Chapter 148: His Majesty Hates Romance

Chapter 148: His Majesty Hates Romance [Lavinia’s POV—Imperial Palace, Morning of the Wedding] And just like that... it happened. Theon’s wedding day. Somehow, miraculously, Lady Evelyn hadn’t run off to join a monastery, and Theon hadn’t tripped into a fountain during one of his dramatic monologues. So yes—today was officially their wedding. And guess where it was being held? Right here. In the Imperial Palace. Because, of course, Theon insisted on "getting married where my soul awakened, my heart bloomed, and my bones were broken thrice during royal assistant training." Very poetic. Very Theon. But before the chaos of flower arrangements and embroidery-coated anxiety could begin, Papa did what Papa does best: He handed Theon a scroll. Not just any scroll. A giant, imperial, forbidding, intimidatingly long scroll sealed with the royal wax and a small note on top that simply read, "Rules. Non-negotiable. –C" I watched as Theon unrolled it... and kept unrolling it... and then kept unrolling it. His face went from excited groom to utterly betrayed court jester within seconds. His jaw dropped. His pupils dilated. I swear one of his eyelashes trembled in shock. Papa stood nearby, arms crossed, looking like the grumpiest wedding planner in the history of monarchies. "That," he said flatly, "is me being merciful. Because you’ve served this palace... somewhat loyally." Theon whispered, "This is a scroll of doom." I leaned over Theon’s shoulder with Marshi practically clinging to my arm as we read the scroll of doom together. The Royal List of Not-Allowed Things for This Wedding, as Declared by Emperor Cassius. No more than fifty guests. Including birds. No flowers that shine, sparkle, or twinkle like stardust. No wine stronger than 2.3% alcohol. "I will check," it warned ominously. No slow-motion petal throwing. No themed dances. Especially not "interpretative." No shirtless harpists. No crackling fireworks. Or sparkling torches. Or overly enthusiastic candles. No birds trained to fly in synchronized heart shapes. ("This includes pigeons. Yes, even the smart ones.") The list kept going. And going. And going. By the time it unrolled past Theon’s knees, we reached the last line, written in bold, imperial ink like it had been carved by the sword of drama itself: "NO KISSING." Theon froze. He blinked once. Twice. And then let out the kind of horrified gasp reserved for betrayals of the highest order. "NO KISSING?!" he shrieked, clutching the scroll like it was a death certificate. "Are you INSANE?! Kissing is the seal of marriage! It’s the crescendo! The confetti moment! The—THE THING!!" Papa, who had been watching with all the emotion of a stone gargoyle, narrowed his eyes. "Do not tempt me into amending the wedding law altogether," he said coolly, reaching ever-so-slowly toward the hilt of his sword. Theon’s mouth fell open. "W-Wedding law?! What even IS that?!" "A law," Papa replied flatly, "in which the bride and groom skip the ceremony and go straight to separate rooms." Theon shrieked. "HE’S A MONSTER!" he declared, pointing a trembling finger like a betrayed protagonist. "A WEDDING MONSTER! AN AFFECTION-DESTROYING TYRANT!" Papa took one step forward, eyes gleaming. "What did you just call me?" Theon screamed and bolted, the scroll dragging behind him like a rejected bridal veil. "YOU’RE A MONSTERRRRRRR!" We watched him vanish down the hallway, his voice still echoing like a tragic opera solo. Silence. Marshi and I turned to look at each other and sighed dramatically. "I guess this really will be the most dramatic wedding in imperial history." Marshi nodded slowly, in agreement, and I mumbled again, "At this rate, someone’s definitely fainting into the cake." We both looked back at Papa, who was now muttering something about confiscating all glitter within a ten-mile radius. Marshi and I sighed in unison. And just like that... it was wedding day. I was dressed and ready—swaddled in royal silk with gold embroidery too sharp for hugging and sleeves too wide to function as anything but portable curtains. I walked down the marbled hallway toward the bridal chamber, my heels clicking softly with each step. Behind me, Marshi padded along, his tail swishing with the kind of excitement only cakes and chaos could stir in him. I chuckled and reached down to ruffle his head. "Are you excited for the wedding... or just the endless dessert tables, huh?" He rolled his eyes with all the sass of a spoiled housecat. The message was clear: same thing, master. Same thing. I grinned, "Figures." Then— "Princess." I turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Ravick was striding toward me, dressed in his full ceremonial armor—polished, regal, and not a single strand of hair out of place. He bowed slightly. "I’ve been assigned to be your knight for the day." "Oh?" I blinked. "What about Osric?" Ravick gave a small smile. "He’ll be attending the ceremony as the heir of House Everheart. Today, he wears his noble colors... not his sword." I paused. Right. Osric. As Grand Duke’s successor. "But don’t worry," Ravick added with a small tilt of his head. "His eyes will still be on you. He’s sharper than I’ll ever be." I smiled softly at that, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery in my chest. "Of course he will." Ravick gestured toward the corridor. "Shall we, Princess?" I nodded. "I’m heading to see Teacher Evelyn. Figure someone should make sure the bride hasn’t escaped through a window yet." He chuckled and fell into step beside me, one pace behind. And as we moved down the corridor, past tapestries and floral garlands and far too many nobles pretending not to judge each other’s outfits—I couldn’t help but think... No matter how chaotic the kingdom got... Today was going to be interesting. *** [Imperial Palace—Bridal Room] When I reached the bridal room, Ravick stopped outside, and Marshi curled by the door, clearly planning to nap until cake happened. I knocked gently. "Teacher Evelyn? It’s me." "Come in," came a voice from within—breathy, high-pitched, and trembling like a kitten on a teacup. I pushed open the door— —and stopped. "Oh... wow." There she stood. Teacher Evelyn. My tutor. The strict, endlessly composed scholar of ancient diplomacy and battle ethics... now dressed like a fairy goddess summoned from the moon. Her gown was ethereal—soft ivory with subtle silver embroidery that shimmered as she turned in the candlelight. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist with delicate white lilies pinned along the curve of her braid. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a romantic ballad scroll. She also looked like she was about to pass out. "I—I think I’m going to faint," she whispered, clutching a tiny perfume bottle like it was a sword. I rushed to her side. "Teacher! Breathe. Deep breaths. You’re not fainting on me in that dress. It’s too expensive." She sat down heavily on the cushioned stool, muttering something like "This is a terrible idea. Why am I doing this? Is eloping still an option?" I tried not to laugh. "If you elope now, I’ll have to chase you down in heels. Also, if you vanish mid-wedding, Theon will flood the entire palace with his tears and possibly summon a sea god by accident." She blinked. And chuckled. "He really would, wouldn’t he?" "That man once cried because his soup reminded him of you," I said, deadpan. Teacher Evelyn turned beet red. "He told you that?" "He told everyone that." Her hands covered her face in exasperated affection, but the corners of her lips were curved upward. "He’s so embarrassing..." "But also... weirdly adorable," she added. I stared at her. Oh wow. This elegant, serious woman had just giggled like a teenager. Like an actual giggle. Was this what love did? Transformed scholars into swooning fiancées? "Love is really out here rewriting personalities," I whispered to myself. She tilted her head. "What?" "Nothing." I beamed. "Congratulations again, Teacher Evelyn. And please..." I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Raise our grown-up toddler Theon well. He may be older than me, but emotionally, he’s still five." She burst out laughing, tension finally melting from her shoulders. "I’ll do my best." I straightened and headed toward the door. "Alright. I’ll leave you to your last few moments of sanity." "Thank you, princess." *** [Imperial Palace—Garden] The garden sparkled. Literally. There was glitter in the air. Glitter on the roses. Glitter in the grass. I was fairly certain I saw a butterfly sneeze glitter at one point. I sat beside Papa at the front, perched regally in my silk, pretending to admire the flower arrangements while discreetly trying not to choke on floating sparkles. Papa leaned over, muttering through gritted teeth. "Tch... he turned my imperial residence into a glitter-themed pastry shop." I smiled sweetly. "He just wanted a magical garden wedding, Papa." He didn’t blink. "He desecrated my lawn." Meanwhile, Theon stood at the altar. If "nervous starlight wrapped in human skin" was a look, he’d perfected it. He sparkled—no, radiated—with more glow than the entire chandelier collection inside the palace. His robes were white and gold with sparkly lining that caught every ray of the sun. The embroidery on his cuffs shimmered like the moon. He even had tiny gemstones on his shoes. Which were currently shaking like a baby deer on ice. Marshi, curled at my feet, gave a slow, unimpressed blink. Probably questioning if Theon was about to faint or fly away. The music began. Everyone turned. Teacher Evelyn emerged like a divine blessing. Theon made a sound I can only describe as a squeaky sob and swayed dangerously. Papa sipped his tea—his own tea, which he brought to the garden wedding because apparently, "I don’t trust these celebratory concoctions"—and muttered, "If he faints before the vows, I’m canceling this wedding." But, to his credit, Theon stayed standing. Barely. The ceremony began. The vows were sweet. Emotional. Slightly too long. Theon cried (again), the doves were released on cue (heart-shaped ribbon trails in the air), and then— It happened. Despite the very clear, very bold, very capital-lettered decree that said NO KISSING, Theon... Kissed her. Right there. Bold. Passionate. A whole swooping dip-and-lip moment like he was auditioning for a romance opera. Papa twitched. Then moved. I turned to him in slow horror. "Papa... no." His hand was already on his sword hilt. "HE KISSED. I SAID NO KISSING!" He stood up. The crowd gasped. Music stuttered. Doves flapped. I prepared to fling myself onto him like a small emotional shield, but before I could, Grand Duke Regis slid in smooth as silk and grabbed Papa’s arm with a calm, firm hand. "Your Majesty," he said gently. "Let them have their moment." Papa growled like a stormcloud. "I’ll have him exiled to the Moon Realm for violating my wedding decree—" "And who will run the royal theater troupe then?" Regis asked mildly. Papa paused. Sat down. Grumbled into his tea. "Still a stupid wedding." Meanwhile, Theon and Teacher Evelyn were oblivious to the chaos, lost in their twinkly little bubble of love and bird feathers. The crowd cheered. Someone popped a petal cannon (also definitely against the list) It was the most chaotic wedding in imperial history. And somewhere, between exploding doves and Papa threatening exile mid-toast... I saw her. Elaenia Valcorin. The woman who would soon rewrite Osric’s fate—the future grand duchess.