Chapter 130: The Everheart Invitation

Chapter 130: The Everheart Invitation [Lavinia’s POV] [Imperial Chamber—Still Processing Fate-Bending Nonsense] I stared at the page. Then blinked. Then stared harder, like maybe—just maybe—the ink would get uncomfortable and start explaining itself. "...bend the thread of fate itself when the bond is strong enough. But at a price." Okay. First of all: what price? Second of all: WHAT price?! Third of all: why is there never a helpful footnote when you actually need one? I closed the book slowly. Carefully. Like I was sealing away a cursed scroll that might explode if I looked at it wrong. Then, with the subtlety of a suspicious cat, I opened it again... just to make sure I didn’t imagine it. Nope. Still there. Still dramatic. Still offering zero explanations. Just more ancient mystery scribbled by Quillan the Overdramatic Scribe of Doom. With a sigh of equal parts dread and caffeine withdrawal, I turned to Marshi. And there he was—yawning. The absolute audacity. Here I was, having an existential crisis, and he was out here acting like it was nap o’clock on Fireball Island. I stomped over and grabbed his giant, fluffy cheeks in both hands—squishy and warm like toasted marshmallows. He blinked. I squinted. "You... What even are you? Huh? A fire beast? A secret fate-weaving creature from beyond the stars? Or just a glorified foot warmer with big eyes and dramatic silences?" Another blink. Slow. Knowing. Infuriating. I released his face with a soft, tragic sigh and plopped back down onto the carpet. "The book says you have the power of fire," I told him seriously, as if this would finally get him to react like a dragon in a fairy tale. He blinked again. I narrowed my eyes. Harder this time. More commanding. More chosen-one-y. Then I stood—dramatically, might I add—gathered all the sacred seriousness I could summon, raised my arms to the ceiling, and yelled with righteous, magical intensity: "MARSHI! FIIIIIRREEEEE!!" ... He blinked. Then blinked again. Then he flopped onto his side with a sleepy grunt and tucked his tail over his nose like I wasn’t even worth dignifying with a response. Rude. It was the kind of silent, judgmental movement that clearly translated to: "She’s lost it. The princess has gone full firecracker." I flopped down next to him with a defeated groan. "Ugh. I really thought you’d breathe fire or something. Just a little puff? A flicker? A spark? Anything?" Nothing. I stared up at the ceiling. "Maybe I’m the problem." Marshi let out a snore like a soft ’you think?’. I sat back up, grabbed the book again, and muttered, "Threads of fate... huh?" My fingers ran over the old lettering. The words still pulsed with weight, with purpose, with whatever spooky prophecy energy Quillan apparently mainlined. "Only one person can tell me what any of this actually means," I decided aloud, clutching the book to my chest. "Brother Lysandre." He was the only one who would tell me everything and wouldn’t laugh. Or lecture, and since he is the archmage...he might have answers. I was halfway across the room, already ready to scribble a letter demanding urgent clarification and dramatic tea-time conversation—when the door creaked open. Marella stepped in, polite and composed as always. "Princess," she said, dipping her head. "Lord Osric has arrived. He wishes to speak with you." I froze. "Osric?" I blinked. She nodded once. "Yes, Your Highness. He’s waiting in the east guest chamber." I stared at her for a long, suspicious moment. "Voluntarily?" Marella tilted her head slightly. "It would seem so." *** [Imperial Palace—East Guest Chamber, Where Drama Clearly Lives] That was weird. I tucked the fire-beast-fate-bending book into the back of my mind and followed her down the corridor. "Osric could’ve met me during practice," I muttered. "So why is he arriving like a proper guest today? With formality? In the daylight? Like a responsible human?" Marella offered one of those vague, all-knowing little smiles. "Perhaps because today, he’s not here as your friend... but as the young Lord of House Everheart." I blinked. "...I see." I reached the chamber just as the double doors swung open on well-oiled hinges—and immediately sensed it. The Vibe. Papa was already seated, exuding his signature Ice Emperor Disapproves of Your Whole Existence energy. He was glaring at Osric like he wanted to turn him into a tax form. Across from them sat Grand Duke Regis—sipping tea and smirking like he knew the ending to a tragic romance and was thrilled about it. And Osric? He was sitting beside the grand duke, looking ridiculously composed for someone whose hair naturally curled like a halo and whose dimples could start rebellions. The moment I entered, all three men turned to look at me. Papa’s expression softened for exactly 0.3 seconds before returning to Death Glare Mode. Grand Duke Regis rose and gave a courteous bow. "Greetings, Your Highness." Osric bowed too, voice smooth and polite: "It’s good to see you, Princess." "Greetings, Grand Duke Regis... and Young Lord of Everheart," I said with a gentle smile. I offered a practiced smile and floated down into the seat beside Papa. His jaw was so tight you could’ve cracked walnuts on it. And Papa keeps Tch’d under his breath as he keeps glancing at Osric and Grand Duke Regis. Wow. He’s so pissed, he’s making consonant sounds. Now...I wonder what all this is about? Osric didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he smiled at me—a soft, genuine smile that had no business being that charming. I fought a blush like it was a duel to the death. This is not the time to melt, Lavinia. Be strong. Be imperial. Be less... hormonal. "So," I said, very calmly, very diplomatically, "is there something important you wished to discuss?" Osric’s eyes twinkled, and he reached into his coat and slid something across the table. A sleek, golden envelope with the Everheart crest stamped in red wax. "I would like to invite Her Highness," he said, "to my coming-of-age ceremony." Oh. Oh, right. He just turned sixteen. I smiled and nodded. "Of course. I’d be honored to attend." Osric’s smile widened, and for half a second—just a second—everything felt warm and pleasant and fine. And then— "Tch. Annoying," Papa muttered beside me. I flinched. There it is. I turned slowly. Carefully. Papa was fuming. Not loudly—but in that cold, quiet, scary way that made the room temperature drop by three degrees. Why was he like this? Was it because I accepted the invitation? I’m the Crown Princess. I’m supposed to attend high-noble events! Then— Grand Duke Regis smiled over the rim of his teacup. That smile? It was up to something. It was the kind of smile a cat wears right before it pushes a priceless vase off the table. "I suppose," he said ever so casually, "the Princess will need to begin practicing her dances." I blinked. "...Excuse me? What do you mean?" He turned to me with that same gleam in his eyes. "Well," he said, "surely you know the tradition? According to imperial law and historical precedent... the heir of the Grand Duke’s house must share his first dance with the Princess." ... ... ... I blinked. Then blinked again. Then slowly turned to Papa. He was glaring at Grand Duke Regis like he wanted to challenge him to a duel using live snakes. "I should ban this law too,"Papa muttered through gritted teeth. Grand Duke Regis chuckled like he was having so much fun watching my father combust. "You know," he said mildly, "there are laws, Your Majesty, that even you cannot change. Not without rewriting the entire Imperial Constitution." Papa’s glare intensified. It was no longer just a glare. No—this was a full-blown psychic laser beam of overprotective rage aimed directly at poor, politely smiling Osric. I could practically see the heat waves rippling through the air between them. Meanwhile, my brain was still... rebooting. Dance. First dance. With Osric. At his coming-of-age ceremony. In front of literally every noble in the empire. My stomach did a tiny somersault for some reason. My hands, neatly folded in my lap, twitched slightly. I looked at Osric again—his face still calm, still wearing that gentle, annoyingly handsome smile like it was carved from golden sunlight and royal privilege. I blinked. He blinked. Our eyes met. I nearly forgot how to inhale. ...My first dance is going to be with Osric Everheart? The boy who once fell face-first into a fountain while trying to impress me with his fencing form? The boy who now looked like a painting come to life? What kind of poetic twist of fate was this?! I turned to Papa slowly—like a kitten expecting to be squirted with water. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled tight on the armrest, and his aura was giving off "I will set tradition on fire if it even looks at my daughter wrong" energy. Grand Duke Regis was smirking. Osric was waiting. The silence was tightening. And I just sat there thinking—I never imagined my first dance would be with Osric, either. And yet... Here we are.