The Essence Flow

Chapter 91: The Stew Heard Around the City

Back in the Kitchen

Towan just stood there.

“Did… did she just say stew was enlightening?”

Herb stared at the door. “Yep.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Herb let out a slow whistle, arms crossed.

The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Lady Len’s private quarters, casting delicate patterns across the plush carpets. Her personal maid, Elise, worked with practiced precision, weaving silver pins into Len’s golden hair as she prepared for the day.

Len, normally composed, had been lost in thought since dawn.

Elise cleared her throat. "You’ve been quiet this morning, my lady. Did something… happen last night?"

Len blinked, as if startled out of a daydream. "Hm? Oh. No. Nothing of consequence."

A pause. Then, against her better judgment—

"...He seemed so sweet."

The words slipped out, soft and unguarded.

Silence.

Elise’s hands stilled for half a second before resuming their work—but her eyes flicked to the door, where two other maids

were just outside, pretending very hard not to be eavesdropping.Len, oblivious, continued. "Just… genuine. No pretenses. No hidden meanings in his words. It was… refreshing."

Elise swallowed. "My lady, might I ask… who you are referring to?"

Len hesitated. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile—

"The boy at the tavern."

A pin clinked against the vanity.

Outside the door, a stifled gasp.

And just like that—the wildfire had been lit.

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The Rumors Spread (In Increasingly Absurd Proportions)

Version 1 (The Maids’ Whisper Network):

"Lady Len called a tavern boy sweet! She smiled while saying it!"

Version 2 (The Kitchen Staff’s Interpretation):

"Lady Len is smitten with a commoner! She’s planning to elope!"

Version 3 (The Noble Aunts at Tea):

"I heard she fed him from her own hand! They exchanged vows over a bowl of stew!"

Version 4 (The Governor’s Spy Report):

"M’lord, your daughter may have been enchanted by a disguised foreign prince. Or a soup-based assassin. We’re not sure yet."

Version 5 (The Drunken Hound’s New Sign, Courtesy of Herb):

"TRY THE STEW THAT STOLE A NOBLE LADY’S HEART! (Now 50% more enlightening!)"

Meanwhile, Back at the Tavern…

Towan, blissfully unaware that he is now the most talked-about man in Lockeheart, wiped down the counter as Herb stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

"What?" Towan frowned.

Herb exhaled slowly. "Kid. I just got three separate offers from nobles asking if you’re ‘available for private catering.’ One of them offered me a land deed just to ‘borrow’ you for an evening."

Towan blinked. "…Why?"

Herb rubbed his temples. "Because somewhere out there, a maid heard something, and now the entire aristocracy thinks you’re either a secret romantic hero or a culinary seduction expert."

Towan stared. "…I just served her stew."

Herb groaned. "That’s worse. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is when nobles decide something is ‘charmingly rustic’? Next thing you know, they’ll be marrying their daughters off to blacksmiths for ‘authenticity.’"

The door burst open.

A breathless messenger in House Verestra colors skidded to a halt.

"Towan of the Drunken Hound?" he panted. "You are formally invited to the Governor’s Winter Ball." A beat. "By personal request of Lady Len."

Silence.

Herb slowly turned to Towan. "…We’re doomed."

Towan accepted the elegantly embossed invitation, scanning the details—location, time, a crest that probably cost more gold to design than the tavern made in a year. He gave the messenger a polite nod as the man scurried off, likely relieved to escape the Drunken Hound’s questionable aroma.

"Should I go?" Towan asked, turning the parchment over in his hands like it might explode.

Herb’s face cycled through five emotions at once before landing on "mildly horrified."

"You must," he said, voice strained. "Unless you want Lord Verestra to ‘accidentally’ revoke our liquor license. Or burn the place down. Or both, for efficiency." He gestured vaguely at the bar. "That man once had a merchant exiled for looking at his daughter too long. You smiled at her. In public. Over stew."

Towan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I just wanted a bit of time to recover," he muttered, more to himself than Herb.

(Recover from what, exactly? The war? The bloodshed? The fact that he’d somehow traded battlefield stress for nobles analyzing his soup-serving techniques?)

Herb, ever the opportunist, leaned in. "Look, it’s a golden chance for intel. Nobles spill secrets faster than drunks spill ale—just stand near a potted plant and listen. Gossip is their currency." Then, catching Towan’s flat stare, he backpedaled. "…But, y’know. Don’t go if you don’t feel like it. I was just joking. Mostly."

A beat.

"…You’re going, aren’t you?"

Towan stared at the invitation again. "Yeah."