She marched out of her room, the ink bottle hidden in her pocket. She walked with purpose. She was going to war. A war of hearts.

  She found Lloyd in the reference section. He was standing by a tall shelf, reading a book about structural engineering. He looked peaceful. He looked boring.

  "Target acquired," Isabella thought.

  She walked towards him. She timed it perfectly. Just as she passed him, she "stumbled." She let out a small, delicate gasp. She pulled the cork out of the ink bottle and splashed it all over the front of her white blouse.

  "Oh no!" Isabella cried, perhaps a little too loudly. "My ink! My shirt! Whatever shall I do?"

  She stood there, dripping black ink onto the floor, looking at Lloyd with wide, helpless eyes. She waited.

  She expected him to panic. She expected him to offer his coat to cover the stain. She expected him to dab at it with a handkerchief while murmuring comforting words. She expected chivalry.

  Lloyd looked up from his book. He looked at her shirt. He looked at the ink puddle on the floor. He looked at her face.

  He didn't panic. He didn't offer his coat. He adjusted his glasses.

  "Iron-gall ink," Lloyd observed. His voice was calm. Clinical. "Standard issue. High acidity. Terrible viscosity."

  Isabella blinked. "What?"

  "The stain," Lloyd said, pointing at her chest with a pen. "It is setting. You have about forty-five seconds before it binds to the fibers permanently. The cellulose in the cotton reacts with the iron salts."

  "I... I am ruined!" Isabella tried again, adding a little wobble to her voice. "This was my favorite blouse!"

  "Panic increases heart rate," Lloyd lectured. "Increased heart rate increases body temperature. Heat sets the stain faster. Calm down. It is just chemistry."

  He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He started writing.

  "You need to neutralize the acid," Lloyd explained, not looking up. "Do not use water. Water will spread the pigment. You need an acid-base reaction. Do you have access to lemons?"

  Isabella stared at him. "Lemons?"

  "Citric acid," Lloyd said. "Or white vinegar. Mix it with salt. The sodium chloride acts as an abrasive absorbent. Apply it to the stain. Let it sit for ten minutes. Then rinse with cold milk."

  He tore the page out of his notebook and handed it to her.

  "Here," Lloyd said. "The formula for the solvent. Go to the kitchen immediately. Ask for a lemon. If they don't have lemons, ask for a lime. But adjust the ratio because limes are more acidic."

  Isabella took the paper. She looked at it. It wasn't a love note. It was a chemical equation.

  "You..." she stammered. "You are giving me a recipe?"

  "I am giving you a solution," Lloyd said. He turned back to his book. "Now go. The clock is ticking. Oxidation waits for no princess."

  Isabella stood there for a moment, her mouth open. She was covered in ink. She was holding a recipe for stain remover. And the man she was trying to seduce was ignoring her to read about bridges.

  "You are the most unromantic man in the world!" she hissed.

  "And you are the most stain-prone," Lloyd replied absently. "Run along now. Save the shirt."

  Isabella turned and fled. She ran to the bathroom, furious and confused. Her tactical operation was a failure. A complete, catastrophic failure.

  "Lemon juice and salt," she muttered, scrubbing at her shirt. "I will give him lemon juice and salt. In his eyes."

  Lloyd watched Isabella run out of the library. He lowered his book. A small smile played on his lips.

  "Nice try, Princess," he whispered.

  He knew exactly what she was doing. He had the [All-Seeing Eye]. He had seen her uncork the bottle before she even "tripped." He had seen the lack of surprise in her muscles. It was a staged event. A bad one.

  "Why does everyone think I am a character in a romance novel?" Lloyd wondered. "I am an engineer in a survival horror game. There is a difference."

  He felt a little bad for embarrassing her. But only a little. She needed to learn that he wasn't a toy. And honestly, the ink stain advice was solid. It would save the shirt.

  "She's persistent," Lloyd noted. "That's dangerous. Persistent people dig until they find bodies."

  He went back to his reading. But he couldn't focus. The image of Isabella, covered in ink and looking furious, was stuck in his head. It was... funny. Actually funny.

  "Maybe I should have offered her a coat," he thought. "No. That would encourage her. Giving her a chemistry lesson establishes dominance. It says, 'I am smarter than your hormones'."

  He closed the book. He needed to get back to the lab. Mina was waiting.

  When he arrived at the Old Tower, Mina was organizing the archives. She looked up.

  "You are late," she said.

  "I was waylaid," Lloyd said. "By a princess and a bottle of ink."

  "Isabella?" Mina asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  "Yes. She tried to... I don't know. Connect? It was weird. She spilled ink on herself and expected me to fix it."

  "And did you?"

  "I gave her a recipe for cleaning fluid," Lloyd said proudly.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Mina stared at him. Then she started to laugh. She laughed until she had to hold onto the table.

  "Oh, Lloyd," she gasped. "You are hopeless. She was trying to flirt with you!"

  "Flirting involves words," Lloyd argued. "Not industrial accidents."

  "It was a 'damsel in distress' gambit," Mina explained, wiping her eyes. "Classic. She wanted you to save her. To be gallant."

  "I was gallant!" Lloyd protested. "I saved her shirt! That shirt costs more than a horse!"

  Mina shook her head, still smiling. "You are a very strange man, Lloyd Ferrum. Most men would have jumped at the chance to help a princess undress... I mean, clean up."

  Lloyd felt his face heat up. "I prefer my relationships to be based on mutual respect and shared interests. Not laundry emergencies."

  "Well," Mina said, picking up a scroll. "I am glad you survived. But be careful. A woman scorned is dangerous. A princess scorned... is lethal."

  "She'll get over it," Lloyd said dismissively. "She has a kingdom to run. She doesn't have time to obsess over a professor."

  Meanwhile, in the Royal Guard Barracks...

  Isabella was pacing again. She was wearing a clean shirt. She was holding a sword. And she was talking to a dummy that she had named "Professor Ferrum."

  "He gave me a formula!" she shouted, stabbing the dummy. "A formula! 'Oxidation waits for no princess'! The nerve! The absolute arrogance!"

  She slashed the dummy's head off.

  "He thinks he is so smart," she growled. "He thinks he is so cold. But I know the truth. It is a mask. A thick, annoying, tweed mask."

  She panted, lowering her sword.

  "Chemistry," she whispered. "He likes chemistry. He likes logic. He likes... making things."

  A new idea formed in her mind. A terrible, brilliant idea.

  If seduction didn't work... maybe competition would. Maybe she needed to show him that she wasn't just a warrior. That she could be domestic. That she could create.

  "Cooking," Isabella decided. "Cooking is just chemistry with food. I can cook. I am a princess. I have eaten food my whole life. How hard can it be?"

  She smiled. It was a terrifying smile.

  "Operation Seduce is cancelled," she declared to the headless dummy. "Commence Operation: Kitchen Domination. I will bake him a cake so perfect he will weep. And then he will have to admit that I am amazing."

  She sheathed her sword.

  "Tomorrow," she vowed. "Tomorrow, we bake."

  Lloyd, safely in his tower, suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine.

  "Someone walked over my grave," he muttered.

  "Or someone is planning your funeral," Mina suggested helpfully.

  "Probably," Lloyd sighed. "Probably."

  The Royal Academy Kitchens were usually a place of organized chaos, filled with cooks shouting about soup and apprentices dropping potatoes. But today, the chaos was different. It was the chaos of a duel.

  On one side of the large central island stood Princess Isabella. She was wearing an apron over her uniform. It had a little bear on it. She looked deadly serious. She had lined up twenty eggs, a sack of flour, and a whisk that she was holding like a dagger.

  On the other side stood Lloyd. He was also wearing an apron. His was plain white and very clean. He had lined up a scale, a set of calipers, a thermometer, and a beaker. He looked like he was about to perform surgery on a muffin.

  "The challenge is simple," Isabella announced. Her voice echoed off the pots and pans. "We will each prepare a dish. A dish that represents our soul. A dish of passion!"

  "A dish of nutritional value," Lloyd corrected. "And structural integrity."

  "The judge," Isabella pointed to the door, "has arrived."

  Rubaiya walked in. She was holding a book and looking for a kettle. She stopped. She looked at Isabella. She looked at Lloyd. She looked at the bear apron.

  "I just wanted tea," Rubaiya said. "Why is there a war in the kitchen?"

  "You are the judge!" Isabella declared. "Sit. Observe. Prepare to be dazzled."

  Rubaiya sighed. She sat on a stool in the corner. "Fine. But if I get food poisoning, I am deducting points from your house."

  "Begin!" Isabella shouted.

  She attacked the eggs. She cracked them with vigor. Shells flew everywhere. She poured flour into a bowl without measuring. She added sugar until it looked like a snowdrift.

  "Cooking is art!" Isabella yelled over the sound of her furious whisking. "It is feeling! It is fire!"

  She grabbed a bottle of brandy and poured a generous amount into the batter. "For flavor!"

  On the other side, Lloyd was silent. He placed a bowl on the scale. He added flour, gram by gram. He checked the weight. He adjusted. He added water at exactly 45 degrees Celsius.

  "Cooking is chemistry," Lloyd muttered. "Proteins denature. Gluten bonds form. It is a matrix."

  He mixed his dough with slow, precise movements. He poured it into a square metal mold. He used a ruler to level the top.

  Isabella threw her mixture into the oven. She slammed the door. "Now, we wait! And turn up the heat! Passion needs heat!"

  She cranked the oven dial to the maximum setting.

  "That seems... excessive," Lloyd noted, sliding his mold into the adjacent oven. He set the temperature to a moderate 180 degrees. He set a timer.

  Ten minutes passed. Rubaiya read her book. Lloyd watched his timer. Isabella paced back and forth, glaring at the oven like she could intimidate the food into baking faster.

  Suddenly, a low rumble came from Isabella's oven.

  "Is it supposed to growl?" Rubaiya asked, not looking up.

  "It is the sound of flavor expanding!" Isabella claimed.

  BOOM.

  The oven door blew open. A cloud of black smoke billowed out. A substance that looked like expanding foam erupted from the oven, coating the floor, the table, and a passing guard in yellow goo.

  "My soufflé!" Isabella cried.

  She ran to the oven. Inside was a blackened crater.

  "It... it exploded," she whispered.

  "Too much heat," Lloyd diagnosed without looking up. "Rapid expansion of gases. Structural failure."

  Ding.

  Lloyd's timer went off. He put on oven mitts. He opened his oven. He pulled out a tray.

  On the tray were twelve perfect, golden-brown cubes. They were identical. They had sharp corners. They looked like building blocks made of bread.

  "Behold," Lloyd said. "The Nutrient Cube."

  Isabella stared at the cubes. "That is not food. That is geometry."

  "It is efficient," Lloyd said. "It contains all the necessary vitamins, minerals, and calories for a grown man for one day. And it stacks perfectly in a backpack."

  "Present your dishes," Rubaiya commanded. She looked bored, but her eyes were twinkling.

  Isabella scraped some of the non-exploded goo onto a plate. It was runny. It smelled like burnt sugar and despair.

  Lloyd stacked three cubes into a pyramid on his plate. It looked like a monument to boredom.

  Rubaiya walked over. She picked up a spoon. She tasted Isabella's goo.

  She chewed. She grimaced. She swallowed with difficulty. "It has... texture. And it is very... alcoholic. It tastes like a fire in a candy shop."

  She turned to Lloyd's plate. She picked up a cube. It was hard. She bit into it. Crunch.

  She chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

  "It tastes like..." Rubaiya frowned. "Nothing. It tastes like the absence of joy. It tastes like math."

  She put the cube down. She wiped her mouth with a napkin.

  "The verdict," she announced.

  Isabella and Lloyd leaned forward.

  "You both lose," Rubaiya said.

  "What?" they shouted in unison.

  "Isabella, your dish is a hazard to public safety," Rubaiya said. "Lloyd, your dish is an insult to the concept of taste. Therefore, it is a tie. A terrible, tragic tie."

  "But mine has structural integrity!" Lloyd argued.

  "And mine has passion!" Isabella yelled.

  "Silence," Rubaiya ordered. "Since you have both failed to feed me, you must accept the punishment."

  She pointed to the kitchen. It was a disaster zone. There was egg on the ceiling. Flour on the floor. Smoke in the air.

  "You will clean this," Rubaiya said. "Every spot. Every stain. Until it shines. I am going to the faculty lounge to get actual tea. Goodbye."

  She walked out, leaving them alone in the wreckage.

  Lloyd looked at the kitchen. It was a nightmare. "Well," he said. "This is suboptimal."

  Isabella looked at her ruined uniform. She looked at the egg dripping from the ceiling. She let out a long sigh.

  "I hate cooking," she admitted.

  "Me too," Lloyd said. "I prefer eating."

  He grabbed a mop. He handed a rag to Isabella. "Here. You do the counters. I'll do the floor."

  "I am a Princess," Isabella grumbled, taking the rag. "I do not scrub."

  "Today you do," Lloyd said. "Unless you want Annalisa to see this. She will be very disappointed."

  Isabella paled. The Head Maid was terrifying. "Scrubbing it is."

  They started to clean. It was quiet for a while, except for the sound of scrubbing and the occasional curse from Isabella when she found a sticky spot.

  Lloyd watched her. She was attacking the stains with the same intensity she used in a duel. She was fierce. She was ridiculous.

  "You know," Lloyd said, wringing out the mop. "You put too much baking powder in. That's why it exploded."

  "I thought more powder meant more rise," Isabella defended. "I wanted it to be tall. Majestic."

  "Baking isn't about majesty," Lloyd said. "It's about ratios. You can't force a cake to be a king."

  "You are so boring," Isabella said, throwing a soapy sponge at him. It hit his chest with a wet thwack.

  "Hey!" Lloyd laughed. He flicked a glob of foam at her. It landed on her nose.

  Isabella gasped. She touched her nose. She looked at the foam. Then she looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eye.

  "War," she declared.

  She grabbed a handful of flour from the spilled bag. She threw it.

  Lloyd ducked. The flour hit the wall behind him. "Oh, you want to play dirty?"

  He grabbed the water bucket.

  For the next ten minutes, the kitchen became a battlefield. Flour flew like smoke grenades. Water splashed like artillery. They slipped. They slid. They laughed.

  It wasn't a duel of wits. It wasn't a political maneuver. It was just two people, exhausted by their roles, acting like children.

  Finally, they collapsed on the floor, leaning against the cabinets. They were covered in white paste. They were wet. They were breathless.

  "I win," Isabella panted.

  "You have flour in your eyebrows," Lloyd pointed out. "You definitely lost."

  "It is a tactical camouflage," she claimed.

  They sat there in the silence. The tension that usually hung between them—the rivalry, the suspicion—was gone. Washed away by the soap fight.

  "You aren't a robot, Lloyd," Isabella said softly. She looked at him. Her eyes were bright. "You made a joke. You laughed. You threw a sponge."

  "I have my moments," Lloyd said.

  "Why do you hide it?" she asked. "Why do you pretend to be so... cold?"

  "Because the world is heavy," Lloyd said, looking at the ceiling. "And if you laugh too much, you might drop it."

  "Maybe," Isabella said. "Or maybe, if you laugh, someone might help you carry it."

  She reached out and wiped a spot of flour from his sleeve. It was a gentle gesture.

  "You are not what I expected," she whispered. "I thought you were a target. Then a rival. Now... I don't know what you are."

  "I'm just a guy who makes bad food cubes," Lloyd said.

  Isabella smiled. It was a real smile. Not a predatory grin. A smile.

  "They were terrible," she agreed. "Truly awful."

  The door opened. Rubaiya poked her head in. She saw the mess. She saw the two of them sitting on the floor, looking like powdered ghosts.

  She didn't yell. She didn't scold. She just shook her head.

  "You missed a spot," Rubaiya said, pointing to a patch of egg on the wall.

  Then she smiled. It was a small, affectionate smile. She had seen what she needed to see. The walls were coming down. The alliances were shifting.

  "Clean it up," Rubaiya said. "And then come get tea. I saved you some biscuits. Store-bought. So they are actually edible."

  She left.

  Lloyd and Isabella looked at each other. They groaned. They stood up. Their bodies ached. They were dirty.

  "Truce?" Lloyd offered his hand.

  Isabella took it. Her grip was strong. "Truce. Until the next duel."

  "Next time," Lloyd said, "we duel with something safer. Like... knitting."

  "I would destroy you at knitting," Isabella said confidently.

  "We'll see," Lloyd grinned.

  They went back to cleaning. But the air in the kitchen was lighter. The disaster was beautiful. And for the first time, Lloyd felt that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't just surviving the Academy. He was starting to live in it.

  But outside the kitchen, the shadows were lengthening. The curse was still hungry. And the laughter in the tower wouldn't last forever.