Chapter 138: The Tyrant’s Daughter

Chapter 138: The Tyrant’s Daughter [Lavinia’s POV] [Imperial Palace—Dawnspire Wing—Lavinia’s Chamber] I had just turned fourteen. And with that came the unshakable, undeniable truth—I was becoming more beautiful by the second. I leaned in closer to the mirror, my chin tilted at the perfect angle, admiring the delicate curve of my cheekbones, the glow of myskin, and, the mischief dancing in my eyes. "Hah... gods, I am so gorgeous," I murmured, smirking with full confidence, as if the mirror might disagree otherwise. Behind me, Marella giggled. "There she goes again—praising herself like she’s a goddess carved from marble." Nanny chuckled too, her hands busy folding freshly ironed gloves. "Let her be." I spun on my heels, placing my hands firmly on my hips like a general addressing her troops. "What?" I demanded with mock indignation. "Am I lying?" Nanny gave me that indulgent smile she reserved for when I was being particularly ridiculous. She stepped closer and began adjusting a stray curl beside my temple. "No, no, Princess. You’re not lying." She patted my cheek fondly. "You’re absolutely beautiful. After all, you are the daughter of the Emperor. And your father was considered quite the heartthrob in his youth." She’s not wrong. I smirked. "Exactly. Papa might be broody and grumpy and aging like fine cheese—" "WHO ARE YOU CALLING BROODY?" Oh no. Cursed timing. I turned slowly—like a criminal caught mid-heist—and there he was. Papa. Emperor Cassius Devereux himself, standing at the door with his arms folded like an offended statue of war. One brow raised, a familiar imperial scowl sharpening his already sharp face. He looked like he’d been lurking there for at least a few lines of dialogue. I cleared my throat, smiling nervously, backing away from the mirror like it had betrayed me. "Uh... well... what I meant was—Papa, you’re broody in a heroic, mysterious kind of way..." He narrowed his eyes. "...But still verrrrryyyyyy handsome!" I added quickly, my hands fluttering as if that would fan away the awkwardness. "More handsome than the gods! Honestly! Divine, even. I mean, have you seen your cheekbones? I inherited those. That’s why I’m beautiful too! It’s genetics. Glorious genetics!" . . . . . . He sighed the way only fathers with dramatic daughters do. Long. Suffering. And vaguely amused. "Get ready," he said. "You’re coming with me to meet a diplomat." I instantly straightened up, shoulders squared like a soldier going to battle. "Yes, sir!" I said brightly, already making my way to his side with my usual confident skip. He looked at me sideways. "Don’t ’sir’ me. You sound like that idiot, Theon." I grinned. "Fine. My liege." He gave me another sigh and turned to walk, but I slipped my hand into his and matched his pace. "So... Who’s this diplomat? Are they boring? Or scandalous? Please tell me it’s scandalous. I need a little scandal today." "Just one of those idiot empires from the Western Vale," he said, waving a hand as if swatting away an annoying fly. "The new king wants our support to wage war against his neighboring enemy empire. Claims he’s cleansing the bloodline or some such nonsense." I nodded wisely, as if I understood the politics of power-hungry monarchs and ancient grudges. "Ah, I see. One of those. So... are we going to help him?" Papa gave me a withering side glance. "No. He’s an idiot. We gain absolutely nothing." I grinned. "So, we’re kicking him out... in a charmingly elegant way? You’ll do the diplomatic ’we shall consider your offer’ and then ghost him like last season’s ambassador?" Papa paused for a second. Then deadpanned, "No. We’ll let him talk for five minutes, maybe six if he brings good offer... and then I’ll personally escort him to the gate." I blinked. "That’s... not very elegant." "And..." He glanced at me, face unreadable. "After that, we’re going for a duel." I froze mid-step. No. No no no. I knew that tone. My entire soul short-circuited. "Whaaaaat?! Papa!" I nearly tripped over my slippers catching up to him. "We just dueled last week! My arms are still recovering! Do you know how long it took for my sword calluses to fade into elegant hand-model-worthy fingers?!" "Yes," he said calmly, never breaking stride. "And now we do it again." "Whyyyy?!" I wailed, following him like a shadow of doom. "Aren’t you being just a little cruel to your beautiful, dazzling, one-of-a-kind, emotionally fragile daughter?" He didn’t even blink. "NO." "Papaaaa!" I threw my arms in the air. "This is targeted abuse." "Don’t be dramatic." "I am dramatic! That’s my whole personality!" He sighed. The long, tired kind of sigh only a father of a disaster princess could muster. "You need practice." "Practice for what?!" I gasped, arms flailing. "The next imperial war? Assassins?" Papa paused at the doorway of the diplomatic chamber, one hand on the gold-etched handle. His voice dropped a notch—calm. Quiet. Steady. "For everything, Lavinia." Ugh. What does that even mean? Everything? Why does he always speak in dramatic riddles like a retired hero from some tragic play? I huffed and crossed my arms, watching him push open the door. And as he stepped through like a looming god of war, I stayed behind for a second—just one tiny second—to collect my thoughts. Because... honestly? Ever since Osric’s coming-of-age ceremony, it feels like someone took the script of my life—the original novel—and set it on fire. Then rewrote it. In blood. And sarcasm. According to the book, Osric should’ve gone off to war by now. Fought bravely. Gotten all mysterious and brooding with scars and sword fights and tragic flashbacks. Then, a year later, he’d meet the female lead of the story—some dazzling beauty with star-blessed destiny and the perfect jawline—and fall in love, or angst, or whatever the plot demanded. But noooooooo. He took the oath. And now he’s stuck with me. Surprisingly? He doesn’t seem to mind. Somehow, Osric manages both being the heir of House Everheart and my shadow knight, the Crown Princess’s glorified bodyguard, study partner, sometimes an unofficial tutor, and occasional tea companion—all without combusting. He’s calm. He’s composed. He’s... chill. Which is weird. Weirder still? Papa keeps a very sharp eye on him. Like hawk-level sharp. Every time Osric so much as smiles in my direction, Papa tenses like someone just insulted the Empire. It’s almost comical. I have a theory. A very solid, scientific theory: Papa is afraid I might fall in love with him. He hates the idea of any man being near me. Guards? Must be blind, married, or eunuchs. Knights? Allowed within dueling distance only. Visiting noble sons? Summarily executed via look-alone. But the biggest twist in all of this? It’s not Osric. It’s me. Yes, I’ve grown taller. My figure has finally stopped being ’adorably awkward’ and started becoming ’elegantly lethal.’ And yes, I’m absolutely, undeniably gorgeous. (I say this with scientific objectivity.) But more than that? I’m stronger. Like, actually stronger. Stronger than Caelum. And Caelum is the one destined to become the Empire’s finest sword in the future. Keyword: was. Because now? Now I duel better. I move sharper. I win more. Papa made sure of that. After, I have been officially moved to my own estate—the Dawnspire Wing. I thought we would be meeting less, because he’s the emperor, and emperors are busy. But no. I see Papa more now than I did when we used to share a chamber. He drags me to meetings. Takes me to diplomatic negotiations. Makes me duel thrice a week. Sometimes four if he’s feeling dramatic. He trains me. Mocks me. Pushes me. Corrects my footwork at breakfast. Lectures me on battlefield strategy during tea. And he always—always—ends it with: "You must be the best." And I want to scream, YES, I KNOW, I’M TRYING— But also? Also? He’s not wrong. Still...that does NOT mean he gets to torture me. Duels on a full stomach?! At sunrise?! In formal gowns?! Who raised this man? Oh, right. A war god. I sighed. And yet, as I sat there watching him—arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to cut through steel, absolutely glowering at the sputtering diplomat across the marble table—I couldn’t help but feel it. Love. Pure, violent, unreasonable love. Yes, he was a broody tyrant.Yes, he dragged me through swordplay hell three times a week. But he was mine.My Papa. And no one—not a single noble, not a general, not even the gods—stood taller in my world than him. Even now, he hadn’t said a word. Just... stared. But somehow that stare said "I will erase your entire lineage if you say one more stupid thing." Unfortunately, the idiot diplomat kept talking. Gods, did he keep talking. "...and I do believe, Your Majesty, that an alliance between our great empires would prove beneficial in long-term trade development, and of course, in future military cooperation—" I felt myself blink in slow agony. He droned on. And on. "...I’m confident that your Empire of Elarion will find it most lucrative to—" Papa finally glanced at me. It was subtle—barely more than a flick of the eye. But I knew what it meant. Say something. The diplomat turned to me with a greasy smile. "And what does the Crown Princess think of this proposal? Surely such wisdom must run in the family." I looked at him. Then at Papa. Then back at him. With all the elegance of a future Empress, I crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, rested my elbow on the carved arm of the chair... ...and dropped my voice into a slow, deadly calm. "How can you be so boring?" The diplomat blinked. "Pardon?" I didn’t blink. I didn’t soften. I kept going. "With all due respect—which is none—do you honestly think we’d ally with a crumbling little patch of dirt that’s been in three civil wars in five years?" His eyes widened. Papa smirked. Which meant he was pleased. I leaned forward, smile thin as a dagger. "Let me be direct. Your empire has nothing to offer us. No land worth claiming, no army worth noting, no coin worth counting. Your people are starving, your nobles are traitorous, and your military commander was caught selling battle horses for cabbage." The man flinched. I sighed heavily. "I came here today hoping to meet a man worth speaking to. Instead, I got a sweaty little crown puppet trying to sell me friendship like it’s some kind of bargain fruit." The silence was thunderous. "You want our support?" I said sweetly. "Earn it. Rebuild your empire. Stop being pathetic. Then maybe—maybe—we’ll send you a dinner invitation. But until then?" I stepped beside Papa, folding my hands neatly. "Be glad my father hasn’t thrown you out already." Papa finally turned to the man, tilting his head slightly. "...That was her being polite." The diplomat looked like he’d just swallowed a live eel. Papa stood and said, "Meeting over." We strode from the chamber, side by side, boots echoing down the polished floor. He didn’t speak for a while. Then, finally, his voice—low, amused, proud—broke the silence. "You sounded just like me." I smirked. "It’s because I am your daughter." He ruffled my hair with a gloved hand. And though he’d never say it out loud—he was proud. I could feel it. And as we walked through the sun-drenched halls of the palace, I didn’t feel like a little girl trailing behind a legend anymore. I felt like I was becoming one.