The King's Decree

King Reginald, a man whose crown seemed permanently affixed to his brow, even in the privacy of his own oak-paneled study, paced with the agitated energy of a trapped badger. The report from his most trusted, and frankly, most easily spooked, guard captain had landed on his desk like a lead balloon. A foreign woman. Speaking gibberish. Claiming… well, no one was quite sure *what* she was claiming, but it involved a great deal of dramatic hand-waving and what sounded suspiciously like demands for baked goods.

"Gibberish, you say, Captain Thorne?" Reginald boomed, his voice echoing off the portraits of stern-faced ancestors. He adjusted his monocle, which, despite its ostentatious presence, rarely improved his vision. "And this 'gibberish' is being interpreted as… what, exactly?"

Captain Thorne, a man whose uniform always seemed a size too large, wrung his hands. "Well, Your Majesty, some of the stable hands believe she's practicing some sort of ancient incantation. Others, particularly young Thomas from the kitchens, are convinced she's attempting to describe a particularly intricate pastry. He said something about 'la masa' and 'el chocolate' with such fervor, it was quite unsettling."