Chapter 71: The ’M’ Word Meltdown

Chapter 71: The ’M’ Word Meltdown [Lavinia’s POV] Clank. Clank. CLAAAANK. "STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACKS, YOU USELESS POTATO SACKS!" "Y-YES SIR!" Ah, yes. Just another peaceful morning in the Imperial Palace. The familiar cacophony of swords clashing and Ravick’s violent voice serenading the knights filled the courtyard like background music. And the rest of the knights were hiding in the bushes, guarding me like secret agents with terrible camouflage Osric was training as usual. His movements were sharp, focused—almost mesmerizing, if you’re into that kind of thing. Which I was not. Obviously. Marshmallow, the ever-faithful and extremely distractible divine cat, was having the time of his life swatting at a leaf like it owed him money. Every now and then, he’d jump up, startled by his own shadow, then resume his battle against foliage tyranny. I should’ve been watching Marshmallow. Or the knights. Or, I don’t know, maybe doing something productive like throwing breadcrumbs at Osric to test his reflexes. But no. But no. My mind was off in the clouds, tangled in a dilemma far more terrifying than sword practice. The Grand Duke Regis was acting... weird. Suspiciously weird. Villain-in-a-murder-mystery kind of weird. Two days ago, he was staring at me and Osric during training. And not the usual "You’re standing wrong" stare. No. It was the deep-thoughts-brewing, plot-intensifying kind of look. The kind you give when you’ve just decided someone’s future without asking them. And then this morning—he just stopped me in the hall, eyes gleaming with unknowable secrets, and said: "I hope the two of you continue to grow closer." That’s it. That’s what he said. But did he really just say that? Or did I feel it in my bones like: "You two would make a fine couple someday." . . . . . . . . . GOOSEBUMPS!!!!!! For the first time in a while, I got horrified by my own thoughts. "For a second there I felt like he’s planning to marry me off to Osric," I muttered under my breath, nervous laugh. Then I blinked. I realized I’d said that out loud. And immediately froze like someone had just dumped ice water down my back. Wait. WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT. Did I just say the "M" word? In reference to myself? My brain stopped functioning for a solid three seconds. Total system error. Please reboot your princess. Then came the slow, creeping horror. Me. Getting married. Me. A BABY. A four-year-old baby. (Okay, technically a soul on her second life, but let’s not get philosophical right now.) A tiny, squishy, still-growing princess, being shipped off into matrimony like some kind of dainty trade agreement! To Osric, of all people! Not that Osric was awful. He was... fine. Polite. Capable. Had decent posture. Not a total idiot, which, frankly, was rare in boys his age. But still— He’s the future hero! I know how these stories go! He’s going to ditch me for the female lead eventually, because that’s how the stories flow! "Ughhh," I groaned, flopping back dramatically on the bench like a wilting maiden in a second-rate opera. Marshmallow, mid-pounce, glanced at me with a confused expression, as if to say: Are you okay?Then, as usual, he decided I wasn’t worth it and resumed his war with the leaf. Maybe I was overthinking this. Maybe the Grand Duke just meant to be... encouraging? Supportive? Like an over-involved uncle who thinks the kid you sit next to once is your destined soulmate? I puffed out my cheeks and let my legs swing off the bench, kicking at the air. "This is ridiculous," I told the wind. "No one would try to arrange a marriage for me right now. Right?" ...Right? I narrowed my eyes at the sky. Just in case. Then I sat up, spine straight, and placed a hand over my chest like a noble knight swearing an oath. Yes, I’m right. Of course I’m right. I know, Papa. My imperial father—the supreme sword-swinger of the Elarion Empire. Someone dares suggest his little precious Lavinia should get married? All it would take is one twitch of that royal eyebrow, and boom—enemy of the crown. He’d draw his sword with that signature dramatic shiiing, his coat swirling like a thunderstorm, and send the suitor flying halfway to the western provinces. Probably while calmly saying, "No. Thank you." "No one’s marrying me without Papa’s approval," I snorted, lifting my head. "And by the time I’m actually old enough to think about marriage, Father will still be trying to teach me how to swing a sword without slicing off my own bangs." I sat up straighter and puffed out my chest like a very smug pigeon. "I should relax. I’ve got Papa. He’s basically my anti-marriage force field." That’s when Osric came jogging back from the training field. His tunic was soaked with sweat, hair clinging to his forehead, and he looked like he’d just gone ten rounds with Ravick and lost eight of them. "Lavi... what are you thinking?" he asked, breathing hard as he wiped his face with his towel. I blinked at him and shrugged, trying to act casual despite the absolute clown parade that had been marching through my brain a minute ago. "Nothing. Just... some usual thoughts." Osric gave me that slow, suspicious blink like he was mentally trying to figure out if "usual thoughts" meant snack time, world domination, or something in between. But he just nodded and, without another word, plopped down beside me on the bench, saying, "I see." *** [Emperor Cassius’s POV] "...Why am I your assistant?" came Theon’s voice—drawn out, long-suffering, and dipped in pure despair. I didn’t respond right away. I was too busy reviewing the logistics reports from the Western provinces, which were, frankly, a disaster. The trade routes were tangled, the grain taxes were suspiciously low, and someone had dared to send me a petition written in Comic Sans. Again. I finally glanced up. Theon was slumped behind my secondary desk, surrounded by a small mountain of paperwork that looked like it might collapse and end his suffering the way he clearly hoped. He had ink smudged on his temple, a loose cravat, and the expression of a man who hadn’t seen the sun in four days. He looked me dead in the eyes. "Can I take a five-day leave?" "No," I said flatly, not even bothering to look up again. "WHY!!! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME TAKE A BREAK?!" he howled like a wounded animal, dramatically throwing his quill onto the desk. I ignored him. He groaned and slumped in his seat like a ragdoll possessed by regret. "I should probably just get married and go on a long trip," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. That did it. Snap. My eye twitched. "Utter the ’M’ word again, Theon," I said coldly, my voice laced with the kind of promise that sent hardened generals running for cover. "And I will cancel every single pending leave you’ve ever earned. Retroactively." "WHAT?!" he gasped, clutching his chest like I’d stabbed him. "That’s not even legal!" "I make the laws," I reminded him, calmly dipping my pen into ink. "Try me." He whimpered and muttered under his breath, "He’s a devil... a real devil in emperor’s clothing... Vicious... cold-blooded..." I raised a brow but didn’t dignify it with a response. Then—knock knock. "Come in," I said, already bracing myself. And of course, he walked in. The smug bastard from last night. Regis Aurelian—the Grand Duke, the ever-smirking, too-handsome-for-his-own-good menace who was entirely too comfortable pushing my patience. He strode in like he owned the place, his coat immaculate, his boots polished. Then, a treacherous thought whispered through my mind: Should I throw him in the dungeon? . . . . . . . . . I can’t lose my mind because of him. "Greetings, Your Majesty," Regis said with a bow, his voice smooth as silk—and about as trustworthy. I didn’t bother to look at him at first. Instead, I spoke in a tone cold enough to freeze a bonfire. "Did you send word to that baron bastard?" He smiled, infuriatingly pleased with himself. "Of course I did. I even used red ink for the letter—as a warning." I gave a sharp nod. Red ink from the Imperial Palace wasn’t just ink. It was a declaration. A threat wrapped in formal language. He did well. "Excellent," I said, eyes narrowing. "And I trust you were clear—I want that man on his knees in front of me today. Not tomorrow. Not ’as soon as possible.’ Today. Before I run out of mercy and switch to public executions." Regis strolled forward without an ounce of urgency and casually took a seat on the couch like he owned it. "Don’t worry," he said, crossing one leg over the other. "I told him to use his legs and walk here himself—or else..." He smirked, sharp and wicked. "I’ll cut off his legs and drag him here." I gave a slow nod, the corners of my mouth twitching ever so slightly. Satisfaction. "I knew I could trust you with this." That was when Theon suddenly shot up from behind the mountain of documents like a startled squirrel. "But Your Majesty... what if he runs away?" he asked, voice tight with worry—and possibly regret for still being alive this morning. Regis didn’t even flinch. "Relax," he said, glancing at his cufflinks. "I’ve stationed men around his estate. If he tries anything funny, they’ll pin him down faster than a rat at a feast and drag him here, screaming and all." "Preferably conscious," I added dryly, turning my attention back to the stack of papers that dared to exist on my desk. Theon slowly slumped back into his chair, eyes wide with the haunted look of a man realizing his life choices. "This is exactly why I’m being buried alive under paperwork..." "And I don’t pay you to complain," I said flatly, not even glancing up. "Get back to work." A beat of silence followed. Then Regis let out a low chuckle, amused and unbothered. I dipped my pen into ink, ready to sign the next execution. Let them run. Let them squirm. But in the end, everyone kneels.