I sat in the Great Hall. My heavy wooden throne wobbled because one leg was shorter than the others. My head pounded.
Daily Court was the absolute worst part of my day. Because Aldoria had no magic and no education, the peasants blamed their terrible lives on the stupidest things. To survive the boredom, I had instituted a new Keep law: the maids had to actively clean the Great Hall while I listened to complaints.
It was a brilliant policy.
Bess was currently on her hands and knees, scrubbing the damp stone floor with a rag. She wore a thick, scratchy wool dress, but the heavy labor made her sweat. The neckline drooped perfectly. I purposely knocked my wooden water cup off the table. It clattered to the floor.
"Oops," I said lazily. "Bess. I spilled. Missed a spot right here."
Bess sighed, wiped the sweat from her forehead with a thick forearm, and crawled over to my boots. I leaned forward, getting a fantastic, plunging view of her massive chest as she scrubbed the puddle. The heavy musk of lye soap and honest exertion drifted up to me.
"Milord!" a smelly peasant shouted, ruining my view.
I glared at him. It was Old Man Yost. He smelled like wet dog and onions.
"What is it, Yost?" I grumbled, leaning back in my wobbly chair.
"It is Baron Grell's men, Milord!" Yost cried, waving his skinny arms. "They crossed the border road this morning. They dumped three massive, heavy barrels right into my turnip patch! They said the mead inside was spoiled and tasted like piss, so they left it to rot on our land!"
I rubbed my eyes. "Just tell Grell to leave a one-star Yelp review and go touch grass," I muttered, my eyes drifting back to Bess's damp neckline.
Marta stood beside my throne. She didn't miss a beat. She stepped forward, her massive chest puffed out, translating my modern bullshit into ruthless medieval governance.
"The Lord decrees that the barrels are officially confiscated by the Keep as a border tax," Marta announced in a deadpan, authoritative voice. "Yost, you are fined two copper pennies for allowing foreign trash onto Lord Elaric's dirt. Pay the steward."
Yost bowed repeatedly, terrified of Marta. "Yes, Iron Maid! Thank you, Iron Maid!"
Thorne, my heavily armored Guard Captain, slammed his fist to his chest in a crisp salute. "A brilliant psychological strike, My Lord," Thorne growled seriously. "You want us to secure the hazardous waste and study it. We can catapult this poisoned mead over Grell's walls at midnight. A true 'one-star' tactical strike."
"Wait," I said. My brain finally processed the words.
I held up a hand. Bess stopped scrubbing. Marta looked at me. Thorne froze.
"Hold on. Did you say three barrels of mead?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Spoiled, Milord," Yost whimpered. "Smells like pure vinegar."
A massive, degenerate smile spread across my face. Willem had just told me we had no alcohol for my new 'OnlyMaids' tavern. And now, my pompous, idiot neighbor had just dumped three full barrels of booze right on my lawn.
"Court is adjourned," I announced, standing up. "Thorne. Take four men. Roll those barrels down into the Keep's cellar right now."
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the dark, damp cellar beneath the Great Hall. It smelled like wet dirt and rat shit. Willem stood next to me, clutching his ledger to his chest, sweating nervously.
Thorne and the guards heaved the massive wooden barrels into the corner.
I grabbed an iron crowbar and popped the wooden lid off the first barrel. A sharp, incredibly sour smell hit my nose. It smelled like fermented fruit, wet bread, and lemons.
Willem gagged, covering his mouth. "Gods preserve us," the old steward choked. "It is poison, My Lord. Grell is trying to assassinate us with rotten honey-water. We must burn it!"
I ignored him. I grabbed a dirty wooden cup, dipped it into the cloudy, yellowish liquid, and pulled it out.
"My Lord, no!" Thorne yelled, reaching for his sword as if he could fight the liquid.
I took a large gulp.
The mead hit my tongue. It was incredibly sour. It made my lips pucker. It was cloudy, tart, and had a weird, funky aftertaste.
I lowered the cup. I didn't spit it out. I started laughing.
In 2024, I had a roommate who dragged me to a hipster brewery in a gentrified neighborhood. Men with handlebar mustaches and beanie hats paid fourteen dollars a pint for a "Sour Craft IPA" that tasted exactly like this. Baron Grell's medieval palate only understood sweet wine and cheap ale. He thought it was spoiled.
He had no idea he had just gifted me a premium, trendy hipster beverage.
"Willem," I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "This isn't poison. This is a premium luxury asset."
"I... I do not understand," Willem stammered.
"It's an acquired taste," I grinned, tapping the side of the barrel. "We are going to rebrand it. Write this down in your ledger. We are calling this the Ravenhold Artisanal Sour. We are going to serve it exclusively to the merchants in the courtyard."
"But it tastes like sour milk and regret!" Willem protested.
"Exactly," I said. "Which means we can charge them triple for it. Men will pay a fortune for garbage if you convince them it's high-class." I turned to the stairs. "Willem, get the tables set up outside. It's time."
"Time for what, My Lord?"
"Time to fix the uniforms," I said, my voice dropping into a focused, perverted hum. "Go find Marta. Tell her to gather Elara, Sienna, Bess, and Lila. And tell her to bring the sharpest scissors we own."