Chapter 101: From Sparkles to Study Desks

Chapter 101: From Sparkles to Study Desks [Lavinia’s Pov] [Petal Garden, After a Week] Just like I said before... My kingdom, people? More dramatic than a soap opera villain on their seventh resurrection arc. And the newspaper companies? Oh-ho-ho. They’re not just journalists. They’re failed fantasy writers with a vengeance, weaponizing metaphors like daggers dipped in glitter. I swear they hold weekly meetings titled "How to Make Everything the Princess Does Sound Like the End of the World—With Footnotes." Now, why would I bring this up again? Sigh... Because apparently, me naming the East Wing 2.0 was not just a cute moment of architectural rebranding. NO. It was a "MONUMENTAL, EMPIRE-SHAKING REVELATION." Like I’d just declared war on boredom. Or gravity. I mean, come on—it’s my house. My wing. My shiny floors. I should be allowed to give it a cute little name, right? Apparently not. The palace? Buzzing like a beehive on a double-shot espresso. Servants were whispering behind flower vases like I’d summoned a ghost. Footmen fainted dramatically in the hallways (probably just needed a snack, but still). Somewhere, far far away in the Kingdom of Common Sense, someone silently wept. But oh no. The drama did not stop there. Every Morning, I was awakened not by birdsong nor by the gentle chime of palace bells—but by the shrill shriek of my ever-excitable maid, Marella, walking into my petal garden with a stack of— Newspapers. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Probably millions. (Okay, fine, five. But still.) Each one splashed with headlines as subtle as a fire-breathing peacock in a ballgown: THE ROYAL WHISPER: "PRINCESS LAVINIA NAMES THE EAST WING 2.0 — THE DAWNSPIRE IS BORN!" Subtitle: Our Little Sparkle Angel Strikes Again—Is She Planning to Name the Sky Next? Excuse me? No, I am not planning to name the sky. (...Unless "The Big Blue Above of Moodiness" sounds cool. Might consider.) Then came the real screamer: THE COURT GOSSIPER: BREAKING: PRINCESS NAMES GOLD AND DIAMOND WING. EMPIRE TREMBLES. BIRDS FAINT. PEACOCKS ARE JEALOUS. . . . . . . . . . Birds fainted?! BIRDS?! Who’s their source, Lord Featherbeak the Third? Nanny and Marella were practically chuckling and giggling. "Look at this one, Your Highness!" Marella giggled, flipping to The Court Gossiper like she was unveiling a cursed scroll. THE IMPERIAL TATTLER: "IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE SPARKLE REGIME? Experts Weigh In. Imperial Carpet Analysts Concerned." Also: Has the Princess Gained Height and Weight? Our paparazzi measures her in secret. I stared. I blinked. ARE THEY CALLING ME FAT?! I mean. Okay. Maybe I did gain a little... But that was strictly cookie-related expansion. Completely natural. Very royal. Also—"Imperial Carpet Analysts"? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?? Do they sit in rooms sniffing rugs and deciding which ones are emotionally distressed?! Is there a certification exam? A dress code? AND WHO APPROVES THESE JOBS? Papa? Papa definitely approves of these jobs. Because he sits there at the tea table, sipping his ancient tea like he didn’t just unleash a propaganda storm. Eyes twinkling. Smug as a dragon on a gold hoard. "Good press," he mutters, hiding a smile behind his cup, and Ravick nodded in agreement. GOOD PRESS? Papa, the empire thinks birds fainted. But does he care? Of course not. Because in his twisted little emperor mind, this is all part of some master plan. "Build her image," he says. "Make the people see her power." I mean...I named an estate. Not the moon. Honestly, if I ever did name the moon, I’d call it Moony McGlowface, just to watch The Royal Whisper lose its collective mind. But alas. This is my life.This is how things work here.Chaos is our royal anthem, and I’m its unwilling lead singer. Just as I was contemplating whether or not to host a naming ceremony for my teacups next (because why not?), one of the palace maids glided in like a very breathless, very nervous breeze. She bowed so low, I thought she might just become one with the marble. "Y-Your Majesty... Lady Evelyne has arrived." Right—Today was my first day of official study. I got down from the chair, ready to go, and meanwhile Papa folded the newspaper he’d been pretending not to smirk at and stood up, all regal and composed like the emperor he is. "Lavinia, let’s go." Huh?? What now??? I blinked at him like a stunned chandelier."Wait... what? But Papa... I can go with Ravick. You don’t have to—" "No," he said, already moving toward the Imperial Palace like a very serious tree in motion. "I will be there with you in the study room." I nearly tripped over my own feet. "W-what! But why?!" He turned to me with that expression that usually means, "Because I said so, and I’m the emperor and also your father and also right, obviously." "It’s your first day," he said smoothly. "I need to see how the Lady teaches." Ah. Yes. Of course. He’s not wrong. As a parent—and the Emperor—he has every right to check whether he’s hired a scholar worthy enough to teach his only daughter, who is supposed to rule an empire one day and not just name wings after celestial poetry and sparkle metaphors. "Alright then," I sighed, slipping my tiny royal fingers into his larger, firm ones. And off we went, the two of us striding down the palace halls like some royal buddy comedy duo.Except one of us was worried about elocution lessons, and the other probably just wanted to terrify a respected scholar for sport. As for Marshi... Poor, majestic, floofy Marshi was left behind—pouting beside Ravick, his glorious tail twitching in slow-motion protest, like he was filing a formal royal complaint with the Ministry of Outrageous Injustices. I gave him the saddest, most tragic wave in the history of waves. Like I was boarding a warship. Or being sent to a foreign land where hugs were banned and tea was served cold. "Bye-bye, Marshi," I whispered, heroically. He sneezed in response. Ravick gave me a thumbs-up like I was about to do something legendary. Marella, still clutching the morning newspaper. And Nanny? Oh gods above, Nanny was crying. "I... I can’t believe she’s grown this much," she sniffled into her lace kerchief like I was off to slay dragons and marry a prince named Reginald the Boring. Marella nodded solemnly beside her, eyes misty. "I agree. She was just a peanut in a tiara yesterday..." "I was never a peanut!" I yelled, mildly offended. "Maybe a pistachio. Something cuter." They ignored me, of course—too busy drowning in their own sentimental melodrama as if I were being exiled instead of educated. *** [Study Room, Later...] The double doors to the royal study creaked open. And then... there she was. Lady Evelyne Verisette. The Royal Tutor. Very young. Probably no more than twenty-something. Her cheeks were rosy, her posture perfect, and her long hair was swept up into a high twist dyed the softest shade of bubblegum pink, like someone had dunked royalty into a strawberry milkshake. And the moment she saw him—the Emperor, my father—her whole face did that thing.You know. That thing. The shy-gasp-sparkle-blush thing. Her knees curtsied, her hands folded over each other like she’d just been knighted by Cupid himself. And her voice came out soft and sweet, like honey melting in sunlight. "Your Majesty," she breathed, bowing low. "It’s an absolute honor." Hohoho... Look at her. All blushing and fluttery-eyed. Like a peach soufflé about to collapse. How adorable. But then my eyes drifted sideways—to the source of all this trouble. My greatest Papa.The Emperor.Tall. Impossibly tall. Still holding my hand but looking as emotionally available as a marble statue dipped in frost. He didn’t even flinch. Not a blink. Not a glance. Not a single blessed crumb of attention thrown in her direction. Just a calm, cool nod. "Lady Evelyne." ... Well... he won’t even look at her. This man could walk past a volcano confessing its love and tell it to lower its flames. Lady Evelyne straightened, the pink still blooming on her cheeks. Poor thing. I bet she had a whole inner opera going on: "My heart, my fate, my one and only imperial crush!" But somewhere beneath the sass and satin, I felt... a tiny twinge of sadness. Because I knew. I knew Papa would never look at her the way she was hoping he would. Not now.Never. Hah... I guess Papa is going to be single for life. And just then, Lady Evelyne turned to me with the warmest smile—so kind, so full of hope, probably unaware that she was now unofficially heartbroken. "Greetings, Princess," she said, bowing politely. I beamed like the sun. "Greetings, Lady Evelyne... you look so beautiful today!" She blinked. Then blushed again. Her ears turned pink. Her neck turned pink. Even her clipboard looked like it was blushing. Oops. "Th-Thank you, Your Highness," she stammered, smoothing down her skirts. Then, regaining her poise, she cleared her throat. "Then... shall we begin?" I nodded, steeling myself for the horrors of history and handwriting. Papa pulled out the chair beside me and sat down, silent and composed as ever, like he was made of cold marble and mysterious secrets. Probably here to supervise. Or intimidate. Or both. And just like that, it began. My royal training.My scholarly doom.My slow, spiraling descent into the terrifying world of numbers, ethics, ancient treaties, and etiquette spoons. The path to becoming Empress had officially started.