifi… have you completely lost your mind?"

Fifi waved her hands defensively, leaving powdery handprints drifting through the air like guilty ghosts. "How was I supposed to know rabbit people multiply like—well, rabbits?" she protested, her words tumbling over one another. "I thought she meant her family, not her entire family tree!" She paused, ears tilting as the weight of it settled in, then added more weakly, "Although… just the family alone is already a tall order."

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled the long, measured sigh of a man who had lived some variation of this moment far too many times. "And let me guess," he said without looking at her, "you're out of sugar, flour, milk, and icing."

Fifi's tail drooped until it nearly brushed the floor, her posture collapsing into the very image of defeat. "…And eggs," she admitted quietly.

Lucien leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as he suppressed a groan. "So," he said at last, "you want me to go to Drakenburg again."

Her eyes lit up instantly, sparkling with relief and unearned optimism. "You're the best, Lucien!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "I'll even save you a slice of cake!"

He gave her a dry, weary smile, already resigned to his fate. "Considering Usagimimi are involved," he replied, "I'll believe that when I see it."

Fifi laughed nervously, clutching her spoon like a guilty wand as doubt crept back in. "You'll see! Probably! …Maybe," she added, her ears twitching. "That's still a lot of kids, though…"

Lucien sighed and rose from his seat, brushing the last of the crumpet crumbs from his tunic. "I'll see what I can do," he said, already turning toward the door. "But if those numbers get bigger by the time I get back, you're dealing with the consequences—not me."

Lucien grabbed his jacket and stepped out to begin what had somehow become an emergency supply run. The morning sun greeted him with its familiar warmth, casting long, gentle light across the lane as birds trilled cheerfully from the rooftops. Beyond the village, the wheat fields whispered softly in the breeze, their rustling a sound so peaceful it felt almost mocking. Despite himself, Lucien felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth; chaos, it seemed, always waited patiently just beyond moments like these.

He adjusted his satchel, double-checked the carefully packed list, and set out once more for Drakenburg—flour accounted for, coins counted twice, and a few precious cans of soda nestled safely inside. The road stretched ahead of him in sunlit stone and dust, and he let out a quiet chuckle as he glanced toward the distant horizon. "Seventeen siblings," he muttered under his breath as his boots found the familiar rhythm of the path. "I suppose even in another world, birthdays are dangerous."

The wind carried laughter behind him, along with Fifi's voice, bright and unapologetic. "Don't forget the pink frosting!" she called. "The birthday bunny loves pink frosting!"

Lucien sighed, shifted the weight of his pack, and continued on toward Drakenburg. If fate was feeling particularly unkind, he suspected a certain princess would be waiting for him once again—and somehow, the thought made the road ahead feel just a little less long.

Drakenburg thrummed with the gentle hum of afternoon trade, alive in a way that felt both vibrant and unhurried. Sunlight shimmered across the canals, gilding tiled rooftops and washing the market streets in warm, honeyed light. The air was thick with indulgent scents—freshly baked bread, caramelized nuts crackling in copper pans, and something unmistakably xocolate drifting lazily on the breeze. It was the sort of atmosphere designed to make visitors linger and locals forget the passage of time.

Lucien had made this journey countless times, yet the city's rhythm never failed to settle him. Merchants called out their prices with boisterous cheer, voices rising and falling like practiced performers, while children darted between the stalls clutching pastries nearly as large as their hands. Accents from a dozen regions blended together in constant chatter, weaving a soundscape that felt less like noise and more like music. There was comfort in its familiarity, a sense that no matter how strange the day became, Drakenburg would always continue on just the same.

He moved through the market with practiced efficiency, checking off Fifi's increasingly desperate list one item at a time. Flour, sugar, milk, eggs—plenty of all, and of respectable quality at that. Lucien even managed to haggle a few prices down, offering his polite smile and measured tone until vendors relented with theatrical sighs. By the time he finished, several shopkeepers were watching him warily, having learned long ago that courtesy in his hands was a far more dangerous weapon than rudeness ever could be.

Just as Lucien finished securing his purchases and turned to head toward the docks, a voice cut cleanly through the market's steady murmur. It rose above the chatter with practiced authority, sharp enough to snag his attention mid-step.

"Drakenburg's famous single-serve xocolate cakes! One per customer—no exceptions!"

Lucien slowed, curiosity tugging at him once again. In this world, xocolate was much the same as chocolate in taste and decadence, but the cocoa beans themselves were rare—precious enough to be tightly controlled and carefully rationed. Such treats were usually reserved for special occasions, Love Day chief among them, a celebration that bore more than a passing resemblance to Valentine's Day. He drifted closer to the stall, where a small crowd had gathered around a neat display of cakes: rich, dark confections nestled in delicate paper cups, each crowned with a glossy swirl of xocolate ganache and dusted lightly with gold flakes that caught the sun.

The merchant—a stout woman with flour-dusted hair and an expression of unapologetic pride—noticed his interest and grinned. "You're lucky, sir," she said brightly. "Only a few left for the day. Everyone's allowed just one—royalty, nobles, even the palace staff. That's the rule!"

Lucien chuckled, genuinely amused by the idea of dessert enforced with such rigid fairness. "One per person, huh?" he said. "That must make birthdays rather complicated."

"Complicated?" she laughed as she deftly wrapped one cake in fine paper. "More like chaotic! But that's the fun of it, isn't it?"

He hesitated only a heartbeat before reaching for his coins. With a small, knowing smile, Lucien placed them in her hand. "Then I'll take one," he said—already suspecting that this particular indulgence might soon prove far more dangerous than it looked.

As he tucked the small parcel safely into his satchel, an uninvited thought slipped into his mind and stubbornly refused to leave. "Lulu would probably love this." Lucien sighed and shook his head, already annoyed with himself for the indulgence. "I'm spoiling her already," he muttered under his breath, though the corners of his mouth softened despite his best efforts.

By the time he reached the docks, the familiar clamor rose to meet him. Sailors shouted orders over the creak of ropes and timbers, boots thudded against planks worn smooth by decades of use, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and insistent. It was a symphony of organized chaos—and yet, amid all that noise, one voice cut through it with effortless clarity.

"Luuucien~!" He didn't bother looking around. He already knew.

There she was, radiant and impossible to miss—Princess Lulu of Atland, once again enthroned upon a precarious arrangement of wooden crates she had clearly claimed as her own. Her golden hair caught the light and shimmered like spun sunlight, while her skirts fanned around her in flawless, practiced elegance, utterly at odds with the grit of the docks. In one hand she held a fork speared with something lavish and wholly inappropriate for the setting, and with the other she waved enthusiastically at him, smiling like a child who had just spotted her favorite playmate in a crowd.

"Lucien, you came back to see me!" she declared, her voice dripping with theatrical delight as she leaned forward atop her crate-throne.

He sighed, though the faintest smile betrayed him. "I came to buy supplies," he said evenly, "but I am glad to see you. Still here pestering the Drakenburg guards, I see."

Lulu puffed out her cheeks in a dramatic pout, though it was somewhat undermined by the fact that they were still full of food. "Of course I am! I refuse to leave until my debt is paid. A proper princess honors her obligations!" She lifted her chin proudly, as though daring anyone to argue with such unimpeachable logic.

Nearby, the guards exchanged knowing looks. They had long since noticed the peculiar ease that settled over the situation whenever Lucien appeared, the tension dissolving as if by mutual, unspoken agreement. Deciding their supervision was no longer required, they quietly drifted off in search of a meal of their own.

Lucien's gaze slid to the pile of empty plates stacked beside her like fallen shields. "By eating your kingdom into further debt?" he asked mildly.

She crossed her arms with a huff. "It's a long process!"

A soft chuckle escaped him as he shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Thank you," Lulu replied at once, beaming with pride and missing the sarcasm entirely.

Before he could correct her—or retreat—she leaned forward eagerly, eyes glittering with anticipation. "So then, Lucien," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "did you bring any more of that wonderful sparkling drink?"

His smile turned knowing as he reached into his satchel. "As a matter of fact…"

Lulu clapped her hands together, her delight immediate and unrestrained. When he passed her the can, she giggled and turned it slowly, inspecting it with reverent fascination as her golden braid swayed over her shoulder. With practiced familiarity, she pulled the tab—pssshhht!

The mist hissed and fizzed into the air, catching the sunlight in a spray of glittering droplets. Lulu laughed, bright and unguarded, the sound carrying across the docks. "It sparkles!" she exclaimed. "Every time, it sparkles!"

She took a sip, her eyes fluttering closed as bliss washed over her features. "Mmm~! Sweet, fizzy happiness!" she sighed, cradling the can as though it were a treasure. Lucien couldn't help but smile; watching her was like witnessing joy experienced for the very first time—earnest, unguarded, and just a little ridiculous. There was something disarming about how completely she surrendered to small pleasures, as though the world still held endless marvels.

While she drank, he reached once more into his satchel, his movements deliberate. "Actually," he said, unable to keep a hint of amusement from his voice, "I brought you something else, too." Lulu blinked and looked up at him, curiosity replacing bliss as he carefully unwrapped the small parcel. Nestled inside was a perfectly round xocolate cake, rich and glossy, its surface crowned with a delicate swirl of ganache and dusted with fine flakes of gold.

For a single, suspended moment, Lulu went perfectly still. Then her face lit up like a sunrise breaking over the sea, her eyes sparkling with an almost unreal brilliance that could have softened even the hardest merchant's heart. "I–Is that…?" she breathed. "It's that cake! The one you can only buy one of per person in all of Drakenburg!"

Lucien nodded mildly. "So I've heard."

She gasped and pressed both hands to her chest, scandalized and awestruck all at once. "Do you have any idea how many times I tried to buy another? I even disguised myself as a commoner once!" She leaned closer, whispering fiercely, "They saw right through it!"

Lucien lifted a brow. "You? A commoner? I can't imagine how that went wrong."

"Terribly!" Lulu said without hesitation. "They said, 'Princess Lulu, your royal hairpin gave you away!' I forgot to take it off!" She laughed at herself, entirely unapologetic.

Lucien chuckled softly and placed the small cake into her hands. "Then you'd better enjoy this one properly," he said, his tone gentle. "I think you've earned it… in your own unique way."

Lulu accepted the cake with reverent care, as though Lucien had placed a holy relic into her hands. The first bite was small and deliberate, taken with ceremonial seriousness—then the next three were anything but. Her eyes glittered with something like starlight as she ate, humming happily between mouthfuls, utterly absorbed in the experience.

"Delicious!" she declared around a mouthful, crumbs and ganache unapologetically smeared at the corner of her lips. "It's rich, moist, heavenly! Truly, Drakenburg's greatest treasure!" She looked up at him with radiant conviction. "Lucien, you are a saint, a hero, an angel of desserts!"

Lucien folded his arms, thoroughly entertained. "Just don't tell the guards that," he said dryly. "They might start expecting me to feed you full-time."

She paused mid-bite and tilted her head, fixing him with a sly, syrup-smeared smile. "Oh?" she asked sweetly. "And if they did, would you refuse?"

He smirked without hesitation. "Absolutely."

Lulu giggled, twirling a lock of her golden hair around her finger. "You say that," she teased, "but you still bring me sweets."

Lucien sighed, though his voice softened in a way that betrayed him. "Maybe," he admitted, "I just enjoy the company."

She blinked, clearly caught off guard by the gentle honesty in his tone. To hide the sudden warmth rising to her cheeks, she promptly stuffed the last bite of cake into her mouth and beamed at him. "Then you should visit more often!" she declared.

Lucien chuckled quietly, shaking his head as the docks bustled around them. "Something tells me," he said, "I won't have a choice."

For a time, they sat together in quiet companionship at the edge of the dock—Lulu carefully savoring the last crumbs of her cake, and Lucien watching sunlight shimmer and break across the rippling water below. Around them, the world moved on in a gentle, unhurried rhythm: distant merchants calling out their wares, mooring ropes creaking as boats shifted with the tide, and the occasional burst of laughter from sailors passing by. It was one of those rare moments that felt complete in its stillness, as though the afternoon itself had decided to linger. The peace held—until Lulu spoke again.

"So then," she said lightly, brushing a faint smear of xocolate from her cheek with practiced elegance, "what kind of supplies brought you back to Drakenburg this time, Lucien?"

He smiled faintly, eyes never leaving the water. "Cake ingredients, mostly," he replied. "Fifi agreed to host a birthday party for one of the Usagimimi families back in the village. It turns out the birthday girl has… quite a number of siblings."

Lulu's laughter chimed softly, musical and warm, as she covered her mouth with dainty fingers. "Oh dear. How many?"

"Seventeen," he said dryly.

"Seventeen?!" She gasped, then burst into giggles. "That's not a family—that's a small army!"

Her laughter rang bright and clear across the dock, light as the afternoon breeze. But as it faded, something subtle shifted. Her smile softened, the sparkle in her eyes dimming just a touch as her gaze drifted down to the half-empty soda can in her hand, her fingers tightening around it in quiet thought.

Lucien noticed the shift at once. "What's wrong?" he asked gently.

For a long moment, Lulu didn't answer. The familiar spark in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter—fragile, almost wistful. "Nothing," she said at first, then shook her head as if correcting herself. "No… that's not true." She set the emptying can beside her and turned her gaze toward the sea. "You said it's for a birthday party, right? That sounds… nice."

Lucien studied her profile, the way her shoulders had subtly drawn inward. "You don't sound convinced," he said.

A faint smile crossed her lips, tinged with melancholy. "It's just been a long time since I've had one of those," she replied softly. "A birthday, I mean."

He frowned, surprised. "A princess doesn't celebrate her birthday?"

Lulu let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "A princess, maybe," she said. "But not Lulu." Lucien remained silent, sensing the importance of that distinction, and gave her the space to continue.

She drew in a slow breath, her voice softening as her eyes drifted somewhere far beyond the docks. "Before my family became royalty, we were ordinary. My parents owned a little bakery in a poor village in the desert. We weren't rich, but we were happy." A fragile warmth entered her expression. "Every year on my birthday, my father would bake me a small cake—nothing fancy, just bread and honey with a bit of sugar sprinkled on top. I'd blow out the candles, and then my friends and I would play in the fields until the sun went down."

Her smile trembled. "Then Drakenburg offered my parents a loan. A chance to build something greater." She swallowed. "They took it, and within a few years, the village of Atland became a kingdom. My father became king, my mother a queen… and I became a princess."

She laughed softly, but the sound never reached her eyes. "Since then, birthdays have been different. Banquets instead of gatherings. Guests instead of friends. Politics instead of laughter." Her fingers tightened at the edge of her skirt. "Every year, I sat there smiling while people toasted titles and alliances I barely understood."

Her voice dropped even lower. "And now, with the debt to Drakenburg, it feels like every piece of my childhood is gone. Even the taste of those simple cakes."

Lucien watched her in silence as the breeze tugged gently at her golden braid. For all her theatrics, her mischief, and her endless appetite, she suddenly looked very small—like the child she once was, lost beneath the weight of a crown that had never quite fit.

"When's your birthday?" he asked softly.

Her eyes flicked toward him, clearly startled by the question. "In a week," she said after a pause. "Though I doubt I'll be home to see it." There was resignation in her tone, as though she had already decided it was better not to expect anything at all.

Lucien smiled faintly. "Then it's settled."

"Eh?" Lulu looked up at him, confused.

"You've spent enough birthdays surrounded by strangers and formality," he said, rising to his feet and brushing invisible dust from his coat. "This year, you'll spend it with good food, good company, and no politics. I'll make sure of it." His voice carried the quiet certainty of a decision already made.

Lulu stared at him, her lashes trembling. "A… birthday party?" she asked slowly. "For me?"

Lucien shrugged, as though the idea required no great effort. "Nothing fancy. Just a few friends, some food, and maybe a cake that doesn't come with a limit per person."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For the first time since he had met her, Lulu had no witty retort, no royal decree, no dramatic demand ready at hand. The silence that followed was soft and fragile. "…You'd really do that?" she asked at last, her voice barely louder than the water lapping against the docks.

Lucien smiled, gentle and unguarded. "You've been chained to this dock for weeks. You deserve one day where you're not a princess or a debtor—just Lulu."

Her eyes shimmered, not with her usual playful sparkle but with something quieter, almost shy. Then, as if embarrassed by her own vulnerability, she straightened abruptly and tossed her hair back with exaggerated grandeur. "V-very well!" she declared. "Since you insist, I shall allow it! I, Princess Lulu of Atland, will grace your humble village with my royal presence!"

The next week swept through Keimonomimi Village like a festival wind, gaining momentum whether anyone wished it to or not. It began quietly enough, with Lucien standing in his modest kitchen, a cup of tea cooling forgotten in his hand as he studied an ever-growing list of preparations. Food, decorations, lodging—every practical detail required for what might well be the most absurd decision he had ever made: hosting the Princess of Atland in their humble little village. He exhaled slowly and made another careful note, already aware the list would not be getting any shorter.

"Just a small celebration," he muttered to himself, pen scratching against parchment. "Something simple. No need to overdo it."

"Too late for that!" Fifi's voice rang cheerfully through the open window. She leaned inside with a wide grin, her hair already dusted with flour as though the day had personally challenged her to a baking duel. "I told Belle, and she told the market girls, and they told the blacksmith, and now the whole village thinks we're holding a royal banquet!"

Lucien closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Of course they do," he said, with the weary calm of a man who had expected nothing less.

"Relax!" Fifi chirped as she bounded fully into the room. "Everyone's excited!" She paused, then added brightly, "Oh, and Maxim's already making exploding candles—uh, I mean sparkle candles—for the cake."

Lucien blinked. Slowly. "Exploding what?"

"Sparkle candles," she repeated with exaggerated innocence. "Totally safe... I hope."

"Wonderful," Lucien replied flatly. "If the princess doesn't die of embarrassment, the cake might finish the job."

Fifi's ears twitched happily as she set down a basket overflowing with ribbons, paper garlands, and suspiciously glittery streamers. "Oh! And Belle's organizing the menu," she continued. "We're doing rabbit-shaped cookies, carrot cupcakes—"

"She's human, not Usagimimi, Fifi," Lucien cut in, opening his eyes just long enough to give her a look.

Fifi tilted her head, unfazed. "But they're cute," she said reasonably. "And we're saving money by reusing decorations from the last birthday party."

Lucien stared at the list in his hands, then at the basket, then at Fifi's unapologetic smile. At last, he sighed in defeat. "Fine. Cute wins," he said. "Let's just hope the bunny theme impresses her."

Outside, the entire village thrummed with contagious energy. The tailor worked at a frantic pace, sewing ribbons in Lulu's pink-and-white colors while children darted past, stringing paper lanterns between doorways and fence posts. Laughter echoed down the lanes, mingling with the soft clink of glass and metal as preparations took shape. Even the normally stoic blacksmith had surrendered to the spirit of the occasion, agreeing to polish every piece of silverware until it gleamed like moonlight.

At the edge of the commotion, Lucien stood beside Maxim, who was hunched over a bubbling flask of colored sugar water, its contents popping softly as if impatient. "I must admit," the alchemist said, adjusting his robe with one hand while steadying the flask with the other, "for a man who claims to prefer peace and quiet, you have a remarkable talent for attracting the unusual."

Lucien folded his arms and watched a group of children argue cheerfully over lantern placement. "It's not a talent," he replied dryly. "It's a curse with excellent timing."

Maxim hummed thoughtfully, glancing sideways at him. "And this princess," he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, "what's she like?"

Lucien paused, images rising unbidden in his mind—the docks, her stubborn defiance, her unguarded laughter, the way her eyes sparkled even when she complained. "She's… unpredictable," he said at last. "Like soda bubbles—sweet one moment, chaotic the next."

"Sounds dangerous," Maxim said with a chuckle, carefully corking the flask. "I like her already."

The preparations continued until the sun dipped low and evening claimed the village. As night settled in, lanterns bloomed across the square like fireflies, their warm light dancing over ribbons and banners. Tables were neatly set, sweets arranged with loving care, and for once, nothing seemed on the verge of catastrophe. Lucien stood at the edge of the square with his arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Keimonomimi Village had not looked this alive in years.

"Lucien!" Fifi called, poking her flour-dusted head out of the inn's kitchen. "Did you remember to send the carriage for the princess?"

"Of course I did," he replied calmly. "She should be arriving any minute now."

The sound of hooves echoed down the cobblestone path, drawing every gaze toward the village entrance as a royal carriage rolled into the square. Its polished wood gleamed beneath the lantern light, reflecting banners and fluttering streamers as it came to a gentle halt. Villagers peeked from windows and doorways, eyes wide with wonder—never before had a royal carriage graced their humble streets. Lucien stepped forward, straightening his coat just as the carriage door opened.

A gloved hand hesitated on the frame before Lucien lifted his own to meet it. "Welcome to Keimonomimi, Princess," he said, his voice calm but warm. Lulu descended with practiced grace, her posture flawless, though her wide, curious eyes betrayed her excitement as her satin slippers touched the ground. Soft murmurs rippled through the crowd as she stepped onto a path strewn with flower petals scattered by eager children.

"Oh my," she breathed, slowly turning as she took in the glowing square. "It's… so beautiful. You did all this for me?"

Lucien smiled faintly. "The villagers wanted to make a good impression," he said. "I may have mentioned that the Princess of Atland is particularly fond of good food."

As if summoned by the words, Fifi leaned out of the inn again, flour clinging to her hair like snow while carrying a tray of baked goods. "We also made cookies shaped like crowns!" she announced proudly.

Lulu laughed, the sound clear and genuine, and several villagers found themselves smiling along with her. "How charming!" she said delightedly. "I've never had crown-shaped cookies before. They're almost too cute to eat."

Lucien raised a knowing eyebrow, watching her eyes linger on the dessert table. "I give it five minutes."

As the princess strolled through the square, the people of Keimonomimi approached her with tentative steps and careful smiles. Children lingered at the edges at first, clutching small treasures they had made by hand—woven bracelets dyed in uneven colors, wooden animals smoothed by patient carving, and finally a little ribbon flower crown held out by a girl no older than six. Her hands trembled as she offered it up, eyes wide with equal parts awe and hope.

"For me?" Lulu asked softly, lowering herself to the child's height. When the girl nodded, Lulu bent forward without hesitation, allowing the crown to be placed gently atop her hair. "It's perfect," she said, her voice warm and sincere, and the way she smiled seemed to brighten the entire square. The child beamed, and something unspoken passed through the watching crowd—relief, perhaps, or permission to breathe again.

From that moment on, the village truly opened to her. Laughter replaced stiffness, and fear of royal missteps melted into easy warmth. Lulu wandered freely among them, delighting in everything she encountered: sampling Fifi's pastries with unrestrained enthusiasm, admiring the tailor's embroidery as though it were fit for a ballroom, and listening attentively while the blacksmith proudly explained how he had polished every spoon and fork himself. She treated every story as important, every offering as precious, and the villagers responded in kind.

"This is… so different from the palace," Lulu murmured as she and Lucien passed the familiar market stalls now transformed by lantern light. "No servants scurrying about, no courtiers whispering behind fans." She glanced around at the glowing square, at people laughing openly. "Everyone just… smiles."

Lucien followed her gaze. "That's the advantage of small villages," he said quietly. "Life moves slowly here. People have time to notice things—and to enjoy them."

"I think I could get used to that," she said, her voice softer now. Her eyes lingered on a group of children chasing one another between lantern posts, their laughter ringing freely into the night. "Just for a while."

Lucien chuckled, a gentle sound. "Then you're welcome to forget the crown here, Your Highness. Today, you're just Lulu."

Color crept into her cheeks at that, but her smile only widened. "Then, Elder Lucien," she said with mock solemnity, "will you show me what a normal life is like again?"

"Of course," he replied, gesturing toward the inn. "But fair warning—normal life in this village usually involves Fifi setting something on fire."

"Sounds exciting," Lulu said brightly, and for the first time in a long while, she meant it without reservation. The villagers laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did Lucien.

Stars pricked the evening sky one by one, casting a cool, sparkling glow over the space beneath Fifi's inn. Lanterns shaped like tiny crowns and floppy-eared rabbits swayed gently from the rafters, their warm light flickering as villagers filled the room with laughter and lively conversation. The air buzzed with anticipation, sweet with sugar and spice, and alive with the unmistakable energy of a celebration long overdue.

Lulu stepped inside at Lucien's side—and stopped short. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the scene before her: tables draped in pink ribbons and white lace, walls cheerfully overrun with an absurd number of rabbit cutouts, each more floppy-eared than the last. At the center of it all stood the cake, towering and magnificent—layers of fluffy frosting sculpted into a proud bunny clutching a sugar scepter, its expression somewhere between noble and mischievous.

"Ah," Lucien began, rubbing the back of his neck. "About the decorations—"

"They're adorable!" Lulu interrupted, clasping her hands together as she twirled once on her heels, skirts fluttering. "Look at their little faces—so fluffy and dignified! I love them!"

Lucien blinked. "…Dignified?"

Fifi popped up from behind the cake, flour smudged on her cheek and pride written across her grin. "I told you she'd like it!" she said triumphantly, then raised her whisk like a conductor's baton. "Ladies and gentlemen—and mischievous Usagimimi children—welcome to Princess Lulu's birthday bash!"

Cheers erupted, warm and wholehearted, as the villagers crowded closer. Some were shy, some openly curious, but none looked at Lulu with distant reverence. To them, she wasn't a symbol or a title—she was just Lulu, the girl with starry eyes and a radiant laugh, standing beneath rabbit lanterns and smiling like she had finally come home.

Lucien gently guided her toward the center table, where the massive cake and rows of food waited in indulgent abundance. Lulu's gaze swept over the feast like a queen surveying her kingdom: roasted meats glazed in honey, jewel-bright berry tarts, soft loaves torn and steaming, carrot cupcakes crowned with frosting, bowls of sugared fruit, and—most impressive of all—several crates of soda nestled in buckets of ice. The lantern light caught in her eyes as she took it all in. "Is… all this for me?" she asked softly, her voice catching just enough to betray her disbelief.

Lucien nodded, his expression warm and unguarded. "Of course. You've spent too many birthdays buried under politics and etiquette," he said. "Tonight, you just get to eat cake."

That was all the permission she needed. With the posture of a royal and the enthusiasm of a child long denied, Lulu lifted her fork and dove in. One bite became two, then five; soon she had acquired a skewer of roast meat, a tart balanced precariously on a plate, and a soda in her free hand, eating with startling speed and effortless grace. Laughter rippled through the crowd as villagers leaned closer, delighted and amazed.

"Look at her go," someone whispered in awe.

"Is she… is she still eating?" another murmured.

"I thought royals nibbled like birds," Maxim remarked thoughtfully. "She eats more like a wyvern at a feast."

Lulu ignored them all, blissfully sipping soda between mouthfuls, crumbs and frosting entirely forgotten. She lifted her fork like a scepter and declared, voice ringing with joy, "This is the best birthday ever."

As Reir's music swelled through the inn, light and lively, Lulu was swept into the dance by the local children before she could so much as protest. Her crown tilted precariously as she spun, laughter bubbling free and unrestrained, her skirts flaring as small hands tugged her this way and that. For once, she was not a princess weighed down by duty or expectation. She was simply a girl dancing in the heart of a small inn, surrounded by people who wanted nothing from her except a smile.

Lucien watched from the edge of the room, leaning against a wooden pillar with a soda in hand. The lantern light flickered across his face as he followed her movements, the way she laughed too loudly, danced too freely, and forgot—if only for a night—that the world expected anything more of her. Fifi slipped up beside him, her cheeks flushed and her hair dusted with flour and sugar.

"She fits in better than I expected," Fifi whispered, nodding toward the dance floor.

Lucien chuckled softly. "Yeah. It's… strange," he admitted. "She's a walking disaster, but she lights up a room like it's nothing."

"Sounds like someone's smitten," Fifi teased, nudging him with her elbow.

He raised a brow, unimpressed. "I said she lights up the room, Fifi. Not that I plan to marry her." Fifi only giggled in response and skipped off to make sure none of the children dared to stick their fingers on the cake, clearly unconvinced.

At the center of the inn, Lulu twirled again, her laughter rising above the clapping as villagers joined the rhythm, cheering her on. And for that one night, she was no longer a debt-ridden princess chained to a dock. She was Lulu—free, joyful, and wrapped in the warmth of a village that had given her a memory she would carry with her forever.

The celebration slowly unwound beneath the fading glow of lanterns. Laughter softened into gentle conversation, and one by one the villagers took their leave, offering warm farewells and lingering smiles before disappearing into the quiet streets. Outside, the night air was cool and sweet, carrying the lingering scent of baked desserts and the steady chorus of crickets from the fields beyond the square.

Lulu stood beside the waiting carriage, hands clasped demurely before her, her cheeks still faintly pink from the evening's excitement. The flower crown the children had given her sat slightly askew in her hair, its ribbon ends fluttering softly in the breeze, and she had stubbornly refused to replace it with her usual golden circlet. In that moment, she looked less like a visiting royal and more like someone reluctant to let go of something precious.

Lucien approached quietly, his footsteps measured against the cobblestones. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, Princess," he said gently.

She turned to him, smiling in that effortless way that always seemed to slip past his composure. "I did," she replied. "More than you know. I can't remember the last time I laughed that much." Her gaze drifted back toward the inn. "Everyone here… they treated me like a person. Not a title."

Lucien's lips curved into a faint smile. "That's just how Keimonomimi is," he said. "No politics. No crowns. Just good people and good food."

Her expression softened, something warm and earnest settling in her eyes. "Then I think," she said quietly, "this village might be one of my favorite places in the world."

For a moment, a peaceful silence stretched between them, unhurried and comfortable. Then Lucien cleared his throat and reached into his coat pocket. "I have something for you," he said.

Lulu blinked, startled. "Another gift?" she asked. "But you've already done so much—"

He held out a small paper-wrapped box tied neatly with a red ribbon. "Just open it."

Lulu hesitated, then carefully untied the ribbon, her fingers trembling despite herself. When she lifted the lid, a soft gasp escaped her. Inside lay a dozen small, glossy xocolates, each one hand-rolled and dusted lightly with cocoa, their rich scent unmistakable even in the cool night air. She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Is this… homemade xocolate?"

Lucien nodded. "Fifi made it herself," he said simply. "I thought it would be fitting for a birthday."

Lulu picked one up as if it might vanish if she moved too quickly and took a delicate bite. The reaction was instant—the sweetness melted on her tongue, and her expression transformed, eyes shining as her lips curved into pure, unguarded bliss. "It's heavenly!" she exclaimed. "Sweet, smooth, and just a little bitter—like a dream you don't want to wake from!"

Lucien chuckled under his breath. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She reached for another piece before pausing, her gaze lifting to his, her voice softening. "Thank you, Lucien," she said quietly. "For the party. For the gifts. And for treating me like I belong somewhere."

He gave a modest shrug, though the smile at his mouth betrayed him. "Just doing what any elder should," he replied. "Everyone deserves a proper birthday."

A brief silence followed, heavy with things neither of them said. Then Lulu asked softly, "Will I see you again?"

Lucien met her gaze, steady and kind. "Knowing you," he said, "I'm sure fate will make sure of it."

She laughed, the sound lingering like music in the cool night air, and climbed into the carriage with the little box clutched carefully in her hands. As the driver snapped the reins and the horses began to move, she leaned out the window and waved enthusiastically. "Goodnight, Lucien! I'll treasure this forever!"

He raised a hand in return and watched as the carriage rolled away, the rhythm of hooves fading into the distance. Behind him, lanterns flickered softly, casting warm gold across the now-quiet street. Lucien exhaled a slow, contented breath, his smile tinged with fatigue and satisfaction. "Happy birthday, Lulu," he murmured.

Then the elder of Keimonomimi turned back toward the inn, unaware that this peaceful night—so full of laughter and light—had quietly set in motion another wave of chaos waiting just beyond the horizon.