NOVPUBIn the bustling streets of Goshen—the golden city of trade—life surged with a rhythm that was both chaotic and beautiful. Over the years, the city had swelled in size, drawing thousands who sought fortune in this promised land of greener pastures. Those who had refused to relocate often lived to regret their choice, watching from afar as Goshen's light grew brighter, its influence reaching the far edges of the Dukedom.
One needed only to visit the famed Westfield Restaurant to witness the transformation firsthand. What once was a humble two-storey eatery had grown into a towering four-storey mansion-like structure. It boasted private chambers for the elite, upper-classmen floors with exclusive service, lower-class dining halls with vibrant hustle, and even dedicated entertainment quarters that pulsed with music, laughter, and the clinking of gold.
On the ground floor, a symphony of voices filled the air as nearly every table was packed to capacity.
"Give me some King Bread! Make it hot!"
"Four mugs of Moonlit Milk! And here's a silver for your speed!"
The waiters—neatly dressed in tailored uniforms—glided through the crowd with trained precision, balancing trays stacked high with delicacies and drink. Above them, the upper floor told a different story: quieter, lavish, dignified. Here, nobles and wealthy merchants dined on rare delights—Moonlit Starhorn stir-fried beef, seared to perfection, and goblets of Blood Wine, a legend in a bottle.
This wine had once been only a dream. Its seeds, the blood grapes, had been imported from a merchant guild who sourced them from the ember-lit lands of Nightfire. Planted with care, those seeds birthed an entire vineyard that now sprawled across acres.
Today, Blood Wine stood as the most luxurious drink in the entire Dukedom—a single bottle worth a hundred gold coins, the equivalent of a well-paid peasant's annual salary, bonuses included.
With yearly earnings in the millions, Westfield wasn't just a restaurant—it was a cultural beacon, rippling wealth and influence through Ashbourne and beyond.
At the very heart of its success stood Priscilla, the red-haired enchantress of the kitchen. Known for her radiant beauty and her mastery of blue flames, she was more than a chef—she was an artist, a performer, and a legend. The open kitchen was her stage, and every night she danced with fire, her culinary displays drawing in thousands of gold coins. Her presence guaranteed a full house.
But tonight, even Priscilla's performance was overshadowed by a greater buzz.
Whispers floated like smoke in every hall and corridor.
"Have you heard?"
"The Duke's children… twins… both born with talents, they say."
"What a joke!"
"A grand celebration is coming. The whole Dukedom will shake."
The excitement was palpable. Even the seasoned waitstaff, usually unbothered by court gossip, exchanged knowing glances. This was no ordinary festivity—it was an event that would mark the era.
Within the vast, heat-hummed expanse of the kitchen, lined with marble counters, bronze-piped ovens, and glowing runes that fed the flames Priscilla, now a saint-grade cook, stood like a commander on the battlefield. Her sharp eyes tracked the movements of a nervous journeyman who was dicing sunroot too thickly.
"Again," she instructed curtly, watching him restart with trembling hands.
A voice broke through the rhythm of chopping and the low hum of stoves.
"I heard one of the Duke's sons has green hair… and green eyes."
It came from a grandmaster-grade cook, a recent hire who already stirred gossip as deftly as he stirred stew.
"True," chimed in a younger cook nearby, her tone light with admiration. "They say he's as beautiful as his mother."
"Hmph," came a sharper voice—a middle-aged woman with a long scar across her cheek and a tongue twice as sharp. "He won't win the hearts of the nobility with beauty alone. Green hair? That child has already lost the throne. Blood is everything in a noble household… Sometimes even a peasant will turn cold toward a son who doesn't mirror him."
Priscilla's brow twitched as she straightened.
"He looks like his mother," she said calmly, her voice like a simmering pot—quiet, but full of heat.
"He's a boy, not a woman. Her beauty works in her favor. His will be a curse," the cook retorted, not backing down. "The Council of Nobles likely already favors Atreides. The heir who inherits the trait of the Duke is the heir they'll support."
Her words hung heavy in the air like steam off a boiling pot. Then, her gaze locked with Priscilla's.
"You know I speak the truth, don't you? Green hair in a house of white and grey? That disparity will one day bleed into every room he walks in. And when he dares to fight for the throne, it will cut into him deeper than any blade."
Priscilla's fingers clenched the edge of the counter, but her voice remained level. "That's enough. We have a month to prepare gifts for children not even a year old. Why burden their future before they've even spoken their first words?"
The kitchen fell silent. Knives slowed. Pots hissed quietly. Those who had been listening dropped their gazes, chastened.
But the older cook only scoffed, the lines around her mouth tightening.
"You know nothing of nobility," she said, turning her back with a bitter flick of her apron.
She strode out of the kitchen without another word, leaving behind the low clatter of cooking and a ripple of tension in her wake.
Priscilla stared after her for a long moment, her flame-toned hair swaying as she turned away. Her heart was knotted. Not because she doubted the boy's strength.
But because she feared just how right that woman might be.
….
In a brightly lit chamber adorned with velvet drapes and silver candleholders, far from the reaches of Ashbourne territory, Jessica stood before a crackling fireplace. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she tossed a letter into the flames. The parchment curled and blackened, the emblem of the Shadow Order melting into ash.
It was a reply she had long awaited.
At her command, the Order—renowned across the continent for its assassin hierarchy—had dispatched an elite unit. Their mission: the utter eradication of the Ashbourne line.
A smile tugged at her crimson-painted lips.
What chaos would erupt when the nobles, gathered in droves to celebrate the Duke's heirs, began to convulse and die mid-toast? What panic would spread when the twin heirs, symbols of legacy and hope, were found lifeless in their cribs?
Jessica's smile deepened, her voice a whisper to the flames.
"You mocked my son. Denied him the right to your sister. Heh… I'll watch you weep blood."
Click.
The ornate door creaked open. Kohath, her son, stepped in—his face pale with urgency.
"We've found her," he said. "Yuna. She's with Mary Ashbourne. They were both found in Adamos territory."
Jessica turned slowly, her smile blooming like a black rose.
"How delightful," she murmured. "Then we kill two birds with one stone."
Her eyes flickered like the fire behind her—brimming with malice, intelligence, and vengeance long aged.
