Chapter 132: Lace, Laws, and Lovesick Creatures

Chapter 132: Lace, Laws, and Lovesick Creatures [Lavinia’s POV] [Imperial Palace—Throne Corridor of Immediate Aftermath] Theon ran like his entire bloodline depended on it. And honestly? It probably did. Papa was still frozen in place, his expression somewhere between Did I hear that right? and time to declare war on Theon. Marella and Nanny stood clutching their hearts like they were holy relics. Lady Evelyne looked like she wanted to vanish into a tea kettle. And me? I was still smiling. Like a little chaos gremlin who just got handed front-row seats to a romantic meltdown and imperial overreaction. Ravick cleared his throat beside me. "Well," he said with a straight face, "that escalated with historical efficiency." Papa finally moved. Very slowly. Like a glacier about to destroy a city. "I’ll kill him," he muttered. "Technically," I said cheerfully, "you can’t. He’s a noble heir. There’s paperwork." "I’ll file it." "Papa..." "I’ll invent a law if I have to." "Papa," I said again, trying to soothe the brewing storm. "He’s just... enthusiastic." "He’s delusional." "He’s in love," I sang. "Isn’t that... sweet?" Papa turned to me with the expression of a man who had been personally betrayed by the concept of romance. "Love makes fools of men." "True," I chirped, "but it makes excellent poetry." "Lavinia." "Yes?" I asked, innocently. Papa turned slowly, dramatically—like the villain in a tragic play who just discovered betrayal most foul. "I want you to stay at least three meters away from Theon at all times. Preferably in different wings. Possibly... countries." I placed a hand on my chest, blinking with mock horror. "Papa! Can you even survive without me if I go live in a different country?" He flinched. Visibly. Then, he muttered like a man on the edge, "I should’ve banned courtship rituals ages ago. They’re making my daughter’s brain rot." I chuckled. And right on cue— Lady Evelyne, still frozen in her pink, blushing, daydream-soaked expression, looked so pink it was medically concerning. Someone check her pulse. Her face was a strawberry sorbet. A walking bouquet of blush. Marella leaned toward Nanny and whispered, "Should I fetch the Imperial Heart Tonic now or wait for someone to faint?" Nanny stared at Lady Evelyne. "Bring two. One for her, one for His Majesty." Papa, meanwhile, was vibrating. Like truly. Not shaking with rage. Vibrating with the spiritual force of seventeen volcanoes and one disapproving grandfather. And then—he snapped. "CATCH THAT BASTARD!!" The royal doors burst open with the force of an imperial hurricane as Papa stormed out like a one-man cavalry charge. His voice echoed down the marble hallway like thunder during judgment day. "HE’S A TRAITOR TO MY PEACE OF MIND—" Steel boots clanked. Capes flared. The imperial guards, having trained their entire lives for potential assassination attempts, uprisings, and border disputes, were now sprinting full-speed... after one panicked teenager. From somewhere down the corridor we heard: "GAHHHH—YOUR MAJESTY!! I AM NOT A TRAITOR!! I’M JUST IN LOVE!!" "IT’S THE SAME THING!!" Papa yelled. More boot clanks. A startled bird flew out the window. Possibly an omen. I turned to Ravick. "Do you think he’ll actually catch him?" Ravick considered this with the gravity of a scholar. "Theon does run surprisingly fast when in mortal terror. But His Majesty is fueled by paternal rage, which is a terrifying energy source." I sighed dreamily. "Ah, young love." Lady Evelyne swayed again. Marella whispered, "Maybe three tonics." Nanny replied, "And a mop." And as Papa’s war cry continued to echo through the halls, I turned back to the stunned practice room, smiled sweetly, and clapped my hands. "Well," I said. "Who’s ready for another dance round?" *** [Imperial Palace – Dressing Chamber of Destiny and Drama] The day had arrived. The grand Coming-of-Age Ceremony of Lord Osric Everheart. Honestly, it came faster than expected. One moment I was tripping on Theon’s toes in the practice hall, and the next... I was being smothered in violet silk and royal expectations. "Alright—you’re ready!" Nanny announced with a clap, her smile stretching ear to ear like she’d personally sewn every thread into the fabric of my future. I turned slowly—carefully—because this gown? This gown was not here to play. It shimmered in deep violet, the imperial shade of House Solstice, layered with silvery lace that trailed down the hem like stardust was stitched into every inch. The sleeves? Soft, flowing, woven from dreams. The neckline gently kissed my collarbone with that effortless princess chic Nanny always insisted on. And my hair? Marella’s masterpiece. Braided with perfect precision and threaded with tiny, moonlight-white pearls that twinkled like constellations in my curls. And of course—atop it all sat a tiara.Elegant. Delicate. Sharp enough to stab someone if needed. I tilted my head at the mirror and whispered, half amused, half in awe, "I look like I walked out of a storybook... and probably stole the author’s pen." I mean, let’s be honest—I looked divine. Hah. No, Lavinia. Pull it back. No self-obsessed monologues today. That’s what diaries are for. Just then, I heard the soft sound of paws padding across marble. Oh no. "Don’t you dare," I warned without turning. Too late. Marshi—my oversized, cinnamon roll fire beast of a furball—strutted into the room like he was royalty and I was his opening act. His tail swished dramatically behind him as he approached with the most offended, judgmental look any creature had ever given a crowned royal. Then—with all the gall of a fluffy menace—he nudged my gown. "Marshi!" I gasped, twirling slightly away, "You’re wrinkling my lace!" He groaned. Audibly. Groaned. Then sat down, tilted his head, and gave me the saddest, most pitiful eyes known to magic and mankind. I swear... he conjured sparkles. Literal sparkles. "I know what you’re doing," I snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. "Stop it. That cute little starlight-in-your-eyes trick won’t work on me." He blinked. Once. Twice. Then doubled down. The stars in his eyes intensified. Puppy-dog level 9000. Shooting hearts. Emotional betrayal. Basically a Disney prince in beast form. "Marella—comb. Quick," I whispered like a spy. She handed it over with silent dignity. I swung it at him like a fencing sword. Marshi recoiled dramatically, like I’d just shattered his trust, and turned away with the grace of a heartbroken duchess. He slumped into the corner, flopped down against the wall, and let out a groan so full of despair, I half expected violins to play. He tucked his tail over his nose and closed his eyes. I stared. "Is he... sulking?" I asked, genuinely concerned. "Hmm," Nanny said, adjusting the hem of my gown. "He’s been like this since you told him he can’t attend the ceremony." "He looks like a sad little princess who just got dumped at a ball," I muttered. "Just like you," Nanny added with the most casual shade known to court history. I gasped. "Excuse you! I’ve never sulked in corners—" "Last week. After you lost the fencing match to Sir Ravick," Marella offered. "That doesn’t count! He cheated with height and muscles and stupid grace." Marshi let out another soft ugh of dramatic solidarity. "Oh great," I sighed. "Now he’s emotionally syncing with me." Marella gently brushed a final curl into place and stepped back, smiling. "Well, Your Highness. You’re ready." I took one last look in the mirror, then glanced at my fur-covered drama king still slumped like the ghost of rejected suitors past. Deep breath. Time to walk into Osric Everheart’s coming-of-age ceremony. Wearing the gown of a princess. The pearls of a legacy. And apparently carrying the emotional weight of a lovesick fire beast too. As I stepped out toward the grand imperial carriage waiting in the courtyard, the sunlight shimmered off the violet silk of my dress like it was personally trying to outshine me. It failed, obviously. And there he was—Papa. Leaning against the carriage like a royal statue carved from glacier and disapproval, arms folded, expression carved from ice. Of course. Beside him, poor Theon stood looking more nervous than a servant caught in the royal wine cellar. Papa’s glare was locked on him like a heat-seeking missile. "Stay away from my daughter, you lovesick idiot. I don’t want your sickness passing onto her." Theon flinched, looking wounded in twelve different emotional languages. "Your Majesty... don’t you think you’re being a little too much?" Papa didn’t blink. "NO." I sighed, sweeping down the stairs like I was gliding on clouds and years of emotional damage. Papa definitely hates love. He probably has a royal decree for it. I approached him with a smile. "Shall we go, Papa?" He turned to look at me—and for a split second, just a flicker, I saw something shift in his expression. His eyes lingered on the tiara, the pearls, the gown. His jaw moved... like he almost said something. But before he could, Theon—ever the court disaster—blurted from the side, eyes wide with admiration: "Oh... my princess. You look so beautiful." I smirked, hands on hips. "I know." And then... I turned back to Papa, raising an eyebrow with the subtlety of a daughter craving validation. C’mon. Say it. Say I’m beautiful. Do it, you emotionally constipated ice monarch. Instead— "Ravick," Papa said, as cold as a snowstorm with a vendetta. Ravick, stepped forward and bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty?" Papa nodded toward me, voice flat. "Make sure no idiot boy even breathes near her." Ravick’s face didn’t change, but I could see the amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Understood, Your Majesty. I’ll treat them like mosquitos." Papa grunted. I sighed again. Honestly, I’m so used to this royal overprotective nonsense, I could probably choreograph a ballroom dance around it by now. Still, I climbed into the carriage with excitement bubbling under all the silks and sighs. After all—today was Osric’s big day. And more importantly... I was visiting the Everheart mansion for the very first time.