“Young master!” he called out, raising his voice. “I need your attention!”
Lukas, who was helping Aníbal carry the plates back to the pavilion, raised an eyebrow. “What is it this time, Le?ncio?” he asked, exhausted.
“These—” Le?ncio handed him the scrolls “—are authorization letters from taverns and merchants. They’re all asking for your signature. Everyone wants official permission to sell your dishes.” He cleared his throat, glancing around cautiously. “They say it’s become… a symbol. Something that makes people feel they belong to something greater.”
Lukas scanned the parchments. His heart beat slow, heavy. Each letter came from a different place — taverns in Sorriso, cafés from nearby villages, wandering street vendors. They all asked for the same thing: permission to feed the people.
For a moment, he considered refusing. After all, his house didn’t even officially exist yet. He didn’t have a seal of his own.
But then he remembered — the children sharing coxinhas, the old men who cried after tasting the pudding, the soldiers who had pounded their chests saying they finally felt like the Capital belonged to them, too.
I can’t turn this away.
He sat down on an improvised chair, took ink, quill, and patience.
He breathed deeply and began writing — one scroll at a time:
“By personal decision of Lukas Fernandes, founder of the Tenth House — still without a recognized crest, but founded on the conviction that no one should go hungry — I grant authorization to reproduce the recipes presented at the Festival of the Eleven Trials.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“We do not yet possess a seal of our own. But that does not matter. You have my word.”
“Sell at a fair price. The agreed tax — three silver coins of the realm per month — shall be collected in the name of the future House of Legionaries. And if anyone tries to charge more or exploit those with little, this right will be revoked without warning.”
“You are free to feed the people.”
“Remember: every bowl, every piece of bread, every portion served — all carry the name of Sorriso. And my name.”
“With respect,
Lukas Fernandes
Founder of the Tenth House (still without a seal, but with purpose).”
When he finished writing, he noticed a small crowd had gathered to watch — simple folk: bakers, soldiers, young women of every race, dwarf merchants, a few hesitant elves.
An old man with a white beard, holding one of the letters, swallowed hard.
“Young master…” he said, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to thank you. I… I thought no son of the Patriarch cared for people like us.”
“I’m not like them,” Lukas replied calmly. “I don’t just want to build a house. I want it to mean something.”
A heavy silence fell. Then someone began clapping. Then another. And another.
Within seconds, applause grew into a roar.
From afar, Sarya watched quietly, with a gaze that bordered on melancholy.
“He doesn’t realize it…” she thought. “...but he just created something that will outlast any wall.”
Morgana, in his mind, sighed:
“Hehe… I should hate this. But I’ll admit, this foolishness of yours — caring for the weak — it’s almost… attractive.”
César spoke gravely, filled with emotion:
“If every legionary were like you, boy… no empire would ever fall.”
Lukas raised his hand and spoke firmly:
“If anyone asks…” he said, voice carrying something he couldn’t quite name,
“Tell them this was done in the name of the Tenth House — the House of Legionaries.”
“And that our seal may not yet exist… but when it does, it will bear the weight of everyone who believed in this today.”
End of Chapter 25
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