[Lavinia’s Pov]
EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!
No, seriously.
Read. All. About. It.
Because apparently, the very moment my father—the scariest, grumpiest, broodiest emperor in the entire history of monarchies (and possibly in the history of human emotion)—unveiled my brand-new castle wing made entirely of
literal diamonds and gold
...
...the whole empire just
collectively lost its mind
.
I mean—how?
How
did we go from "Happy birthday, beautiful princess" to "The economy is in cardiac arrest"?
The
headlines
in today’s newspapers are more dramatic than the final Chapters of a tragic romance novel and funnier than any scripted court jester joke.
Just... look at this headline mess:
THE ROYAL WHISPER:
"SEVEN-YEAR-OLD PRINCESS RECEIVES CASTLE WING MADE ENTIRELY OF DIAMONDS — PUBLIC STILL RECOVERING FROM SHOCK"
"Witnesses report
temporary blindness
from the sheer sparkle. Sources claim the Emperor
smiled. twice.
Investigation ongoing."
THE COURT GOSSIPER:
"PRINCESS LAVINIA TURNS SEVEN — CAUSES ECONOMIC WHIPLASH"
"Jewelry markets
collapse
after the palace hoards half the continent’s diamonds. Merchants across the capital
beg
the Emperor to stop flexing."
THE IMPERIAL TATTLER:
"WHO NEEDS DIPLOMACY WHEN YOU HAVE DIAMOND WALLS?"
"Foreign ambassadors were seen blinking in stunned silence. One
fainted
. Another proposed marriage...
To the
East Wing
."
THE NOBLE NOISE:
"IS EMPEROR LOSING IT OR JUST REALLY INTO INTERIOR DESIGN?"
"Psychics have been consulted. Astrologers are
baffled
. The nobility demands to know what princess Lavinia will get when she turn eight—...The
moon
??"
I just—
hah
—I can’t.
I’m
seven years old
, and I’m already contemplating
early retirement
from this "future empress" nonsense. Is it too late to switch careers and become a carrot farmer? Maybe a librarian? Maybe a cloud?
But wait.
That’s not even the worst part.
Because
since morning
, reporters have
lined up outside the imperial palace gates
, armed with
ink-stained scrolls, giant feathered quills, sparkly camera-crystals
, and the kind of rabid curiosity that only journalists who
smell royal scandal
can manage.
I peeked out from my
petal garden
, clutching
Marshi’s tail
like a lifeline as the chaos
unfolded
.
And oh, the things I heard...
"Your Majesty!" A reporter literally climbed a hedge to shout through the bars of the gate while the poor knights tried to keep the crowd from crawling through the fountain. "Is it true the chandeliers alone are worth three duchies and a mid-sized island?"
Another one screamed, "Princess Lavinia! How does it feel to be the
wealthiest minor
in the empire?"
Someone else chimed in, "Do you sleep in a
diamond bed
?"
"Is it true your divine beast has his own
crown
?!"
"Will there be a
public tour
?! For
educational purposes
!?"
I can’t with them. I REALLY CAN’T WITH THEM!!!!!
The world is
spiraling
outside the palace.
I mean
spiraling
—like a corkscrew, like Marshi when he chases his tail, like the chandelier that spun wildly when the reporters tried to bribe the palace maids for a better look.
And here he is.
Papa.
My great, terrifying, empire-ruining-with-a-shrug father...Sitting in his favorite velvet chair, legs crossed, sipping his
lavender Earl Grey
like he’s on vacation in the countryside instead of presiding over a PR disaster of national proportions.
And what is he reading?
None other than the latest issue of
Gardens & Weapons Monthly.
Yes. That’s a real magazine. Yes, he has a
lifetime subscription.
Yes, it’s filled with articles like
"Top Ten Poisonous Flowers for Peace Talks"
and
"Decorative Sword Racks That Intimidate Guests"
.
I stood there in the sunshine, arms drooping, utterly defeated.
Does he even have a meeting today?
A kingdom to run? A war? A rebellion? A single flaming diplomatic letter to reply to?!
Why is he so... free?!
"Papa..." I muttered.
He didn’t even
glance
at me. Not even a flicker. Just a bored, absentminded, "Hmmmm..."
Like I was background noise. Like I was a particularly polite breeze.
I narrowed my eyes, tired and unimpressed. "Don’t you have, I don’t know...
work
to do?"
Papa turned a page and said, without missing a beat, "I
am
doing my work."
I looked at him harder. Like,
really
looked. He was reclined. One leg bouncing. Pinkie still raised. Zero concern anywhere on his royal face. "I am doing my work."
"But...but Papa, you’re
sipping tea
," I pointed out, deadpan as a tombstone.
Without even glancing up, he smiled faintly and replied, "It’s also a
big
job, Lavinia."
I blinked.
He sipped.
I blinked again.
He turned another page in his ridiculous magazine, clearly invested in an article titled
"How to Grow Roses Sharp Enough to Draw Blood"
.
Then he added, ever so helpfully,
"...and Theon is handling everything out there."
...
I stared at him again.
Now I could practically
see
it—poor Theon
wailing
into a stack of royal scrolls,
sweating
ink, and
scribbling reports
like his quill was on fire.
Muttering to himself:
"Why am I his assistant? Why did I major in Royal Administration? WHY IS HE THE DAMN EMPERORRRR?!"
A moment of silence passed between us.
And then, for some unknown cosmic reason... I felt bad.
Really bad for Theon.
Poor Theon.
He had to do
all
of Papa’s work while Papa sat there sipping tea and reading about flower grenades or whatever’s in
Gardens & Weapons Monthly
. And Theon didn’t even get a snack. Not even a sad little biscuit.
Just twenty-seven people yelling at him about
chandelier taxes
and
diamond inflation
.
Honestly, I’m not even sure he’s still alive.
There’s a good chance he’s just a pile of ash in a very well-tailored suit by now.
I sighed with the weight of a thousand sparkles and muttered under my breath. "When I become Empress... I’m going to triple his pension and give him early retirement. That’ll do him justice."
Papa, of course, just turned another page in
Gardens & Weapons Monthly
, completely unbothered.
As if the empire wasn’t on fire.
As if diamond economics wasn’t crashing.
As if Theon wasn’t out there sacrificing his
sanity
for the greater imperial good.
And then—Ravick entered.
He bowed sharply, one hand on his chest. "Your Majesty, the lady has arrived."
Huh?
Lady? What lady?
We didn’t order any guests.
Papa nodded, completely calm.
And then—
GASP.
No. Way.
It’s HER.
Blushy Silk Dress Lady.
The same woman from the birthday banquet—the one who couldn’t stop turning red every time Papa
existed
too hard in her direction.
Now she was here.
She stepped forward, graceful like a swan dipped in etiquette lessons and lavender perfume, and bowed. "Greetings to Your Majesty and to the young Princess."
I blinked.
Papa nodded back, still sipping his tea like this wasn’t suspicious at
all
, and then turned to me.
"Lavinia," he said in that calm, low Emperor voice that hides dangerous things behind polite words. "Meet Lady Evelyne Verisette, the Royal Court Scholar. She graduated from the Imperial Academy with top honors at the age of sixteen. In short, she has... a good brain."
I stared.
She smiled, all sweet and modest and not-at-all-aware that she
definitely
made squeaky noises when looking at Papa during his birthday toast.
I stared at her.
Then I smiled like a proper princess. "Greetings, Lady Evelyne."
She blushed.
Blushed.
And then smiled back like a cherry blossom blooming under a spring moon.
Oh-ho~ She smells sweet. Like vanilla cupcakes and flower gardens. And she looks soft and innocent too. All pastel-pink hair and sparkle-eyed intelligence. I already like her.
Even if I don’t know what she’s doing here yet.
Still... gotta be nice. Who knows? She might be my stepmother one day. (
Sorry, My birth Mother, but Papa’s charisma is undefeated.
)
Then Papa dropped the
real
bomb.
"Now," he said, casually putting his teacup down like he wasn’t about to ruin my week, "from next week onward, she will be your official tutor."
...
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Brain loading...
ERROR. SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.
"
WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!
"
I nearly jumped out of my embroidered slippers.
Papa continued, entirely unfazed, flipping a page in
Gardens & Weapons Monthly
like this was the most normal news in the world. "You’ve turned seven. It’s time your formal education begins. Don’t worry, we won’t rush, and there is no need to rush—we’ll start slowly."
Start slowly?! Sir. Emperor. My dear father. The destroyer of nations.
That
wasn’t
slow news!
Ughhhhhhh.
Seriously??
Do I
look
like someone who needs more education?! I already completed my
master’s degree
in my past life! I died with paperwork in one hand and a highlighter in the other! I had spreadsheets for breakfast! I
was
the group project leader!
I came back to life for peace and cake—not more algebra!
But then... I looked at Lady Evelyne.
Kind eyes. Blushy cheeks. Smart brain. Soothing perfume.
And I looked at Papa, who raised one eyebrow with that expression that says, "If you scream again, I’ll assign homework."
Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Fine.
Fiiiine.
I’m a princess. No—
the
princess. The future empress of the empire. I can’t run from my responsibilities.
If I want to be a strong, wise, world-shaking Empress...
...I have to study hard and prove myself first.
I have to learn law, politics, geography, diplomacy, boring things, more boring things, and scary boring things.
So I inhaled deeply.
Lifted my chin.
And said:
"...May I request that my first lesson be scheduled
after
dessert next week?"
Lady Evelyne giggled softly.
Papa just turned another page.
And that, my friends, is how the Empire’s cutest, sassiest, most overqualified seven-year-old began her formal training.