"Okay, this is getting ridiculous! Why do the chapters always start with me?!" Magnus yelled—
Si—pfft!
Sitting.
Ahem.
Sitting on the throne, Magnus crossed his arms like someone had just committed the ultimate crime: Giving milk instead of tea in the morning. He was furious. And confused. Furious at the narration constantly targeting him. Confused as to how, when he hadn't even moved in hours.
"Am I the main character or just the narrator's personal stress ball?"
With a sigh dramatic enough to trigger an earthquake, he reached for his teacup. "At least give me a decent transition next time, you overly dramatic piece of—"
---
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Rainsworth…
A heated debate echoed through the marble halls of the royal castle. Not about war or betrayal. No, something far worse.
Family discussions.
"I'm sorry," Prince Alexander said, holding up a scroll like it was diseased, "the princess of the enemy kingdom?!"
On the opposite end of the table, King Barthen Negther and Queen Rosantia shared a long-suffering look before turning their identical parent stare on him.
Barthen cleared his throat. "Given the political tension, this marriage is actually beneficial. Also… didn't you say you liked her?"
Alexander looked scandalized. "I was three! I also liked eating sand and believed the moon was stalking me!"
Rosantia gasped theatrically. "Oh no! So you don't like her anymore? Poor girl must be heartbroken."
Alexander stared at her like she'd just declared herself the Dark Lord.
"She stabbed me with a fork at the last summit."
"Maybe she's just passionate," Rosantia offered with a shrug.
Barthen leaned forward with the classic 'I'm-a-diplomat' face—the one that made Alexander want to swan dive through a stained-glass window. "Politics is about compromise, son. Timing. And sometimes, marrying someone who once threatened to snap your neck like a twig."
"She called me 'Chilly Hair' last month."
"She gives you nicknames," Rosantia beamed. "How cute."
"She said it with rage, Mother. Rage."
Barthen pressed on, ignoring the sarcasm now thicker than gravy. "She's intelligent, multilingual, and holds the record for most battlefield duels won."
"She also holds the record for 'Most Enemies Paralyzed by Eye Contact Alone,'" Rosantia added, like she was quoting her daughter's résumé.
Alexander groaned. "She told me, and I quote, 'I'll erase your bloodline from history' because I cut in line at the buffet."
"That's royal flirting," Barthen said calmly, sipping his wine.
"That's a death threat."
"Semantics."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "Did she even agree to this?"
"No, of course not," Barthen replied without hesitation.
"Why would she?" Rosantia chimed in, smiling.
"So this is just… something you arranged?!"
"Obviously," they said in unison.
---
The Next Day
The ballroom sparkled like someone tried to kill people with opulence. Crystal chandeliers drooped like frozen stars, and the polished marble floor reflected every ounce of wealth in the room. Nobles floated around in overpriced fabrics, all wearing the same polite expression that said: We pretend to like each other until someone dies.
At the center stood Alexander—looking every bit the royal hostage. His crimson uniform was flawless, his red hair combed to perfection, but his eyes practically screamed help me.
Leaning against a pillar, he muttered, "Great. I'm the lead in a political soap opera no one asked for."
Then, the double doors opened.
Enter: Princess Elara Virellia of the Glacian Empire.
Silver hair like moonlight. Eyes like judgment given form. And a gown so intricately tailored it probably paid taxes.
Their eyes met. A flash of tension.
Alexander raised an eyebrow. Elara raised one too—sharper, obviously.
A herald stepped forward, scroll in hand, voice booming:
"Today, we celebrate the engagement of His Highness Prince Alexander Negther of Rainsworth and Her Highness Princess Elara Virellia of the Glacian Empire!"
Polite applause echoed through the hall like a cough in church. Alexander blinked slowly. Elara didn't even flinch.
"By decree of both royal houses," the herald continued, flipping the scroll like he was auditioning for an Oscar, "this union will ensure peace, prosperity, and—"
"—lifelong emotional trauma," Alexander muttered.
Elara moved with deliberate steps—heels clicking like swords unsheathing. Her expression was flawless. Her aura: barely restrained violence.
Standing beside him, she smiled at the crowd with textbook royal poise.
"Prince Alexander," she said sweetly, "may our alliance bring peace… and remind you never to cut in line again."
The crowd laughed. Alexander did not.
"Starting with threats. So romantic," he mumbled, offering his arm like it weighed a ton.
They danced to a slow, dramatic waltz—the kind that sounded like both a wedding and a funeral.
"You know," Alexander said under his breath, "you can still say no."
"I'd love to," Elara replied, voice low. "But the kingdom comes first."
---
Later That Evening
A private room had been prepared—what nobles politely called a "quiet conversation." What it really meant: go argue in private before someone gets stabbed.
Warm firelight. Velvet furniture. Expensive vibes.
The door shut with a thunk.
Alexander immediately yanked off his gloves and tossed them onto a chair. "Okay. Can we both agree this is the dumbest plan since someone invented powdered armor?"
Elara sank into a chair like a general taking her seat at war. "I've seen better execution from drunk assassins."
"At least assassins don't propose first."
"Depends on the assassin."
Pause.
Fire crackled.
"I protested," Elara finally said, staring into the flames. "They called me emotional. Said this was rational. Strategic."
"Same here. Different kingdom. Same bull."
Their eyes met. The sarcasm dropped—for just a second.
"So now what?" she asked. "Fake smiles? Pretend to fall in love? Fake our deaths and open a bakery in some quiet village?"
Alexander blinked. "You can bake?"
"I can hire someone."
"Nice. I'm great at lifting flour sacks and looking poor."
He leaned in. "Look, I'm not your enemy. I'm not trying to 'win.' If you've got an escape plan, I'll help. If not… maybe we just stall. Buy time."
Elara watched him closely. "You're more reasonable than I expected."
"I'm too tired to be annoying," he muttered. "This week aged me ten years."
A quiet beat.
"I'm not your enemy, Alexander."
"You literally threatened to end my bloodline."
"I was... in a mood."
"Do your moods always involve genocide?"
"Only at buffets."
A surprised laugh broke from his lips. Genuine. Elara smiled—just a little. A fracture in her otherwise flawless façade.
Then she said, "You know, I do have one way out of this."
"Oh? The genius speaks," Alexander mock-clapped.
"Let's get married. For real. Like... a love marriage."
"..."