Chapter 17: Demon Court Breakfast and Princess Grenda

WEEKLY DEMON COURT MEETING

The palace hall filled with the rumble of boots, scraping chairs, and the low growls of demons trying very hard to look dignified while waiting for food. Cael and the imps wheeled in ten steaming dishes, four of his own, six from the imp brigade, and the scent hit the chamber like a spark in dry wood.

The Demon Court was assembled in full splendor.

* General Draz sat stiff as a mountain, unreadable.

* General Varka popped her knuckles like fireworks.

* General Thorne drank a goblet of shadows, burping up smoke rings.

* General Molg glared at his chair as though it had personally betrayed him.

The advisers whispered in their usual hush: Nyssa with her sharp eyes, Vizier Krohl muttering something about “portents of flame and soup,” and Chronicler Sessh scribbling so furiously it looked like his quill might set fire to his ledger.

The ministers flanked the long table, a mess of eccentricities: Guldor sneering, Dreev polishing his monocle, M’renn stroking her mop that was somehow still on fire, Poxxi wheezing with anticipation, Blightbell petting her glowing fruit, and Snurk already sobbing with joy at the smell of the dishes.

Cael placed the platters on the serving table, trembling. His hands smelled of roasted meats and fusion sauces; his shirt was damp from hours in the kitchen. The imps scattered, proud of their contributions, while Cael stood to one side, clutching his apron like a shield.

The reports began.

Molg puffed out his chest. “I silenced the squeak of my chair. Permanently.”

He presented the splintered remains of the poor seat.

Vizier Krohl rose with a flourish. “The sky turned green for three seconds yesterday. A harbinger! A culinary omen! Or perhaps indigestion.”

M’renn beamed. “Only three mops burned this week! A new record.”

Cael stared, his stomach sinking. He still wasn’t sure if these were actual accomplishments.

Just as Ashara leaned forward to announce the rankings, the great doors slammed open.

PRINCESS GRENDA BARGED IN

A guard stumbled in, breathless. “Your Majesty! Princess Grenda of the Brimrock Peaks is here! She demands entry!”

Ashara’s eyebrow arched, but before she could respond, the stone-gray figure of Grenda herself stormed in. Her footsteps thundered across the floor. She had the rough skin of carved rock, a wide nose, four beautiful tusks gleaming proudly, and muscles that looked like they could crush mountains into gravel.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She roared, voice echoing off the walls: “Ashara! I smell Cael’s cooking!”

Ashara’s crimson eyes lit with delight. She shot up from her throne, lips curving into a grin.

Then they charged.

The hall shook as the Demon Queen and the Demon Princess collided, fists against fists, shoulders slamming, legs kicking. No magic, just raw force. Their laughter mingled with each resounding impact.

The shockwaves knocked goblets flying. A tapestry tore in half. The table groaned.

Cael’s vision blurred. “It’s happening. The war is happening right now!” He ducked behind the serving table, clutching his head.

The doors banged again. Prince Vaedranis and his small entourage rushed in, clearly having sprinted from town. The prince’s cloak flared as he scanned the chaos. Without hesitation, he moved toward Cael, crouching beside him and shielding him from flying debris.

“They’re friends,” Vaedranis said evenly, his tone calm but his eyes wary. “They… spar when they meet.”

Cael’s jaw dropped. “Friends? This looks like…like…armageddon!”

The prince’s adviser nodded with grave politeness. “This is their version of friendship, Lord Cael.”

“You should have seen their sparring match when Queen Ashara visited Princess Grenda to make her the judge for the first round of the cooking competition,” he added.

“Utter chaos and destruction…”

The spar lasted several minutes before Ashara slammed Grenda down with a grin, pinning her shoulders. Both demons burst out laughing, helping each other up and clapping each other’s backs hard enough to make the air vibrate.

Ashara caught her breath. “As much as I’d love to give you Cael’s dishes, they’re reserved for my Demon Court.”

The court members perked up, eyes gleaming hungrily.

Grenda sniffed, tusks gleaming in the light. “Tch. Then I’ll just join the Court today.” She marched over to the serving table, cracking her knuckles.

Ashara smirked, gesturing toward the generals, advisers, and ministers now poised like wolves ready to pounce. “Suit yourself.”

The hall exploded.

Varka leapt across the table, Dreev swung his monocle like a flail, Blightbell hurled glowing fruit as projectiles, and Molg body-slammed anyone near a plate. Grenda dove into the fray with a triumphant laugh, wrestling a bowl of stew from three ministers at once.

Ashara joined, dodging plates and swiping a leg at Varka, laughing like wildfire.

Cael slid under the main table, arms over his head, muttering prayers in every language he knew.

Beside him crouched Vaedranis, his adviser, and the four soldiers, none of whom moved to join the fight. They simply stared at the chaos in quiet horror.

Finally, Vaedranis leaned close, voice low. “Lord Cael… is it always like this?”

Cael peeked out, eyes watery. “Y-yes. Every breakfast. Without fail.”

The entourage shared a look, then reached out and patted Cael’s back in silent solidarity.

For the first time in weeks, Cael felt a strange flicker of warmth.

“I still can’t believe I’m surviving in Ashenfall,” he thought, hugging his knees. “But at least I’ve finally met some normal demons… Or maybe they’re the abnormal ones.”