Morning broke over Castle Albion like a spilled jar of honey—warm, sticky, and just chaotic enough to ruin someone's hairstyle. In the royal kitchens, Snow White stood knee-deep in flour, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon, a defiant stripe of berry jam slashed across her cheek like battle paint.
A messenger stumbled in, wheezing and coated in powdered sugar, and dramatically unfurled a parchment scroll at her feet.
Snow squinted at the glimmering ink. "Let me get this straight. The Queen wants to host… a baking competition?"
Across the kitchen, Prince Florian attempted to juggle three eggs while standing on a sack of rice. "Apparently, it's 'a vital diplomatic gesture' toward the Duchy of Glutenburg." He ducked just as an egg exploded against the ceiling. "Or, you know, another excuse for her to try poisoning dignitaries under the guise of 'culinary excellence.'"
The magic mirror—now enchanted into a snarky kitchen timer—buzzed indignantly. "Translation: she's still bitter that her poisoned apples were reviewed as 'overly acidic' in last year's Murderous Meals Quarterly."
Snow picked up the scroll, revealing terms glittering with suspiciously enthusiastic punctuation:
1. All entries must be "fit for royal palates" (translation: involve gold leaf, unicorn tears, or at least six adjectives).
2. No dwarves permitted in the kitchen (alleged sabotage after last year's Salted Toffee Incident).
3. Absolutely no carrots—ever since the "Orange Incident," the Queen claimed they gave her flashbacks.
Grumpy stuck his head through the kitchen window, already chewing on a raw cinnamon stick. "I give it two hours before something catches fire, explodes, or gains sentience."
He wasn't wrong.
By midmorning, the Great Hall had been transformed into a culinary war zone. Rows of tables groaned under sacks of enchanted flour and cauldrons bubbling with suspiciously aromatic ganache. Velvet banners proclaimed The Royal Bake-Off: Diplomacy Through Desserts! above chandeliers hung precariously low enough to ignite a soufflé.
Twelve contestants took their places:
A sugar-sculpting sorceress who whispered incantations at her meringue,
A retired dragon chef who wore oven mitts over his claws,
The kingdom's most paranoid pastry chef (who insisted his spatula was booby-trapped),
And Snow White, armed with a rolling pin and unrelenting optimism.
Judge #1: Queen Evilia herself, lounging atop a throne carved from stale macarons and melting fondant roses.
Judge #2: The Duke of Glutenburg, his powdered wig larger than most livestock, his mustache curled into diplomatic severity.
Judge #3: Sir Fluffikins, the royal cat, currently curled around a trout with a tiara.
"BEGIN!" screeched the Queen, slamming a glitter-enchanted rolling pin like a war hammer.
Chaos erupted immediately.
The witch's soufflé levitated, began reciting sonnets, and floated toward the rafters.
Florian, despite wearing an apron that read "Bake Me Like One of Your French Eclairs," mistook salt for sugar again, creating something that looked—and smelled—like weaponized sadness.
Snow's fruit tart blinked at her.
"That," said the mirror, "is either alive or filing for tax exemption. Possibly both."
Halfway through, Snow caught a flash of movement near her station. The Queen, suspiciously over-accessorized in oven mitts that looked more like gauntlets, was whispering to her huntsman-turned-sous-chef. Moments later, Snow's perfectly whipped cream hissed, turned green, and melted into a steaming puddle.
Snow arched a flour-covered eyebrow. "Really, Stepmother? Dessert sabotage? That's low—even for someone who once tried to murder me with a pie chart."
The Queen gasped with faux innocence. "Darling, I have no idea what you—OH DEAR, is that a rat in your batter?"
SQUEAK.
A bewildered field mouse, slick with cream and shame, peered out of the bowl.
The Duke of Glutenburg fainted into a pile of éclairs. Sir Fluffikins launched himself like a feline cannonball, yowling with glee.
Snow, unfazed, pulled out her secret weapon: Grumpy's legendary Emergency Whiskey Cake, smuggled in under a false-bottomed mixing bowl.
Meanwhile:
A gingerbread army escaped from the witch's oven and performed an aggressive tap dance across the judges' table,
A rogue meringue avalanche took out two contestants and one chandelier,
Florian's "deconstructed pie" literally exploded, embedding fruit in the Queen's hairdo.
When the dust—and powdered sugar—finally settled, Snow's cake stood tall: a leaning, whiskey-drenched monstrosity radiating heat and rebellion. It looked like a bad idea at a tavern and smelled like victory.
The Queen pinched her nose. "That cake is clearly alcoholic."
Snow beamed. "It's not cake. It's diplomatic immunity with frosting."
The Duke took one bite and promptly burst into tears. "It tastes like my childhood! And possibly my second divorce!"
Even Sir Fluffikins paused his mouse hunt to lick the plate, then fell into a sugar coma with a satisfied burp.
The Queen, seething, held up the Golden Whisk—half-melted by her own wrath—and dropped it at Snow's feet with a reluctant hiss.
"Winner by default," murmured the mirror. "Still counts."
That evening, as what remained of the desserts was devoured across the kingdom, Snow found Florian sulking beside a stack of scorched baking pans in the pantry.
"You only entered to impress me," she said, handing him a mostly unburned scone.
He grinned, cheeks flushed pink with jam (and shame). "Is it working?"
"Let's just say you're the only man I know who can make disaster look adorable."
Outside, a shriek pierced the night.
"WHO PUT CARROTS IN MY TIRAMISU?!"
Grumpy cackled from the hallway. "Tell her it was the Duke's mustache!"
Grumpy's whiskey cake was banned by three guilds and adopted by five.
The dwarves opened an underground bakery called The Crumb Syndicate.
Sir Fluffikins was crowned "Best Judge of 1324."
And somewhere, beneath a silver moon, a gingerbread man breakdanced into legend.