My attempt at radiant floor heating was a catastrophic failure.
I stood in the doorway of my ruined bedroom, covering my mouth with my sleeve, coughing violently into the thick, gray smoke. Inside the four-foot dirt crater, three terrified kitchen boys were using long iron tongs to drop massive, glowing-red river stones directly into the damp earth.
I had ordered them to pull the hottest rocks from the baking ovens to create a thermal mass. Instead of a luxurious, toasty oasis, the boiling rocks hit the freezing, wet dirt and instantly generated a massive cloud of hissing, suffocating steam.
My bedroom didn't feel like a Roman bathhouse. It smelled aggressively like burnt mud, wet dog, and old bacon grease.
"More rocks!" I wheezed, waving at the smoke. "We just haven't hit the thermal equilibrium yet!"
One of the kitchen boys dropped a glowing stone. It hissed violently, spitting a jet of boiling mud onto my favorite boots. I sighed, accepting defeat, and limped away toward the Great Hall, smelling like a campfire that someone had urinated on.
Daily Court was already in session. I slumped onto my wobbly throne.
Greta, the newly appointed General Manager of the OnlyMaids tavern, was standing before the dais. She had her heavy wooden club resting on her shoulder and looked absolutely furious.
"It is a hostile work environment, Lord Elaric!" Greta yelled, pointing her club at me. "A massive, rabid badger wandered out of the woods last night, drank an entire abandoned pitcher of Artisanal Sour, and passed out directly in front of the premium seating area! I demand hazard pay, or I want Thorne to arrest the beast!"
"Greta, I am not sending the military to arrest a sleeping badger," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "Just charge the merchants a 'Wildlife Viewing Fee' and leave it there."
Greta paused. Her furious, anti-patriarchy scowl slowly melted into a greedy, capitalistic smirk. "A viewing fee. Brilliant. I'll have Bess put a little hat on it."
Before Greta could leave to monetize the forest animal, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A messenger boy sprinted in. He was practically out of breath, clutching a wildly squawking gray pigeon to his chest. He shoved the bird at Willem.
Over by the far wall, the younger peasant from yesterday was currently standing on a wooden barrel. He had upgraded his hunting gear. He was holding a large wicker basket propped up by a single stick tied to a long string, staring intensely at the rafters where the other three pigeons were cooing.
Willem wrestled the tiny scroll off the new bird's leg. The pigeon immediately broke free, flying straight up toward the rafters. The peasant yanked his string. The wicker basket slammed down, completely missing the bird and clattering loudly against the stone floor.
Willem unrolled the scroll, his face paling. "The Capital has fallen! A ruthless company of foreign mercenaries has breached the gates and seized the Throne Room!"
In the back of the hall, the four Keep Guards reacted.
It was significantly less enthusiastic this time. They didn't kick their chairs away. They slowly, heavily dragged their wooden chairs back. They stood up, their armor clanking lethargically. Nobody drew a sword.
Thorne just rested his heavy, metal-gauntleted hand on the pommel of his sheathed blade. He stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped.
"To arms, I guess," Thorne muttered, sounding like a man who had just been asked to work a double shift on a Sunday. "For Aldoria."
Ten minutes of incredibly awkward, depressing silence passed. The guards just stood there, shifting their weight, staring blankly at the wall.
The heavy doors opened again. A second messenger boy jogged in, looking completely bored. He handed Willem the fifth pigeon of the week.
Willem untied the scroll. He didn't even flinch when the bird flew up to the rafters and immediately defecated onto the back of his robes. He unrolled the parchment and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"Report, Willem," Thorne asked weakly, not even looking up. "Is the Son of Greg dead?"
"No," Willem read, adjusting his spectacles. "The Mercenary Captain breached the treasury and demanded the Royal Ledgers. Upon reviewing the Kingdom's debt-to-income ratio, the compound interest owed to the Iron Bankers, and the sheer volume of unfunded liabilities... the mercenaries surrendered."
I sat up straight, my back popping. "They surrendered? They won the war!"
"They gave the crown back to King Alden out of sheer financial terror, My Lord," Willem continued, his voice deadpan. "The Mercenary Captain was quoted as saying, 'We are killers, not accountants,' before his entire army fled the continent to avoid taking on the King's sovereign debt."
The Great Hall was silent, save for the soft cooing of five pigeons in the rafters.
The Aldorian Throne wasn't a seat of ultimate power. It was a massive, predatory variable-rate mortgage. The King wasn't charging a seventy-percent tax rate because he was an evil, gold-hoarding tyrant. He was charging it because it was the bare minimum monthly payment required to keep the continent's banks from breaking his kneecaps. The Kingdom was a toxic asset.
In the back of the hall, military discipline completely dissolved.
One of the guards angrily unbuckled his heavy iron helmet and threw it against the stone wall. Another guard just threw his hands up in the air, walked over to a wooden mop bucket, and violently kicked it entirely across the room.
Thorne didn't yell. He didn't issue commands. The hulking, battle-hardened Captain of the Guard simply turned around, placed his forehead flat against the cold stone pillar behind him, and stood there in silent, motionless agony.
"Court is adjourned," I announced softly. "Somebody get Thorne a warm cup of milk."