The morning sun broke over the eastern cliffs, casting a brilliant, golden light across the Warlord estate. It was shaping up to be a perfectly normal, chaotic day.
In the manor's massive kitchen, I was currently attempting to prepare a breakfast feast of smoked sea-bass, roasted pine nuts, and fresh brioche. Usually, this was my domain. I moved through the kitchen with the practiced grace of a nine-tailed silver fox, dodging kitchen-golems and flipping skillets with ease.
But this morning, the moment I lifted the lid off the smoked sea-bass, the world tilted violently on its axis.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness hit me so hard my knees actually buckled. I slammed a hand onto the cold granite countertop to steady myself, my silver tails puffing out in instinctual alarm. The smell of the fish, a scent I normally loved, suddenly made my stomach perform a synchronized acrobatic routine of pure nausea.
"Sovereign?" a small, polite voice asked from the doorway.
