Chapter 103: The Velvet Hammer Doctrine

Chapter 103: The Velvet Hammer Doctrine [Lavinia’s Pov] "...Maybe not," I admitted in a whisper, my voice shrinking a little under the enormous weight of reality. And that, I think, was the first time I really understood what it meant—to grow. To learn. To become something more than just a sparkle angel in a newspaper headline. (Although, for the record, I looked very cute in that headline. And I stand by the glitter stickers.) Lady Evelyne didn’t gloat. She didn’t smirk. She just smiled softly, like she’d been waiting for this little lightbulb moment all along. "But," she said gently, her voice like warm tea on a cold morning, "it also doesn’t mean you have to be cruel, Princess." I looked up at her, surprised. She was still smiling—that calm, graceful smile that made her look like she belonged in a fairy tale where everyone wears pastel robes and gives life-changing advice while sipping chamomile. "Kindness is still important," she said. "You just have to be kind and firm. Like a velvet hammer." "Velvet hammer?" I blinked. "That sounds like a noble title. Sir Velvet Hammer of House Sassington." She chuckled, shaking her head. "It means you must remain gentle in heart—but unyielding in duty. Because there will be people... precious, irreplaceable people—who are loyal to you not because they must, but because they believe in you." She looked at me for a moment, as if reading my soul (which felt mildly invasive but also kind of comforting). Then she continued, "Your father, your nanny, your personal maid, your knight—they are loyal not out of fear, but love. That kind of loyalty... is earned. Through strength. Through trust." I nodded slowly. Hmm...she means I didn’t have to become a terrifying, sword-wielding ice queen who throws nobles off balconies for sneezing too loudly? Good. Because my arms are small and I can’t lift people yet. Still, her words stuck. Kind and firm. Not a pushover. Not a tyrant. Just... a very sparkly, moderately dramatic future empress with backbone and good accessories. I glanced at Papa, still silently nursing his tea like a brooding painting. And suddenly... I understood something else too. Maybe... just maybe, Papa being a scary tyrant who could end you with a single raised eyebrow wasn’t just a personality quirk. It was why he could rule. Why the empire stayed strong. If he wasn’t strict... If he wasn’t terrifying in a sort of elegant-ghost-who-sips-tea-and-summons-doom way... Maybe he wouldn’t be here. Sitting beside me. Watching me learn. "Okay," I mumbled, straightening my back like I was preparing for a battle or an unexpected pop quiz. "I think I get it now. I don’t have to be a cinnamon roll. Or a cactus. I can be, like... a cinnamon roll with fangs." Lady Evelyne blinked. "That’s... oddly accurate." Her expression was caught somewhere between impressed and vaguely alarmed—like she hadn’t expected her day to end with metaphors about cinnamon rolls with fangs. Papa, ever the embodiment of stone statues and mysterious royal decorum, allowed himself a small, amused smile. Barely there. But I saw it. And in Papa-speak, that was practically a standing ovation. Lady Evelyne finally gathered herself and gave a graceful little nod, clipboard now tucked like a precious relic beneath her arm. "That’s all for today, Princess." I let out a tiny sigh of relief, dramatically collapsing against the back of my chair as if I had just survived a ten-year war and was now waiting for my retirement pension. "I live to see another sunrise..." She chuckled politely, probably used to my flair by now, and turned to Papa. "Then... I will take my leave for today, Your Majesty." And oh. Oh no. She was blushing again. Her teacher-mode vanished like mist under sunlight, and she morphed back into her civilian form—Elegant Young Lady of the Court. She smoothed down her skirt like it had personally offended her, and her eyes darted to Papa like he was the sun, the moon, and a free pass to the royal archives all rolled into one. Honestly, watching this unfold was like witnessing someone try very hard not to fall into a crush and failing spectacularly. Papa gave a short, regal nod. The kind of nod that said, Yes, you are dismissed. Lady Evelyne curtsied deeply to both of us, then turned and began walking out with the poise of someone balancing a teacup on her head... Except, you know, way pinker. I waved after her enthusiastically. "See you tomorrow, Teacher Evelyne!" She froze mid-step. Just a teeny tiny glitch in her walk. Then the blush deepened again. Like she’d just been called "Teacher" by a baby duckling, and her heart didn’t know how to cope. "Such a nice lady..." I mumbled to myself, watching her disappear down the corridor like a strawberry pastel breeze. Papa looked at me and gave the smallest approving nod. I could practically hear his internal monologue: Yes. Excellent. Tutor selection: 10/10. Daughter not traumatized by lesson: 10/10. Empire still standing: bonus points. He took one last sip of his tea like this was just another perfectly organized tick mark in his Day of Imperial Efficiency and stood up. "Let’s go," he said, offering me a hand. And just like that, we walked out of the royal classroom together—him with the elegance of a man who’s conquered countries before breakfast, and me, his slightly chaotic sparkle prodigy, still thinking about snow foxes in scarves. *** [Imperial Palace, Later...] I was sprawled like a dramatically fallen noble lady across Marshi’s broad, divine back. My arms dangled off one side like limp noodles, my hair fluttered in the breeze like I was starring in a tragic opera, and Marshi—my gloriously oversized divine beast and fluffiest war machine—just kept walking forward with majestic grace, completely unfazed by the small human blanket draped across him. He was taking me to the royal training grounds. And by "taking me," I mean I had convinced him to carry me like a glorified couch because I didn’t feel like walking. "Marshi..." I mumbled into his warm fur, gently patting his side like one might pat a loaf of bread. "When I become Empress... I’m going to get you a crown. A huge one. With diamonds. And wings." Marshi let out a low, rumbling roar. Not an angry one. No, this was his ’I approve, my tiny sovereign’ roar. The kind that made birds scatter, trees tremble, and my soul feel a little more powerful than it had any right to be. I tilted my head up and grinned. "I mean it! A real crown. Big enough to fit your fluffy forehead. Maybe even with built-in horns." He let out another rumble, louder this time—like he was saying, "I already have one, tiny Empress. Make it bigger next time." Behind us, the steady sound of footsteps and soft chuckles echoed across the path. "Right, right, Princess," came a familiar voice, sounding entirely too amused. I turned my head and squinted dramatically. "Don’t laugh, Lionel. I’m being completely serious." Lionel, my second-in-command knight (a.k.a. Backup Knight, a.k.a. Emergency Ravick Substitute when my grumpy knight went off to train with the others), was walking a few paces behind us, his silver armor catching the sunlight like it was auditioning for a fashion magazine. He held his sword over one shoulder and looked far too pleased with himself. "Of course, Your Highness," he said, his lips twitching with a smirk. "A crown for Marshi. Should I have the royal jewelers draft blueprints?" I narrowed my eyes. "Well...I don’t mind." He gave a little bow, playing along. "Noted, Princess. The future of the Empire depends on it." Marshi gave a satisfied snort, his tail swishing like a fluffy, deadly banner, as we trotted gracefully (well, he trotted gracefully—I just flopped like royalty on vacation) toward the imperial training grounds. The clang of swords and the bark of commands echoed across the courtyard like music. Well, violent, sweaty music. And then—there he was. "Osric!" I waved both arms in the air, nearly tumbling off Marshi’s back in my enthusiasm. "Hi Osric!" SHALALALA He was in the middle of sparring with two other knights-in-training, his sword slicing through the air like it belonged there. His red hair was a little longer now, clinging to his forehead with sweat, his brows furrowed in perfect, focused concentration. His tunic clung to him in all the right places (unfair), and his posture was confident and solid—like he was born to hold a sword. He paused mid-swing and turned toward me, his eyes catching the sunlight like something out of a romance novel, then gave me the briefest smile and a small wave with his training sword. "...Wow," I whispered, mesmerized. "Look at him. All sweaty and gorgeous and sparkly and delicio—wait, what—delicious!" I slapped my own cheek so fast Marshi actually flinched. "Snap out of it, Lavinia!" Lionel raised a brow beside me. "Everything alright, Princess?" "NO. I MEAN YES. I MEAN—DOES HE ALWAYS LOOK LIKE THAT!?" I hissed, burying my face in Marshi’s neck fluff like it was a pillow of shame. Lionel blinked. "...He’s sparring." I know! But why does he have to spar like that?! With the muscles! And the angles! And that... jawline forming like it’s being sculpted by ancient sword gods! I CAN’T BELIEVE HE IS FOURTEEN AND HE’S ALREADY EVOLVING INTO A PROTAGONIST! Osric, casually twirling his sword, laughing with the others, his sweat catching the light like a halo. A handsome halo. A dangerous halo of puberty. I mean...he used to be cute, sure. Like a bunny with a wooden sword. But now... now he’s like a baby lion discovering his roar. With shoulders. Real ones.