Chapter 170: Talons, Tarts, and Terror

Words : 1585 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

Chapter 170: Talons, Tarts, and Terror [Lavinia’s POV—Dawnspire Wing—Private Garden—After Months] A month. That was all that stood between me and sixteen. The newspapers wouldn’t shut up about it. Every morning they landed on my breakfast table like gossipy relatives who’d had too much coffee: "CROWN PRINCESS LAVINIA TO COME OF AGE—EMPIRE PREPARES FOR GRAND CELEBRATION" "HIS MAJESTY’S ONLY DAUGHTER TURNS SIXTEEN NEXT MONTH." "NEXT EMPRESS BLOOMS INTO HER RADIANT PRIME" Radiant prime. I had literally woken up with my hair stuck to my face and drool on my pillow that morning. Radiant, indeed. It wasn’t just a birthday. I knew that. The Coming-of-Age Ceremony was when the empire would decide if I was ready to stand as its next ruler. Papa would be watching. The nobles would be watching. The foreign envoys would be watching. And yet... I was the one who would have to sit there for hours, wearing twenty pounds of embroidery, smiling so wide my face would cramp. The palace had already turned into a disaster zone. Tailors kept ambushing me in corridors like assassins with measuring tapes. Florists were arguing in the hall about whether lilies or roses were more "imperial." Musicians were practicing at ungodly hours. I couldn’t even nap in the garden with Marshi without tripping over someone rehearsing their bow. Outside the palace walls, the whole empire was in a frenzy. Cities were stringing up golden banners. Merchants were selling "Princess Lavinia" dolls that looked suspiciously unlike me (one had dimples—I do not have dimples). Taverns promised free drinks on my birthday. I’m sure someone, somewhere, was already making a cake the size of a small house. It should have been flattering. Instead, it felt like I was standing on a stage with a hundred spotlights and even more sharp-eyed critics. Because in one month, I wouldn’t just be sixteen. I’d be a political prize, the empire’s most valuable bargaining chip. ...And still somehow expected to sit through etiquette rehearsals without falling asleep. But more importantly—I had a crisis. A very serious crisis. "I don’t have a lady-in-waiting," I declared dramatically, as though announcing the fall of the empire. "Marella abandoned me. She married and just... trotted off with her husband. Left me here to wither away in loneliness." "I... miss her," I mumbled into my tea, like the tragic heroine I was. Nanny chuckled. "My princess is missing the one she used to call ’hopelessly clumsy’? How the mighty have fallen." I narrowed my eyes at her as she set another plate of lemon tarts in front of me. "I’ve come to realize something, Nanny," I said solemnly. "And I wonder what that is?" "There’s a saying—we only value someone after we’ve lost them. And unfortunately... I am one of those people." I said. "That’s called self-awareness, Your Highness." She smiled, clearly far too entertained. I let out a sigh so long and suffering it could have been framed as art, then slumped in my chair like a corpse waiting to be buried. Nanny just blinked at me, unbothered, before picking up a tart and holding it to my lips. "Why don’t you select your new lady-in-waiting soon? Maybe someone around your own age... you could make a friend." I bit into the tart with the dignity of a queen, crumbs everywhere. "I don’t want a friend, Nanny," I said after swallowing. Then, lowering my voice to a whisper, "There are already three men roaming around me. I’m not bored, but still I need a female companion." Her brows drew together. "Did you say something?" "Yes," I said quickly, opening my mouth again. "Feed me more." Nanny gave me that look. "You’re almost sixteen, my princess, and still being spoon-fed like a toddler." I raised my chin with perfect imperial arrogance. "Food tastes like heaven when you feed me." That earned me a head-pat. "You’re certainly growing up." A slow, proud smile spread across my face. "And becoming more beautiful by the day." "Yes, yes... extremely beautiful," she said, rolling her eyes fondly. I grinned. "Glad you noticed." I leaned forward on my elbows, chin resting in my hands. "By the way nanny... Did you not like any of the ladies-in-waiting who applied?" Nanny—dear, overworked Nanny—let out a sigh so dramatic it could’ve blown out the nearest candle. Her expression shifted to that cold, calculating look she reserved for tax collectors and people who oversteep tea. "They’re all useless." I blinked. "...All of them?" "ALL. OF. THEM." "Oh dear," I said with mock sympathy, "I assume they gave you a headache?" "Very much." She rubbed her temple for emphasis, as though reliving the trauma of bad curtsies and worse conversation. I straightened just enough to look serious. "Well, if it makes you feel better, the empire’s fate will probably survive without them." She gave me a flat look, then added, "Yes, and more nobles have applied. The new list will be coming today." I perked up like a cat hearing a tin of tuna open. "Ooh. I’d like to see that list." I perked up like a cat hearing a tin of tuna open."Ooh. I’d like to see that list." "Of course. I will get that," the nanny said, looking like a soldier who’d been through three wars and lost all of them. I leaned back, folding my arms. "It must be exhausting, handpicking someone who’s basically supposed to breathe when I breathe, walk when I walk, and politely laugh at my terrible jokes." Nanny’s face crumpled into a picture of pure suffering. "You have no idea." And then Nanny left. I glanced to my right, where Marshi was crouched by the koi pond, either playing with the fish... or threatening them. Jury’s still out. "Marshi... do you want some tart?" His head whipped toward me so fast I thought I heard his neck crack. His eyes lit up like he’d just been promised eternal glory. Without hesitation, he sprang toward me—making three of the guards instinctively reach for their swords. I held out a neat little piece of tart, about to feed it to him, when— WHOOSSH. In a flash of talons and feathers, it was gone. I didn’t even need to look. I knew . Solena. The divine eagle. Marshi froze mid-bite-that-never-happened. His mouth hung open, and his whole body went still—like someone had just unplugged him from the wall socket. Slowly, with the stiffness of a cursed marionette, he turned his head toward Solena. She was perched on the railing, smug as a goddess, tearing into the tart like it was rightfully hers since birth. The expression on her face screamed: Oh, you sweet little mortal fool. Did you really think the good things in life were meant for you? Marshi’s whole soul seemed to combust. He let out an outraged screech and launched himself at her. She took off effortlessly, wings slicing the air, and the koi scattered in terror. I sighed, resting my chin on my hand. "There they go again." Osric strolled over, his tone far too amused for someone supposedly here to maintain order. "Ah... so that’s why she flew in like an arrow. For the tart." I flicked my gaze from him to the feathered aerial battle happening above. "She doesn’t want the tart. She wants the emotional damage. It’s her hobby." Osric chuckled. "She teases him a lot, doesn’t she?" I snorted. "Teases? She’s building a ten-year psychological warfare campaign against him." He raised a brow. "And in the meantime... no lady-in-waiting?" I let out the kind of sigh that makes people pat your shoulder. "Nope. And Nanny’s about three rejection letters away from throwing herself into the koi pond." Osric chuckled, and then—bam—his whole face switched from warm chuckle to iceberg in human form. "NOW," he said, in that deathly-serious tone that could probably freeze boiling water, "SHALL WE GO TO PRACTICE?" My smile wilted. Oh no. Not again. See, after Ravick ordered it, Osric has been drilling me in sword practice every single day. And let me tell you—he’s somehow worse than Ravick. Yes. Worse. Ravick at least shouts and scowls like a normal scary person. Osric? He’s... polite. Deadly polite. The kind of polite that makes you feel bad for breathing wrong before he slices the air in half in front of your face. In short: HE. IS. A. DEMON. He doesn’t believe in "light sparring" or "taking it easy on the Crown Princess." No, no. According to him, it’s a full-scale battlefield or nothing. The man swings at me like I’m the final boss of some ancient prophecy—the Demon Lord of Doom—and this is our climactic battle that will decide the fate of the realm. And all I hear in the middle of my near-death experiences is,"Lavi... you need more practice." Like, sir. I’m the crown princess. Not the reincarnated demon slayer in the final boss battle.He spars with me like I’m facing the Demon Lord himself—and this is our third, and final, duel before the end credits roll. By the third round, my lungs are filing for divorce, my arms feel like overcooked noodles, and my dignity? Dead. Buried. With a nice little gravestone that says Here Lies Lavinia, Crown Princess, Murdered by Leg Day. "Can we skip for—" "LET’S. GO. LAVI." He said it politely and yet coldly. "Alright," I groaned, dragging my feet toward the training yard. And that’s how I spent yet another morning preparing for my glorious sixteenth birthday—by dying dramatically on the training ground.

Chapter 170: Talons, Tarts, and Terror

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