Chapter Five: The Royal Conspiracy and the Case of the Disrespectful Boots
Elliott Bramble awoke the next morning to the sound of someone aggressively scrubbing his boots.
"Am I being mugged by a janitor?" he mumbled, blinking into the sunlight that poured obnoxiously through the velvet curtains.
"No," Dorian said from across the room, polishing his own dagger with unnecessary flair. "You're being prepared for a royal meeting with the Council of Lords."
Elliott sat up. "Do I have to go?"
"Yes. You're the king. You skipped last week's meeting."
"I didn't skip. I panicked, got lost, and accidentally joined a book club."
"Which is now expecting you to read The Art of Siege Warfare in Twelve Metaphors by Thursday."
Elliott groaned and reached for his pants. Unfortunately, they were now being ironed—with magic—by a suspiciously judgmental sorcerer.
The Council of Lords and One Very Passive-Aggressive Owl
The royal council chamber was shaped like a horseshoe, probably because someone once thought it was lucky. Around the table sat six terrifyingly serious individuals, each dressed like they were auditioning for a fantasy-themed courtroom drama.
Lord Berrick, Minister of War, wore chainmail to breakfast. Lady Millicent, Minister of Grain, wore a hat shaped like a loaf of bread. And Lord Pellington of Commerce had a monocle so shiny Elliott kept accidentally admiring his own reflection in it.
Elliott entered, waved awkwardly, and sat down—on the wrong chair.
"That's the Owl's seat," Seraphine whispered.
"The what?"
A sharp hoot echoed as a barn owl fluttered in, landing on the ornate throne beside him.
"Is that… normal?"
"Yes," Seraphine said. "That's Lord Plume. He's been on the council for 17 years. Very fiscally conservative."
The owl blinked at Elliott with deep disdain.
"I'm being judged by poultry."
"Don't call him poultry," Seraphine warned. "Last person who did that lost funding for three bridges."
Business Time (Barely)
Lord Pellington cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, we must discuss the tariffs on imported dragonfruit."
Elliott blinked. "We import dragonfruit?"
"From the Southern Isles."
"Do… dragons grow them?"
"No," Seraphine sighed. "It's just fruit. Spiky. Trendy. Very Instagrammable."
"Oh. Right. What's the issue?"
"They're flooding the market," Pellington said. "Undermining local orchards."
Elliott leaned back, crossed his arms confidently, and said, "Let the fruit flow freely. A kingdom that shares its juice prospers."
A long silence.
Then, Lady Millicent nodded. "Surprisingly poetic."
The owl hooted in mild approval.
Mid-Council Mayhem
Halfway through a debate about bridge repair and marsh taxes, a servant burst in, panting.
"There's… there's been an incident!"
Elliott stood. "Was it the pigeon pie again?"
"No, sire. The Eastern border. Smoke. Lots of it."
Everyone turned toward Lord Berrick.
"Grottenvast," he muttered. "They're testing us."
"Testing us how?" Elliott asked.
"Burning fields. Sending raiders. Looking for weakness."
Elliott swallowed. "And are we… weak?"
"We're currently led by a man who once mistook a soup ladle for a scepter."
"Oh good, that was only the one time—"
Seraphine stepped forward. "We must respond. Decisively. We can't afford another war, but appearing passive is worse."
Lord Pellington nodded. "If Grottenvast smells blood, they'll strike."
Everyone turned to Elliott.
He stood. Tried to look regal. Mostly looked like he was suppressing indigestion.
"Send emissaries," he said. "And increase patrols along the border. But no open conflict. Not unless they strike first."
A pause.
"Very well," Berrick said slowly. "Reasonable. For a man in mismatched boots."
Elliott looked down. Left foot: brown leather. Right foot: gold satin.
"…Cursed laundry system," he muttered.
Later: Dagger Lessons and Denial
Back in his chambers, Elliott stood in the training room holding a dagger like it was a mildly offensive fish.
"Hold it like this," Dorian instructed, demonstrating a practiced grip. "Try not to stab your own leg this time."
"I didn't stab myself last time."
"You fell down a flight of stairs and impaled a chair."
"That chair looked threatening."
Dorian smirked. "You're not terrible. Just… incredibly underqualified."
"That's my autobiography title," Elliott muttered.
Just then, Seraphine entered, holding a letter sealed with black wax.
"A raven arrived," she said. "From Grottenvast."
Elliott felt his stomach twist.
"They request a meeting," she said. "In neutral territory."
Elliott's eyes widened. "You mean I have to go outside?"
"Yes. Wear armor."
"Why?"
"Because they might try to kill you."
Elliott turned to Dorian. "Can I wear the armor under the glitter cape?"
"You'd suffocate."
"Worth it."
At Midnight: Secrets and Whispers
That night, as Elliott stared at the palace ceiling, trying not to think about poisoned grapes or owl judgment, a figure crept into his room.
He bolted upright. "Who—?"
"Shh," the figure said. A young woman. Hooded. Eyes sharp. Dagger visible.
"I bring a warning," she whispered. "You're not the only one faking something."
Elliott blinked. "Is that… a cryptic threat?"
"It's a fact," she said. "Grottenvast wants a puppet king. Someone inside this palace is helping them."
Then she tossed him a coin—one bearing the symbol of a spider eating a rose—and vanished through the window like she did this every Tuesday.
Elliott stared at the coin.
"…I miss book club."
End of Chapter Five