Zephyrion Vael

When Toby inherited a farm, he expected chickens. Maybe a sad little shack. Possibly haunted corn. What he didn’t expect... was to be escorted through five palace gates, past four confused guards, and into the heart of the imperial palace. “This is Plot 23-A,” the steward said nervously, adjusting his glasses. “It technically belongs to you now.” Toby squinted. In front of him was a garden—wild, overgrown, and very, very close to a towering white wall. “…That’s not a wall,” he muttered. The steward coughed. “It’s, um… the King’s bedroom.” There was a long silence. Then Toby smiled and dropped his bag in the dirt. “Well, guess I’ll need extra fertilizer.” --- The next morning, King Zephyrion Vael, sovereign of the Empire, age twenty and terrifying, awoke to the scent of death. Or worse—compost. He threw open the balcony doors, fire in his red eyes, only to find a barefoot boy in the garden below, humming while stirring glowing manure with a shovel. “WHAT is that smell?!” The boy looked up, calm as moonlight. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” Zephyrion blinked. The boy waved. “…Would you like a cucumber?”