Chapter 96: Thrones, Threats, and Things That Sparkle

Chapter 96: Thrones, Threats, and Things That Sparkle [Lavinia’s POV] The grand ballroom sparkled like someone spilled a basket of diamonds, glitter, and overly enthusiastic fairy dust all over the place. Nobles twirled in silk and velvet, flapping like confused peacocks trying to remember the dance steps. And where was Papa? Oh, he was pissed, or should I say...sulking. Why, you ask? Because Theon had suggested that maybe, just maybe, I should sit in my rightful seat instead of on Papa’s lap. Apparently, "She’s the imperial heir; she should sit like one," blah blah, something about posture and royal dignity, blah blah, Don’t cuddle her like a plush toy in front of the entire nobility." And so now, here I was. On a small golden throne, perched right next to Papa’s enormous, emperor-sized seat. Mine was smaller, shinier, and had better cushions—obviously, because I have taste. Next to me, Marshi—our so-called Divine Tiger, the legendary beast of the empire, guardian of the royal bloodline, and all that dramatic stuff—was drooling. Drooling. His mighty eyes were locked onto the dessert table like he was going to wage war on the macaron tower at any second. "Stop that," I whispered, nudging him. He let out a dramatic huff and licked his lips, his ears drooping like I’d just forbidden him from breathing. Honestly, he is more dramatic than me. And then— "LAVI~~~~~!!" A voice cracked through the music like a golden trumpet being strangled. I looked up just in time to see a blur of red hair, pastel-blue embroidery, and unfiltered chaos barreling toward me. Second Brother Lysandre. He was running at me like he’d just spotted a flying unicorn made of gold and sugar. "Oh, hi," I started, but before I could finish— THUD. He hit the ground like a dropped cake. "AAUGH—!" Everyone blinked. Grandpa Thalein stood there, his Elven staff held high like a seasoned warrior, unbothered and unrepentant. "Approach my grand-daughter with more dignity, idiot," he muttered, as Lysandre lay on the floor groaning like he’d been shot through the heart by a ballroom chandelier. Soren, my eldest brother, looked down at Lysandre as if he were a discarded napkin. Then promptly ignored him. Like always. Now, I don’t know exactly why Lysandre always gets hit by Grandpa. But honestly, at this point, I feel like it’s tradition. "Oh, my precious~~~~~!" Grandpa Thalein suddenly turned toward me, his tone switching from ’strict general’ to ’overly dramatic theater uncle’ in 0.3 seconds. He scooped me into his arms with the strength of an elven healer and hugged me tight enough to make my ribs complain. "I missed you, my precious little firecracker!" he cooed. "How are you? Did you miss your adorable grandpa?" I grinned and hugged him back. "Of course I did!" "What about me?" Soren asked from the side, arms crossed. I gave him a sideways glance and replied sweetly, "Yes, yes, you too." Then from the floor, in a very flat and mildly offended voice came Lysandre:"...What about me?" I leaned over Grandpa’s shoulder and looked down at him, blinking slowly. He looked so pitiful down there. Like a kicked puppy in royal brocade. Still, I tilted my head, lifted one royal eyebrow, and said nothing. I didn’t have to. My silence said everything. "Happy birthday, my precious granddaughter." Grandpa Thalein kissed my forehead, his voice turning serious for just a moment. "Thank you, Grandpa," I replied, smiling. And then I blinked once—twice—before shifting into Full Princess ModeTM. "But..." I said, voice low and deliberate, "you do realize... words don’t count as real birthday gifts in this palace, right?" Grandpa paused. Theon stiffened. Papa smirked. Lysandre groaned from the floor, "Even on my knees I can’t compete with that level of greed..." I tilted my head innocently, patting Marshmallow’s head as he finally rose to pounce on a stray cream puff. "So?" I asked sweetly. "Where’s the actual gift, Grandpa?" Grandpa Thalein’s eyes twitched slightly. "...You are truly your father’s daughter." "Flattery doesn’t count either." He sighed, then laughed. "Fine. It’s in the vault. Handpicked. Personally enchanted. Guarded by three knights and an angry pigeon. You’ll see it after the cake." I clapped my hands with delight. "Wonderful. I love gifts with a dramatic backstory." Grandpa chuckled, clearly proud of himself—until Papa, still lounging on his oversized throne like a smug cat, finally spoke up. "Whatever gift you brought..." he drawled lazily, swirling his wine like it owed him money, "they’re nothing compared to mine." Right... I wondered what he will give me this time and before I could ask him— "PRESENTING HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, KING AURELIEN VALDORIS OF NIVALE!" The herald’s voice rang through the hall like a dramatic gong, immediately followed by a collective gasp loud enough to rattle the chandeliers. Oh. Right. The Elven King. I’d totally forgotten the diplomatic highlight of the evening was an actual foreign monarch with sparkly ears. The massive doors swung open with dramatic flair and probably illegal amounts of glitter, and in walked King Aurelien Valdoris of Nivale—tall, elegant, and glowing like someone had dragged a moon through a soap commercial. His robes shimmered like starlight. His green hair flowed down his back like a waterfall that charged taxes. His crown sparkled with enough gemstones to bankrupt three duchies. He looked like a walking poetry recital. I blinked at the living glow stick striding into the ballroom like a runway model. "...Why is he so shiny?" I muttered. Theon frowned beside me. "Because he’s Elven royalty. They do that. It’s mostly intentional." Marshi blinked at the Elven King, then licked frosting off his paw. Papa stood slowly, finally looking mildly interested in the festivities. "Ah, King Valdoris. Took you long enough. I was beginning to think the forest swallowed you whole." The Elven King stepped forward, his voice smooth and melodic, like honey being poured over smugness. "I would have arrived sooner, Cassius, but I was stopped—by the breathtaking scent of your ego polluting the air." There was a pause. A long pause. Then finally—finally—Theon sighed, sounding like he aged five years just from existing near so much royalty in one room. "He’s still angry," he muttered under his breath, like someone narrating a weather forecast for drama storms and ego thunder. I agree with him. Papa, still smirking like the villain in someone else’s story, didn’t even bother to respond. He just stared at him like it was the episode of "Who Hates Who: Royal Edition." And then— "My, my... Your Majesty," Grandpa Thalein chimed in suddenly, clearly trying to defuse the ever-growing tension in the air. His nervous smile could probably qualify as a peace treaty. "Perhaps we could... take things down a notch? We’re here to celebrate a birthday, not start another magical Cold War." Poor Grandpa. Stuck between two kings with egos the size of mountain ranges and tempers like summer storms. He was trying so hard not to let diplomacy die in a puddle of sarcasm and glitter. Then King Aurelien’s starlit eyes finally drifted from Papa to—me. He stared. Like, really stared. I blinked. He didn’t. I blinked again. Still nothing. Um. Sir? Hello?? Was there frosting on my face? A tiara stuck in my hair? Did Marshi sneeze glitter on me again? ...Oh wait. Right. I am a quarter-elf. And criminally beautiful. Naturally, he was stunned. But still! Sir, you could blink once in a while! It’s called manners! He took a few graceful steps toward me, his robes trailing behind like a parade float made of moonlight. Then, in a voice so smooth it could butter toast, he said,"So... you’re Thalein’s granddaughter. The quarter-elf child." I blinked. My mind scrambled for the right response. Now, should I say, "Yes, you’re right, and greetings, Your Majesty," like a proper royal? Or go with "Hi, yeah, I sparkle too"? Before I could decide, the Elven King smirked—and not just any smirk. Oh no. This was the kind of smirk that usually came before a celestial prophecy or a dramatic orchestral theme. "So," he said smoothly, "Thalein wasn’t just bragging. You’re really cute... and those eyes—bold. Like fire wrapped in gold." ... I blinked again. Was that...? Did the Elven King just compliment me? I sat there frozen, trying to decide if I should feel flattered, threatened, or concerned that he was staring like he wanted to read my entire future off my face. Well, to be fair, it’s not that weird. Grandpa brags about me all the time. In fact, I think at this point he has a script for it. Still... weird to hear it from a glowing king of another nation. "Right this way, Your Majesty," Theon finally stepped in, all formal and stiff as if he hadn’t just mumbled, "He’s still angry," two minutes ago. King of Nivale nodded, eyes flicking off of me (finally), and followed Theon across the ballroom, his cape swishing dramatically like it was paid to be there. Just as I exhaled and started mentally calculating how many desserts I could sneak before dinner— GOOSEBUMPS. Actual ones. I felt a strange tingle crawl up the back of my neck. A sudden chill, like someone just dropped an ice cube down my spine. I looked up. Scanned the crowd. And then—I saw her. A young woman. Dressed in elegant blue silk with silver embroidery, she looked like she walked straight out of a poetry contest. She was standing near the pillars. Eyes wide. Cheeks faintly pink. Lips slightly parted. And she was staring. Not at me. Not at the king. No. She was staring at—"...PAPA??!!" I practically screamed in my head. My jaw dropped. My hand gripped the edge of my little golden throne like I was about to fall off. She was gazing at Papa with the softest, dreamiest, most disgustingly romantic expression I had ever seen. What—what is this? Why is she looking at him like that? Is she— Is she in LOVE with Papa? An unconditional, star-crossed, melodramatic, violins-in-the-background kind of love?! I beamed.I glowed.I nearly levitated from sheer secondhand romance. Finally... finally...Is—is my papa not going to die as a lonely, dramatic, broody bachelor?