Chapter 112: Something’s Rotten in the Plotline (and It’s Not the Cheese)

Chapter 112: Something’s Rotten in the Plotline (and It’s Not the Cheese) [Lavinia’s Pov] Since the plot was shifting like a moody monsoon with commitment issues, I made a decision. A firm, noble, princess-level decision. I would watch Caelum Virell like a hawk. A hawk in a silk dress. With a tiara and a divine beast with a violent streak and a dramatic flair for rolling into flower beds. Because this future traitor? This emotionally constipated, plot-warping, sword-flipping, cheekbone-flexing disaster of a character? He was not getting away with anything. But... there was something else. Something that had been poking at the back of my brain like a child poking a sleeping dragon with a stick. Marquess Everett was never meant to adopt Caelum. Not in Chapter 3. Not in Chapter 57, nor in 98. Not in this timeline. Not in this royal multiverse where I currently ruled the palace snack budget and public opinion. In the original novel—the one I read, cried over, rage-annotated, and ultimately transmigrated into like some overachieving isekai heroine—Marquess Everett adopted the female lead. Not Caelum. Not this guy with the annoyingly beautiful yellow eyes and betrayal aura strong enough to fog up a prophecy mirror. The FL—bless her tragic little heart—was supposed to be adopted later. Much later. Only after I got banished from the palace and lost my title and she was adopted because she could marry Osric easily. Caelum’s story? Totally different. He was meant to suffer. Raised in the countryside. Dusty. Poor. Morally conflicted. Eventually recruited into the palace knights. Quiet. Loyal. Submissive. Angsty in a poetic way. Eventually became my personal knight with unresolved longing and five volumes of emotional repression. BUT NEVER—NEVER—Was he supposed to be adopted by the Marquess. This timeline? Was illegal. "I should sue the universe," I muttered darkly under my breath as I watched Caelum from behind a suspiciously large potted fern near the training grounds. It had been exactly fourteen days since Caelum Virell first stepped foot inside the imperial palace, and I was already developing fourteen new stress wrinkles. (Don’t tell the royal beauticians. They’d panic and throw rosewater at me.) Currently? I was stalking him. Ahem. Monitoring. I was monitoring him. It’s TOTALLY different, okay?! I had positioned myself like a professional spy—behind the fern, crouched low, notebook in hand, and Marshi beside me, doing his best impression of a crime-solving sidekick. He was squinting at Caelum through the leaves. I was holding his tail because he was way too excited and apparently thought we were playing some kind of royal detective game. (Which we were... I guess. Just with slightly higher stakes. Like treason. And betrayal. And possible sword-related drama.) We were very professional. Then— "What exactly are you doing, Lavi?" I gasped. Marshi yelped. And there stood Osric, holding his sword, eyebrows raised, his face very clearly stuck between concern and, Oh no, she’s doing something again. I immediately pulled him down behind the fern with me like a totally rational person. "Shhh!" I hissed. "We’re on a mission!" "A... mission?" he asked, blinking as he tried to right his now-askew breastplate. "I’m collecting data," I whispered conspiratorially. "Data?" he repeated slowly. I nodded, eyes narrowed as I scribbled something in my tiny leather-bound notebook labeled in very aggressive cursive: "Caelum Virell: Suspicious Activities & Possible Weaknesses (Draft 3)" "Suspicious behavior. Weak points. Possible allergies..." I grinned, tapping my chin. "...to torture him with later if needed." Osric blinked. Twice. "Are you—are you making an assassination spreadsheet?" "Don’t be ridiculous," I said, mildly offended. Beat. "It’s a full dossier." I flipped the page to show him a color-coded pie chart titled "Likelihood of Betrayal vs. Degree of Handsomeness". Papa always said, Be prepared. He meant it for statecraft and treaties. I took it to mean "track your enemies like a petty, over-caffeinated squirrel with a grudge." Osric groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "You’re going to start a diplomatic incident." "I’ll end it in style," I said cheerfully. Caelum, meanwhile, was sparring like he’d never betrayed me in another life. Which was insulting, frankly. "Look at him," I hissed. "All ’look at me, I can flip a sword and control my emotions like a normal person.’ Disgusting." "You know he’s just doing drills, right?" "Drills of DECEIT." Marshi growled in support. I narrowed my eyes and resumed surveillance. Caelum was swinging his sword under Ravick’s supervision with far too much grace for someone I had mentally classified as Public Enemy #1. I scribbled something in my invisible notebook. Probably "Smirks too confidently = suspicious." But then—A sting. Right at the back of my neck. I turned. And there he was. Osric. Watching me. Not glaring, exactly. But not... smiling, either. His brows were drawn just slightly, arms crossed tighter than before. That vague teenage tension in his shoulders? Oh yeah. That wasn’t just the sun in his eyes. "Wh—what happened?" I asked, blinking. He looked away. Which was weird. Osric never looked away. Not from me. Not when I was plotting emotional revenge or practicing royal walkovers in the garden. "Nothing," Osric said. Sharp. Clipped. Then, a beat later—softly, and with the emotional subtlety of a thundercloud: "Just... I don’t like you watching him like that." Huh? What does that even mean? My internal princess radar started beeping wildly. Was that... jealousy? Possessiveness? Disapproval? Emotional indigestion? Why would he have all that, though? I blinked at him. Slowly. Like a confused duck. "What?" "You shouldn’t waste your time watching someone like him," Osric muttered, arms still crossed like a teen statue of broody judgment. His jaw was tight. His eyes weren’t on me—they were locked on Caelum across the field like he was trying to duel him using sheer hatred. "W-well..." I stammered. "He’s suspicious, that’s why! I’m doing royal surveillance! For the good of the empire!" Then— "Oh," said a smooth, velvety voice behind me, "Princess Lavinia?" I stiffened. Damn it. I turned slowly, like a character in a horror movie about to turn around and meet the villain. And there he was. Caelum Virell.Future-traitor. Current smirking menace. Standing far too close, wearing imperial black training gear like a second skin, his hair tousled to strategic perfection, as if the wind itself worked part-time as his stylist. And that smirk? Yeah. That smirk had ulterior motives written in glitter ink and sealed with betrayal wax. "Greetings to Her Highness," he said, bowing with all the elegance of a man who definitely knew which fork to use and which kingdom to ruin. I blinked. "Why...are you here? Weren’t you training?" "I finished drills early," he said smoothly. "And I noticed you here. Thought I’d come greet you." Tch. He turned slightly, his eyes shifting to Osric with perfect, calculated grace. "And greetings to the young lord of Valerius," Caelum added, his tone polite—but with the kind of edge that made it sound like a challenge wrapped in silk. Osric’s eyes narrowed a fraction of a millimeter. "Virell," he replied flatly. Ah. It was happening. That ancient energy.The ancestral tension.Two teenage boys. One princess. Zero chill. Caelum tilted his head, faux-gracious. "It’s an honor to share training grounds with you. Your reputation precedes you." "I’m sure it does," Osric said, tone dry as the desert. Then, with the calm of someone placing a sword down blade-first, he added, "I look forward to dueling you soon." Oh wow. We’re already threatening each other? The plot hasn’t even reached page one! Caelum smiled. "It would be an honor, my lord." And then—he turned to me. And turned up the charm to criminal levels. "...And I hope we will get along in the future, Princess. It would be an honor to be your friend." Friend? HAH. I wouldn’t even let him hold my snack plate, let alone my trust. I opened my mouth, ready with something dry, witty, and deeply unfriendly, when— "Do you think earning the princess’s friendship is that easy?" Osric cut in, voice low and sharp. Oh. Caelum blinked. "I only offered friendship, Lord Valerius. I didn’t realize that required your permission." "It doesn’t," Osric said, stepping a little closer, "but it does require... worth." Oh my gods. They were posturing. Like noble peacocks. With swords. Caelum arched a perfect brow. "And who decides that worth? You?" "I know her," Osric said tightly. "Since she was born. I know what she likes. What she hates. What kind of people she deserves." "And I simply offered to be one of those people," Caelum replied, smiling as if he hadn’t just launched a verbal missile. "Well," Osric said, smiling back with teeth, "good luck. Her Highness doesn’t make friends easily." Something shifted in the air. Not visibly. Not audibly. But noticeably. The garden felt colder. Like someone had opened a diplomatic freeze agreement and forgotten to close it. Birds stopped chirping. A squirrel dropped its acorn and quietly evacuated the scene. Tension. Was. Everywhere. I, being the emotional genius that I am, did the only rational thing possible. I stepped back half a pace, offered my best royal laugh (the one I usually reserve for awkward dinner parties and sudden noble proposals), and said— "Haha, you boys have fun trying to out-brood each other. I’m going to see Papa. He must be missing me. You know, can’t go five minutes without his daughter-shaped ray of sunshine." Neither of them responded. Osric’s jaw was tight. Caelum smirk twitched. Abort mission. Abort mission now. "Okay byeee!" I blurted—and dashed. Full gown-swooshing, hair-bouncing, escape-run mode. Marshi roared once and followed loyally, galloping after me like a furry little knight abandoning the battlefield. Together, we fled the silent war zone like true cowards of peace. Behind me? Tension. Sparks. Possibly murder in the form of polite conversation. Ahead of me? Safety. Papa. And hopefully, zero boys with god-tier cheekbones and death-glare drama.