A standing buffet party.
I am Tiela Ann Elgrid, daughter of Duke Elgrid.
Perhaps you know me by my other name: the Lady of Gluttony.
Tonight, as ever, finds me at a soirée.
"As one would expect of a party hosted by Duke Mickenheim—just look at this lineup of dishes."
I keep my greetings brief and make straight for the freshly prepared food.
I emptied my stomach all day for this party, the better to eat my fill tonight.
When you are a duke's daughter, everyone yields their place in line.
The Exceed Cow roast beef, only just carried out, is dripping with juices; the rosy center and the crisp, golden-seared crust look heavenly.
There is plenty to go around, so I transfer some ten slices onto my plate with a perfectly straight face and claim a seat near the standing tables.
A normal person takes one or two.
"Ufufu. Time to eat."
I lift the slices with my fork, one by one, and carry them to my mouth.
Sho good!
Then, expression perfectly composed once more, I chew away.
Truly, a blissful moment.
A poor noble's party might be another matter, but among the upper aristocracy, running out of food is counted a disgrace, so custom demands they prepare far more than enough.
I grew up watching it happen.
Everyone is too absorbed in conversation; hardly anyone actually eats much of the mountain of food.
It always goes to waste. Some of the leftovers are shared out among the staff, of course, but plenty is simply thrown away.
And yet the dishes come in such extravagant variety that I always used to think: what a waste.
I no longer remember how old I was when I finally took matters into my own hands—sometime before I turned ten, I believe.
Now I am sixteen, praised as a flower, a butterfly—and single.
At my age, some girls are already married.
One comes of age at fifteen here.
I polish off the roast beef and hand my plate to a waiter to clear away.
My reputation for demolishing buffets precedes me, so I am marked: a waiter is almost always stationed nearby, practically assigned to me.
Displease a duke's daughter, and it is the host's honor on the line.
"The roast beef was wonderful."
"Thank you very much."
The waiter answers me.
"Hahaha! Eating as heartily as ever, I see. Makes throwing this party worth it!"
"Why, Duke Mickenheim! Thank you, as always, for having me."
"Not at all—it does me good to see the food enjoyed. Though I wouldn't mind if you did a spot of husband-hunting while you're at it! Ahahaha."
"R-right. I shall... have a look around later."
Tonight's gathering is, in fact, a matchmaking party hosted by Duke Mickenheim.
In this country—the Kingdom of Kumaran—the King's faction and the faction of Marquis Dabundorde stand locked in conflict.
Duke Mickenheim is a leading figure of the King's faction, and nothing would please him more than a bumper crop of marriages among the faction's sons and daughters.
Some of the guests belong to neutral houses, too—houses he is angling to win over.
"My, Lady Tiela is eating up a storm again today."
"That one dines on another plane of existence entirely."
"'Food before flowers,' as they say."
My reputation is in tatters—but then, Gluttony was originally one of the seven deadly sins, and the name was meant as an insult. By now, though, everyone is past exasperation; somewhere along the way, the insult turned into a compliment.