Villainess to Culinary Genius

The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows of the Royal Academy's main hall, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Students mill about in small clusters, their whispers a constant hum beneath the vaulted ceiling. The air smells of old parchment and the faint sweetness of the roses arranged on the central pedestal.

You have barely stepped through the doors when the murmurs sharpen. Eyes flick toward you, then away. A cluster of noble students near the fountain steps apart like water parting around a stone.

And there, at the center, stands Prince Jeord Stuart.

His golden hair catches the light, his blue eyes cold as winter. Beside him, Alan Stuart leans against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression one of barely concealed irritation. Keith Claes stands a few paces behind, his purple eyes fixed on the floor—or perhaps deliberately avoiding looking at you. Further back, near the grand staircase, Nicol Ascart watches in silence, his beautiful face unreadable. And in the shadow of the columns, Sirius Dieke offers a small, sympathetic smile that does not reach his eyes.

Near Jeord's side, Maria Campbell stands with her hands clasped in front of her. Her blonde hair is slightly disheveled, her blue eyes wide and uncertain. She says nothing, but her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly.

Prince Jeord's voice cuts through the murmurs, clear and sharp.

"There you are, Lady User"

He takes a single step toward you, his posture rigid. The students nearest to him shrink back. His gaze does not waver.

"I heard a most troubling report this morning," Jeord continues, his tone deceptively calm. "It seems that Miss Campbell was found in the eastern courtyard, her books scattered, her sleeve torn, and—" his jaw tightens for the barest instant, "—a witness claims to have seen you leaving the scene."

A ripple of whispers flows through the crowd. A few students exchange knowing glances.

Alan pushes off from the pillar, his voice rougher than his brother's. "Just admit it already. We all know how you feel about her." He gestures toward Maria, who flinches slightly. "There's no point in pretending."

From the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement: Keith's hands curl into fists at his sides, but he still does not look up.

Jeord holds up a hand to silence Alan, though his gaze never leaves you. His voice drops, softer now, but no less cold.

"I am not here to make accusations without giving you a chance to speak." A pause. His eyes narrow—a fleeting crease of confusion, or perhaps something else. "So I will ask you plainly. Were you the one who confronted Miss Campbell this morning?"

Behind him, a young nobleman with a sharp face leans toward his companion and mutters loudly enough for all to hear: "As if she'd admit it."

You draw a slow breath, your mind already settling on the words before you speak them.

"I was in the kitchen."

The hall goes still.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then a ripple of confusion passes through the gathered students. A few brows furrow. Someone whispers, "The kitchen?" as though the word itself makes no sense.

Prince Jeord's expression flickers—something unreadable crossing his features before it vanishes behind his mask of cold composure. His voice comes out measured, cautious.

"The kitchen."

Beside him, Alan's head tilts, his earlier certainty wavering into bewilderment. He crosses his arms tighter, but the gesture seems more defensive now than confident.

It is Keith who speaks next, surprising everyone—including himself, perhaps. His voice is quiet, edged with something that might be disbelief or might be something else entirely. "You... were in the kitchen? At that hour?"

The question hangs in the air, genuine and unguarded.

Maria Campbell's wide eyes dart between you and the princes, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

Jeord's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His gaze searches your face for something—a tell, a crack in your story, perhaps. When he finds nothing, his voice hardens again, though a thread of uncertainty weaves beneath it.

"And what, exactly, were you doing there?"

The hall waits. The whispers have died entirely. Every eye is fixed on you.

What does User say?