Chapter 118: The Return of the King… and His Gremlin

Chapter 118: The Return of the King... and His Gremlin [Lavinia’s POv] I ran. I didn’t stop to ask when exactly he’d arrive. I didn’t ask how far he was, whether he was tired, or whether someone had offered him tea or an unnecessary political report on his return. None of that mattered. Because all I knew was that my papa—my world. My terrifying, tyrant, tree-trunk-sized-palm-slap-you-on-the-head Papa. My everything—was finally home. My boots echoed wildly down the marbled halls, clattering like a small thunderstorm. Stunned guards straightened. Nobles flattened themselves against the walls. Somewhere, I heard a vase fall. My skirt whipped around my legs like a cape. My braid slapped me on the back of my neck with every wild step. I was a princess-shaped hurricane, and no one was going to stop me. "PRINCESS LAVINIA, SLOW DOWN OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO A WALL—!" Osric yelled from behind. CRASH. There it was. Followed by a groan. Possibly maid-shaped. I didn’t stop. I ran down the grand staircase, nearly slipped on the third step, recovered with the grace of someone who definitely did that on purpose, and burst through the corridor toward the East Wing. Past the rose garden—where summer roses still bloomed in the middle of winter like they didn’t care about logic. And then—I skidded to a stop at the great hall’s massive double doors. And I just stood there. Breathless. Heart thundering. He was at the border, they’d said. Which meant it wouldn’t be long now. Just minutes. Maybe half an hour. Maybe less. I could wait. Behind me came the sound of two boys suffering the consequences of my cardio enthusiasm. "Princess," Osric wheezed, leaning dramatically against a pillar. "You... run... like a madwoman." Caelum was slightly better off, still breathing like he’d chased a wyvern. "She’s small... but deceptively fast. Like a squirrel on fire." I didn’t answer them. I was too busy staring at the gate like I could will it to open with sheer daughterly determination. Moments later, Theon shuffled into view, looking like he’d just lost a race against his own knees. He bent slightly, placed a hand on the wall for balance, and muttered, "By the gods... I’m becoming old. Royal children should come with speed warnings..." He straightened with a half-hearted smile. "Princess, His Majesty is expected to arrive in approximately half an hour." I didn’t reply. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. Because yes, it might take half an hour. Yes, I might be cold. And yes, I might be mildly hallucinating the sound of hoofbeats already. But I would wait here. Because he was coming home. And I wasn’t missing a second. The others seemed to understand. Because no one told me to move. Instead, slowly, the ground filled. Bootsteps padded in behind me. Maids. Butlers. Stablehands. Guards who had no reason to be here but didn’t want to be anywhere else. And then—Marshi came. My golden disaster of a divine beast, fur still mussed from napping, blinked his crimson eyes at the crowd, yawned like this was all far too dramatic for his celestial schedule... and then sat right beside me. He leaned his weight against my legs, warm and heavy, like an anchor. I didn’t look down. I just smiled. Nanny and Marella appeared moments later, both wrapped in their winter shawls. Nanny took one look at me and sighed like she hadn’t spent years training herself not to cry at moments like these. She walked over, placed a long woolen coat gently around my shoulders, and whispered, "His Majesty will be worried to see you standing in the cold, my princess." I glanced up at her. Nodded once. And returned my gaze to the gate. Everyone was quiet. Not the kind of stiff, formal silence people used at court. But the kind of soft, waiting quiet you held in your chest when something important was about to happen. Something that might only come once in a lifetime. Or, if you were very lucky—once every time your father came home from war. And then—it happened. The air changed. Just a breeze, at first. A shimmer of something through the stained glass. Then— TRUMPETS. I heard them. Far off, at first. Faint. Then closer. Louder. Bolder. The gates began to open. And my heart? It remembered how to beat like a drum of celebration. He was here. Papa was home. Now, I was prepared for many things. War changes people, they say. Leaves scars. Hardens gazes. Tan skin. So naturally, I assumed Papa would return looking... well, war-worn. Maybe with a beard. Maybe with that rugged, I’ve-survived-thirteen-sieges look. Maybe slightly hunched, like he carried the burden of an empire and two ruined boots. I braced myself. Mentally prepared to throw myself into the arms of a hardened general, battle-scarred and gloriously muddy. And then—the gates opened. The royal banners unfurled. The golden sunlight hit just right. And my father— Waltzed in on horseback looking like a romance novel cover come to life. Tanned? Yes. But also... glowing? Was he riding in slow motion? His long black coat billowed behind him like a dramatic storm cloud. His jawline looked carved by the sword of the gods themselves. His golden hair—his ridiculously shiny hair—fluttered in the wind like a shampoo commercial audition. And his eyes, those piercing crimson eyes, sparkled like he’d just defeated three enemy kingdoms and moisturized. I stood there, dumbfounded. Mouth open. Eyeball possibly twitching. My voice came out like I’d swallowed disbelief and sarcasm in equal measure. "So... uh, my papa—did he de-age during the war? What kind of battlefield spa did he go to? Did the enemy just throw rosewater at him and call it a truce?" Beside me, Theon blinked, visibly trying not to laugh. "Huh? What are you talking about, Princess? His Majesty’s always looked like that." I turned to him slowly. Stared. "Are you telling me," I said, pointing toward the celestial apparition dismounting with the grace of a storm-born hero, "that he’s always shimmered like the Sun God’s personal favorite son?" Theon shrugged. "Kind of? I mean, there was one time his hair caught literal sunlight during a duel and blinded half the court." I stared back at Papa. "No, I see it now," I mumbled. "The Sun God personally invested in this man. He probably wakes up every morning kissed by divine light and moisturized by ancient spells of glory." And then— Papa dismounted. One elegant swing of the leg. One fluid movement. He landed with a soft thud that echoed like destiny across the courtyard stones. Like gravity saw him and said, "My bad, Your Majesty—carry on." And then—his eyes met mine and instantly softened. The weight of war, the years apart, the ache I carried like armor—it all melted from his face in a heartbeat. And then he spoke. Low. Gentle. The voice I had missed more than sleep. More than sweets. More than anything. "...How are you, my dearest daughter?" And everything inside me shattered like glass under sunlight. I smiled. Tears sprang instantly to my eyes. I didn’t even feel them fall—I just moved. "PAPA!!!" I dashed toward him, arms outstretched, ready to throw myself into his embrace like an overgrown emotional missile. He dropped to one knee, arms wide, his smile brighter than a thousand suns— And then I stopped. Mid-sprint. Skidded. Like a cart with no brakes and too much self-awareness. Papa’s smile faltered into confusion. Everyone behind me collectively sucked in their breath like it was a performance art piece. I adjusted my skirt. I straightened my back. Tucked the wild hair from my face. And then—I walked. Gracefully. Elegantly. Like a porcelain statue come to life during a diplomatic gala. I approached with poise, posture, and dignity, like one of those tragic princesses in ancient tapestries who probably never once tripped over a stair. (I almost tripped. But the important part is that I did not.) And then—I bowed. A deep, proper, royal bow. "Welcome back, Imperial Father," I said, my voice as smooth as silk and modestly full of dramatic flair. Silence. Pure silence. Papa blinked. Once. Twice. He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. Or worse—like I’d grown up. I lifted my chin ever so slightly and flashed him The Look. The "Well? Are you proud? Are you moved, Papa?" Look. This was it. This was my grown-up debut. Papa’s brows furrowed. His head tilted ever so slightly. Then, in a voice loud enough to be heard by every maid, knight, noble, horse, and passing pigeon in a five-mile radius, he said— "WHO ARE YOU?" I froze. "...What?" Papa leaned forward slightly, squinting at me like I was a scroll written in an extinct dialect. "Where is my dramatic, loud, chaos-gremlin daughter who always rode her divine beast into the throne room because ’walking was for peasants’?" I blinked, raising my hand. "I am standing right here." "No, no," Papa said, now gesturing toward me with a dramatic wave. "This girl in front of me is far too graceful. Far too calm. I’m suspicious." He looked over my shoulder. "Theon, check for illusions." Theon, bless his terrified soul, flinched and stammered, "I-I think it’s really her, Your Majesty!" Papa gave me a deeply skeptical look. "Then explain yourself. Why didn’t you launch yourself at me like a flying squirrel the moment you saw me?" "I was being elegant," I replied, insulted on behalf of every posture lesson I didn’t sleep through. "Elegant?" Papa echoed it like it was a foreign word. "You?" "I’m ten now, Papa," I said with all the dignity my tiny body could summon. "I’ve matured." He tilted his head, gaze twinkling. "But you’re still short." I gasped. "EXCUSE ME?!" He smirked. "I GREW SO MUCH!" I hollered, outraged. "One day I’ll grow taller than you, and you’ll regret this slander!" "Oh?" he said, raising a brow. "So fierce. There she is—my daughter." I yelped, pointing a dramatic finger. "WAIT! What about my posture?! My etiquette?! My imperial aura?!" He just laughed—deep and warm and so Papa—before pulling me into another hug and lifting me off the ground like I still weighed nothing more than a dream and like i was still six. "Your posture can wait," he said, voice gentling again. "I want my daughter back." I didn’t fight it this time. I wrapped my arms tight around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder, feeling his scent—like worn leather and sun-warmed metal and something safe—and whispered: "I missed you." "I missed you more," he murmured, holding me like he’d never let go. And for a moment—for the first time in years—The palace didn’t feel so heavy. The air wasn’t cold. And my heart, that had been holding its breath for so long, finally exhaled.