5 years

One month later.

The carriage rocked gently as it trundled down the cobbled road, the world outside a blurry smear of green fields, clustered farmhouses, and the occasional startled chicken.

It was my first official outing into the city, and I, Fuoco Cattivo — five years old, newly formed magic core, supreme former Lord of Hell — was determined to gather vital intelligence.

Also, I needed a birthday suit.

No, not the scandalous kind.

 The noble kind. The one with so many ruffles you could use it as a flotation device.

I sat perched on the velvet seat, legs too short to touch the floor, drumming my fingers impatiently against the polished wood paneling.

 Across from me sat Millie, my ever-loyal nanny and probably the only human being on this miserable plane capable of surviving my personality without developing a drinking problem.

Next to her were our three knights: Baldwin, Merrick, and Claude.

Also known as the Three Stooges of Anxiety.

They sat rigidly, hands on sword hilts, scanning the landscape outside like we were about to be ambushed by a horde of invisible assassins.

Which was ridiculous.

I mean, who would dare assassinate a five-year-old?

 (…Actually, given noble politics, better question: who wouldn't?)

"Millie," I said, breaking the silence with the air of a king summoning a favored advisor, "tell me about our neighboring dukedoms."

She blinked, surprised.

"Neighboring dukedoms? Why, young master?"

I shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Academic curiosity. Also strategic paranoia. Also boredom."

Sir Claude choked slightly.

Millie smiled, indulging me. "Well, as you know, the Cattivo Dukedom lies on the western coast of the empire. We control several key ports, rich farmland, and two vital mountain passes leading inland."

I nodded thoughtfully.

Ports meant trade.

 Farmland meant taxes.

 Mountain passes meant choke points in case of war.

Already my little heart throbbed with imperialistic glee.

"And our neighbors?" I prompted.

Millie folded her hands primly. "To the north, we have House Bellafonte. They're known for their cavalry and vineyards."

I pictured smug knights drunk on expensive wine charging into battle and immediately respected them less.

"East?"

"House Duskgrave. Masters of mining and metalwork. Their fortress-city, Guldar, is carved straight into the Ironspine Mountains."

That sounded far more interesting.

 I made a mental note to visit one day and steal—I mean admire—their smithing secrets.

"And south?"

"South is the Grand Duchy of Fontaine. Waterways, agriculture, and... somewhat unstable leadership," Millie said diplomatically.

Translation: a house one bad harvest away from civil war.

"Ah," I mused, "ripe for exploitation."

Millie gave me the Look.

You know the one.

The 'You're adorable but concerning' Look.

I ignored it.

"Has there been any recent succession drama?" I asked brightly.

Sir Baldwin muttered, "You make it sound like a tavern brawl."

"Isn't it?" I retorted. "Politics is just professional brawling with fancier outfits and more passive-aggressive letters."

Millie suppressed a giggle.

"Well, recently, the Marquis of Ravencourt passed away without a clear heir," she offered. "There's been a bit of... tension."

"Bit" being noblewoman-speak for "daggers under the dinner table and poison in the tea."

I leaned back, steepling my fingers like an evil baby emperor.

"So much chaos. So little time."

"Young master," Sir Merrick said stiffly, "you are five."

"And yet already more competent than half the aristocracy," I said, inspecting my nails.

There was a beat of silence.

No one argued.

Outside, the city walls of Vellucia finally loomed into view — massive stone barriers punctuated by watchtowers fluttering with blue-and-gold banners.

The carriage slowed as we approached the gate.

Vendors hawked wares.

 Street urchins darted between horse carts.

 Perfumes, spices, fresh bread, and city grime mixed into a smell so potent I almost gagged.

We rattled through the gates with only a token inspection — Cattivo crests on our carriage did that — and soon we plunged into the organized chaos of the town.

I pressed my nose to the window, soaking it all in.

Humans bustling.

Merchants shouting.

Pickpockets filching.

It was… glorious.

Compared to the eternal monotony of Hell's obsidian halls and rivers of screaming souls, this place was practically a carnival.

"So," I said idly, "hypothetically speaking, how difficult would it be to stage a coup here?"

Sir Baldwin made a noise like a dying cat.

Millie covered her mouth to hide her smile.

"Very difficult, young master," she said, patting my knee. "The city guard is well-trained."

"Pity," I sighed.

The carriage took a sharp turn, nearly sending Sir Claude sprawling into Millie's lap, and finally stopped in front of the most ostentatious building in the district.

La Belle Couture.

Even the name sounded pretentious.

I could already feel the velvet assaulting my soul.

The footman opened the carriage door with a flourish, and the knights immediately deployed into "Overprotective Wall of Muscle" formation around me.

I adjusted my tiny cravat with exaggerated dignity.

"Well, onwards," I declared. "To shop, perchance to suffer."

Millie offered me her hand, and I took it solemnly.

Together, we marched into the jaws of fashion doom.

Inside, the boutique was a riot of color and silk and far too many things embroidered with flowers.

Salesclerks in frilly uniforms descended on us like vultures spotting a particularly juicy corpse.

"Welcome, welcome, young master! What a delight! What a cherub! What a little angel!"

I gave them my best dead-eyed stare.

If only you knew.

Millie explained my birthday party requirements while the clerks produced outfits with the efficiency of a siege engine.

I was manhandled, fluffed, turned, spun, and very nearly drowned in lace.

During a particularly offensive fitting involving a jacket with enough gold trim to buy a small country, I leaned toward Millie and whispered, "Tell me truly, Millie. Would it be considered treason if I declared war on ruffles?"

She giggled so hard she had to pretend to sneeze.

The knights looked on with hollow eyes.

At some point, they dressed me in a miniature version of a full formal general's uniform — epaulets, sash, ceremonial sword, and everything.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

There he was: a tiny dictator in the making.

It was... perfect.

"I'll take it," I said grandly.

Millie smiled, wiping her eyes. "You look magnificent, young master."

"Naturally," I sniffed.

As we completed our purchases — including gloves, shoes, a ridiculous feathered hat (which I immediately lost "accidentally" in a passing fountain), and an ornate silver pocket watch — I realized something:

Today wasn't just about shopping.

It was reconnaissance.

It was the first true step into the world outside the Cattivo estate.

A world of ambition, chaos, bloodlines, and power.

A world that one day would kneel before me.

I stood there in the afternoon light, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, and thought:

Watch carefully, world. A new sovereign walks among you.

Then my foot slipped on a stray peach pit and I fell flat on my face.

Millie rushed over, fussing, and the knights formed a human shield around me again like I was the last egg of a dying species.

I lay there, cheek pressed to the warm stones, contemplating my life choices.

Damn this mortal coil.

Again.