My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Extra Chapter 1: Royal Review and Threat

(Author Note: Feel free to skip this chapter as it is not essential. For those who read it, it will offer helpful insight into why certain concepts work the way they do later in the text.)

The air in Princess Isabella’s private chambers within the Royal Palace of Bethelham was a study in controlled strength. Unlike the perfumed, silk-draped boudoirs favored by many of her peers, her rooms were a testament to a different kind of nobility. The walls were hung not with pastoral tapestries, but with detailed strategic maps of the Kingdom’s borders, their surfaces dotted with colored pins marking troop movements and trade routes. A gleaming, well-oiled practice sword rested on a simple stand near the hearth, its leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from countless hours of drills. The scent in the air was not of cloying potpourri, but of clean beeswax from the polished floors, old leather from the books stacked high on her desk, and the faint, metallic tang of weapons oil. It was the chamber of a warrior princess, a pragmatist, a woman who understood that power was forged, not inherited.

Isabella herself, her posture as straight and unyielding as the sword on its stand, was currently frowning at a small, elegantly wrapped package that sat on her heavy oak desk. It was an unwelcome intrusion into her meticulously planned morning of reviewing militia readiness reports.

“Another one?” she sighed, her voice a low, exasperated rumble that held none of the delicate, high-pitched tones of the court ladies. She ran a hand through her thick, golden-blonde hair, which was currently escaping its practical braid in a few rebellious strands. “Honestly, Eva, what has gotten into him? This is the third ‘whimsical surprise’ this month.”

Standing a respectful pace behind her, a silent, reassuring presence, was her personal Knight Captain, Eva. Clad in the light, articulated plate of the Royal Guard, her own expression was one of professional neutrality, but a faint hint of amusement touched her eyes. “His Majesty, the King, has always possessed a… unique sense of humor, Your Highness.”

“Unique is one word for it,” Isabella retorted, poking the package with a suspicious finger. “Last week it was a clockwork songbird that only knew one, incredibly irritating, sea shanty. The week before, it was a supposedly rare cactus from the Southern Desert that turned out to be a particularly spiky turnip. He thinks these pranks are a charming way to remind me to ‘lighten up’. I think they are a charming way to test the structural integrity of my chamber windows when I eventually throw one of them out.”

Eva allowed herself a small, professional smile. “Perhaps this time it is a gift of genuine significance, Your Highness. The courier indicated it was sent with some urgency from the Arch Duke’s estate.”

Isabella’s interest was piqued, despite her skepticism. “From the Ferrum lands? He’s still there for that tedious Family Summit, then?” She finally reached for the package, her fingers, strong and calloused from years of sword practice, expertly undoing the silken ribbon. “Well, let’s see what new form of royal jest my father has devised. If it’s another vegetable in disguise, Eva, you have my permission to use it for target practice.”

She lifted the lid of the simple wooden box. Nestled within, on a bed of dark blue velvet, was not a joke, but an object of strange, undeniable, and utterly baffling beauty.

It was a small, exquisitely crafted bottle, its body carved from a single piece of warm, polished oak, its grain swirling in elegant patterns. The neck and a strange, protruding mechanism at the top were crafted from a gleaming, silvery-bronze metal, the join between wood and metal so seamless it looked as if it had grown there naturally. It was elegant, minimalist, and radiated an aura of thoughtful, intelligent design. It was also, as far as Isabella could tell, completely useless.

“What… is it?” Eva asked, her professional curiosity overcoming her usual reserve. She leaned forward slightly, peering at the object. “A new type of inkwell, perhaps? Or a container for rare perfume?”

“I have no idea,” Isabella confessed, lifting the object from its velvet bed. It felt solid, balanced in her hand, the wood warm, the metal cool. “It’s beautiful, I’ll grant him that. But what does it do?” Tucked into the lid of the box was a small, rolled-up piece of fine vellum, sealed with a plain, unmarked disc of wax. Isabella broke the seal and unrolled it. The script was elegant, precise. It was a user guide.

“This is getting stranger,” Isabella murmured, handing the parchment to her Knight Captain. “Read this aloud, Eva. Let’s unravel the mystery of my father’s latest turnip.”

Eva took the vellum, her brow furrowed in concentration as she began to read, her voice the clear, formal cadence of an officer delivering a report.

“‘Ferrum Elixir: A Revolution in Personal Refinement,’” Eva began. “‘The enclosed vessel contains a cleansing elixir of unparalleled quality, a secret formulation of House Ferrum. To access the elixir, place the hand beneath the nozzle and depress the pump mechanism firmly but gently. A single application will dispense a measured dose, sufficient for one cleansing ritual. The elixir, when combined with water, produces a rich, silken lather that purifies the skin without harshness, leaving behind only a state of serene cleanliness and a subtle, invigorating olfactory signature.’”

Eva paused, blinking. “Olfactory… signature, Your Highness?”

“It means ‘smell’, Eva,” Isabella said dryly, turning the strange bottle over in her hands. “My father has sent me… fancy, verbose soap. In a bottle with a… ‘pump mechanism’.” She stared at the object, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across her face. “A thousand Gold Coins says this is the most expensive, most over-engineered bar of soap in the entire history of the Kingdom.”

She walked over to the washbasin in the corner of her chambers, a simple, functional porcelain bowl with a large ewer of fresh water beside it. She held the dispenser over the basin, curiosity finally winning out over skepticism. “Well, let’s see if this ‘cleansing ritual’ is any different from scrubbing with a lump of lye and tallow.”

Following the instructions Eva had just read, she placed her other hand beneath the gleaming nozzle. She pressed down on the pump head.

Click-hiss.

The sound was clean, precise, unexpectedly satisfying. A dollop of thick, creamy, pale beige liquid landed softly on her palm. It wasn’t watery or thin; it had a substance, a viscosity, that felt… luxurious. And the scent… it wasn’t the overpowering, cloying floral perfume she associated with noblewomen’s cosmetics. It was a clean, sharp, herbaceous fragrance. Rosemary. It smelled like a cool morning in the high country gardens, not a stuffy drawing room.

Intrigued, she rubbed her hands together. The cream felt smooth, silken. She gestured for Eva to pour some water, and as the cool liquid hit her hands, the magic happened.

A lather bloomed, rich and dense, completely unlike the thin, reluctant foam of the usual household soap. It wasn't just bubbly; it was creamy, thick, almost like whipped cream, enveloping her hands in a soft, fragrant cloud.

“Gods…” Isabella breathed, genuine surprise in her voice. She worked the lather over her hands, feeling it lift away the faint grime from her morning’s paperwork. It felt… wonderful. Not abrasive, not harsh. Just clean. She rinsed, and was even more surprised. The soap washed away instantly, completely, leaving no residue, no sticky film, no feeling of tightness. Her skin felt… different.

She dried her hands on a clean linen towel, then held them up, examining them in the morning light. They were clean, yes. But more than that. The slight roughness, the calluses from her sword practice, seemed softer. The skin felt smooth, supple, hydrated. And it carried that faint, pleasant, lingering scent of rosemary.

She turned to Eva, her earlier skepticism completely gone, replaced by a look of genuine, almost bewildered, astonishment. “Here,” she said, holding out the dispenser. “You try it.”

Eva, her professional composure momentarily forgotten, did as she was told. Her own reaction was a mirror of Isabella’s—a widening of the eyes at the quality of the lather, a soft exclamation of surprise at the clean, soft feeling of her skin afterwards.

“It is… remarkable, Your Highness,” Eva said, staring at her own hands as if they belonged to someone else. “I have never used a soap that felt… like that. It feels more like a fine oil than a cleanser.”

Isabella took the dispenser back, looking at it with new eyes. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a spiky turnip. This was a genuine innovation. A small, perfect, and deeply desirable, piece of everyday magic.

“To think,” Isabella murmured, her mind, so accustomed to matters of strategy and warfare, now grappling with this new, unexpected front of domestic revolution. “Someone is out there, not just thinking about forging better swords or designing stronger castle walls, but about… this. About how to fundamentally improve something as mundane as washing your hands. They are not just thinking differently; they are thinking outside the very box of what we consider important.” She shook her head, a slow smile of pure, intellectual admiration on her face. “Whoever is behind this, Eva… they have a mind I would like to meet. A mind that sees a problem and engineers a truly elegant solution.”

Her gaze drifted towards the strategic map on her wall, her thoughts following her father’s journey. “You said he sent this from the Ferrum estate, Eva?”

“Yes, Your Highness. He is attending the Arch Duke’s Family Summit.”

“The Ferrums,” Isabella mused, the name bringing a familiar face to mind. A face of fierce pride and quiet, intense competence. “Jothi’s house.” She smiled, a flicker of genuine warmth in her eyes. Jothi Ferrum, her good friend and, she would admit in her more honest moments, her friend from their shared, competitive years at the Bathelham Royal Academy. Jothi was one of the few people Isabella considered a true peer, a woman whose strength and will matched her own.

“Now I remember,” Isabella said, a frown creasing her brow as another, less pleasant, memory surfaced. “Jothi has a brother, doesn’t she? The heir. Lloyd Ferrum.” The name tasted like ash in her mouth. Her expression, which had been one of admiration for the anonymous innovator, hardened instantly into one of pure, unadulterated contempt.

“A useless lump of a man,” she spat, the words sharp with a frustration that was old and deep. “A disgrace to the Ferrum name. I saw him at the Academy, before he was so politely asked to leave. He skulked through the halls like a ghost, avoiding the training yards, failing his elemental studies. A drab duckling with none of the fire, none of the strength, of his lineage.”

She began to pace, her earlier admiration replaced by a fiery, protective anger. “And because of him, because of his mediocrity, all the pressure, all the weight of expectation, falls on Jothi’s shoulders. She has to be twice as strong, twice as brilliant, just to compensate for the disappointment of her own heir. She carries the honor of their house alone, all because her brother is a spineless, unambitious waste of a noble title! If I were his sister,” she declared, her hand balling into a fist, “I would have beaten the mediocrity out of him in the training yard myself! I would have taught him what it means to be a Ferrum, even if I had to hammer the lesson into his thick skull with the flat of my blade!”

Eva remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt the Princess when she was in the throes of one of her righteous furies.

Isabella finally stopped her pacing, coming to a halt before the desk. She looked down at the elegant, innovative oak-and-bronze dispenser, a symbol of a brilliant, forward-thinking mind. Then she thought of Lloyd Ferrum, the embodiment of everything she despised: weakness, apathy, a failure to live up to one’s potential.

She picked up the dispenser again, its smooth, cool weight a strange contrast to the heat of her anger. She held a piece of his brilliance in her hand, utterly, completely, and blissfully unaware that she was despising the very mind that had conceived it. The drab duckling had just received his first, unwitting, and most ferociously positive, royal review. And a threat of a potential sword-based lesson, for good measure.