Chapter 89: I Am Not a Royal Football

Chapter 89: I Am Not a Royal Football [Lavinia’s Pov] "You okay?" I gave him my best regal nod, like a queen who had just dropped her crown and pretended it was on purpose. "Perfectly fine. Just... reevaluating my life choices." Osric blinked. "At five years old?" "You’d be surprised." He stared at me with that you-need-constant-supervision-or-you’ll-set-the-palace-on-fire look again, arms crossed like some disapproving royal nanny. Honestly, if he had a clipboard, I’d be on a government watchlist. And then—BOOM—a shadow loomed over us like the dramatic entrance cue of a villain in a soap opera. Before I could blink, I was yeeted off the ground like an overripe turnip. "HUH?!" I blinked, limbs flopping like an annoyed cat, suddenly cradled in arms that were way too careful, way too tight, and, honestly, too extra. I tilted my head up. Lysandre. Looking like a thunderstorm had stolen an Elven nobleman’s wardrobe and decided to make a fashion statement. Ruffles, high boots, and the expression of someone who just caught a mosquito hovering near a Fabergé egg. He held me like I’d just been cursed by an evil sorcerer or turned into a frog by an envious duke. "Lavinia. Who. Is. He?" he growled, eyes locked on Osric like he was already planning his funeral playlist. Osric raised a brow. "And...who. are. you? And how dare you hold the princess like she’s your emotional support plushie?" Now they’re glaring at each other like two enemy gods locked in an ancient, unspoken battle of superiority. And me? Yeah, just dangling in Lysandre’s arms like an annoyed cat in a designer tote, looking up at Lysandre, down at Osric, and seriously wondering who I should bet money on. Lysandre or Osric? This glare-off was heating up faster than my bathwater when Marella forgot to check the temperature. I couldn’t choose. This was high-stakes drama, and I was living for it. Then—Lysandre puffed out his chest like a very insulted swan in battle armor. "I am her second elder brother." He paused for dramatic effect, eyes blazing. "HER. FAMILY." Osric recoiled like someone had flung a raw onion directly at his pride. "Family?" he repeated, like it was a personal insult. Then his lip curled into a slow, dangerous smirk—one of those cold enough to refrigerate soup with just a glance kind of smirks. "...I am her first and ONLY close friend. Since she didn’t even know how to talk. I was there. Interpreting her baby grunts." I blinked slowly. When did he... Wait... are they actually flexing their titles over me? Like I’m a shiny trophy in a very dramatic game of ’Who Gets To Hold The Princess?’ Before I could open my mouth, Lysandre whipped his gaze down to me and barked, "Lavinia. Tell him you only belong to me." I choked on air. "What?!" That came out of nowhere! Like, bro, do I look like a limited-edition collector’s item? But plot twist—before I could process whatever Lysandre was on about, BAM, I was suddenly yoinked from his arms like a sack of sugar with too many opinions. "HUH—AGAIN?!" I yelped. Now I was smothered—hugged, I mean hugged, definitely hugged—in a very warm, very firm embrace. I tilted my head, and there he was: PAPA. Standing tall and terrifying, cloak fluttering, expression carved from stone and storms. His eyes—jealous. His grip—possessive. His tone? Ice-cold tyrant, served fresh from the underworld. "My daughter," he growled, glaring daggers at both Lysandre and Osric, "is only. Mine." . . . . . . . . . The silence was deafening. Even the wind paused to see how this would play out. I blinked. Then blinked again. Okay, can we all just take a moment to STOP GRABBING ME LIKE A ROYAL FOOTBALL?! They keep grabbing me like I’m the last piece of cake at a wedding. I looked up at Papa and caught those jealous little sparks still crackling in his eyes, and honestly? Oh. He was pouting. Adorably. And just like that—my tiny royal heart melted. I leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered with all the sweetness I could muster: "Yes. I only belong to Papa." Boom. Lysandre looked like he’d been stabbed in the heart with a hairbrush. Osric physically flinched. And from somewhere behind them—Theon’s voice floated in like a delighted breeze. "Ohoho, this is better than the court dramas." I could already picture him lounging with a smug grin, munching roasted nuts, wearing imaginary 3D glasses, and watching the chaos unfold like it was a front-row seat to royal reality TV—limited edition, drama deluxe. Then Papa looked down at me with that soft, rare smile he only wore for me—and only when no one was looking. Meanwhile, the boys looked like they were reevaluating their entire identities. And me? I just settled back into Papa’s arms and sighed and rested my royal head on his shoulder. Papa didn’t even look back. He just tightened his hold like a man claiming his prize and muttered, "Let’s go." And off we went—me, Papa, and the storm cloud of unresolved tension trailing behind us. Theon, of course, scooped up Marshi like he was rescuing a civilian from the chaos and casually strolled after us, humming like this was his favorite soap opera. I gave the two abandoned gladiators behind us a sunny little wave over Papa’s shoulder. "See you later!" Big smile. Zero regrets. Let them sort out their pride. *** [Throne Room, Later....] I was sitting on Papa’s lap like a perfectly arranged royal doll. Not by choice, mind you. I thought I was about to have one of those rare, golden "quality bonding moments" with my famously terrifying, emotionally challenged father. But no. Apparently, quality time in this palace means sitting on Papa’s lap while he discusses treason, kidnapping, and political bloodbaths like he’s ordering tea. Across the grand hall, Theon stood at ease — arms crossed, posture relaxed — radiating his usual "I only slept three hours but still look like a war god" energy. He was mid-report on the elven kids trafficking case. "So..." Papa said, his voice cold and deadly, "the Verllon family fled the empire before dawn." I blinked, kicking my tiny feet in the air. Traitors always run. Very original. I had planned to play outside with Marshi or sneak into the training grounds to watch Osric swing a sword at some poor dummy. But nooooo. I got scooped up by Papa like a stolen pastry and plopped onto his lap, right in front of the throne — with the same expression he uses when he’s about to sentence a noble to death. Except this time, the victim was my attention span. Papa’s fingers gently combed through my hair like he wasn’t just radiating murder vibes while stroking his five-year-old daughter’s curls. "Seems like they were informed," he muttered. Theon nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. They were informed that the spies they planted in Nivale were killed by Lord Soren. So they anticipated our response." Papa’s gaze sharpened like a blade. "That means this was a long-term operation. Quiet. Patient. Deeply planned. And... disturbingly effective." "They were clever," Theon admitted. "We all knew the head of House Verllon wasn’t an idiot." Papa’s eyes narrowed. "I agree. But his intelligence was wasted. Like polishing a sword only to use it to butter bread." I blinked up at them both. Now, I wonder...what’s for lunch? While I was mentally floating in a field of pastries and roast chicken, the mood in the throne room thickened like bad soup. Theon, clearly unfazed by the fact that there was a bored five-year-old in the middle of this murder-planning session, continued, "They’ve gone dark. No signs in the usual escape routes. But..." He smirked. Uh-oh. "...Grand Duke Regis is on their trail." Now that got a reaction. Papa’s lips curled into a devilish smirk so sinister it could make entire kingdoms cry into their treaties. "Right," he said, darkly pleased. "Now let’s see how far they can run. If Regis is after them, they’ll be lucky to make it across a border with their limbs intact." Wow.So casual. So calm.So full of implied murder. And Theon? He smirked too. "He’s been itching for some fieldwork. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes." I just stared at them. Both of them. Now, they always make me realize — with alarming clarity — that I am definitely surrounded by maniacs. I sighed dramatically and leaned back against Papa’s chest, resigned to my fate. At this point, nothing surprised me anymore. Not treason. Not kidnappings. Not the fact that we apparently had a grand duke with a personal vendetta license and a body count higher than the imperial bakery’s daily bun quota. Nope. This was my life now. Murder plots. Elf trafficking rings. Smug uncles. And a father who hugged me like I was made of sugar glass and threatened people like it was a casual hobby. My only consolation? At least his lap was warm. And I was pretty sure Chef Elowen’s pastries would heal me. Priorities.