Chapter 5 – Liquor Over Loyalty
(Yvaine's Point of View)
"My love," I said solemnly over my bowl of hangover porridge, "you are, undeniably, the best house husband this continent has yet to be officially recognized."
He paused, spoon midair. "…What now?"
I gestured to the tray he'd just brought in. Tea. Toast. Honeyed ginger. A small, handwritten note that said 'Don't embarrass yourself today' tucked under my spoon.
"You cook, you scold, you manage our ledgers, and last week you taught the staff how to restock without touching my private stash. That's peak husband material."
"I am your assistant," he deadpanned. "With a side quest in preventing your self-destruction."
"Semantics."
He sighed. "You're drunk again."
I clutched my head. "No, I'm hungover. Entirely different. And you'll stay with me even when I went all the way from being drunk though,"
Then I grinned. "So what if we made it official, hmm? We're already halfway there."
He blinked slowly. "I dare not, milady."
I pouted. "How dare you dare not."
"You should eat more before drinking that Skittles Slayer again," he said, standing. "You're back to mumbling gibberish."
"I'm not!" I shouted after him. "I'm declaring eternal devotion, you emotionally repressed spreadsheet!"
"Finish your toast," he called back.
Ten minutes later, I tugged him by the sleeve. "Hey."
"What now?"
"Walk beside me."
"Is this another weird declaration of—"
"Just do it."
He sighed. Fell into step beside me.
I smiled. "See? Doesn't matter if you say yes or not. You've already been walking beside me. That's enough."
He glanced down at me—my flushed cheeks, my disheveled hair, the undeniable reek of regret and fermented fruit—then gave the softest snort.
And we headed for the palace.
I arrived at the Imperial Palace looking like sin and regret wrapped in linen. My head throbbed, my mouth was dry, and the guards had the audacity to breathe near me like that wouldn't trigger nausea.
Still, I strolled in like I owned the place. Because technically, I sort of did. At least the wine cellar.
The grand court was full. Ministers. Nobles. Gossip-swaddled old bats pretending they didn't all age like peaches left out in the sun. And at the center—His Royal Majesty, Emperor Serious Face himself.
"Lady Yvaine," he said with measured calm. "You've passed the knight trial. The title of Knight awaits."
I bowed politely. "I decline."
Silence. Sweet, crunchy silence. You could hear a cravat tighten.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, in that gentle, lethal tone royals used before executing people.
"I said I decline," I repeated. "Grateful for the honor. But alas, I must remain loyal… to liquor."
One noble gasped. A minister's monocle fell with a dramatic plink. My assistant closed his eyes like he was whispering please let me reincarnate into a barrel next time.
"Explain," the Emperor said tightly.
"Being knighted comes with obligations," I said, waving lazily. "Oaths. Loyalty. Paperwork. I run an empire of taverns, wineries, franchises, and drunk philosophers. If I get tied down by titles, I can't freely sell booze to both empires."
There were murmurs. Scandalous murmurs. One lady in violet clutched her pearls so hard I think I heard a strand snap.
"I passed the test, didn't I?" I added. "Technically, that's all you asked for. You never said I had to accept."
The Empress—bless her royal chaos—sipped her tea and hid a smirk behind her fan.
The Emperor tried again. "If not you, then whom do you propose to take the title?"
I turned and gestured to the rainbow-stained group behind me.
"The Skittles Gang."
"…The what."
"You know—Red, Blue, Green, and their overly emotional cousin, Purple. Let 'em have it. They're so eager for titles."
Someone wheezed. Someone else prayed.
"They trained under my brother, didn't they?" I added, smiling. "You all remember him. The Mad Dog of Isolde?"
Collective PTSD.
"I'm his sister," I reminded sweetly. "He trained me too. So before anyone mocks me for being 'unconventional,' remember I was raised by a man who turned battlefield swordplay into interpretive dance. I'm a survivalist with licensing rights."
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "You'd really give up a knighthood?"
"I have a Booze Unbordered franchise to open in the opposing empire," I said brightly. "Knighthood complicates taxes. I pay my dues. I drink with both sides. And I firmly believe that booze diplomacy is stronger than military alliances."
"You're speaking to the Emperor," my assistant whispered.
"And he's listening," I said, without turning. "That's respect, Your Emps."
Gasps. Disbelief. A noble clutching her fainting pearls again.
"Did she just—?"
"Yes," someone hissed. "She just 'Your Emps'-ed the Emperor—"
"She's being rude—"
I turned. Smirked. And whispered to the gossiping nobles with a tilt of my head, "Talk to my brother about it. This is real. This is me. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be."
Cue Camp Rock tune in the background. Possibly.
"Take it… or take it," I mic-dropped, without the mic.
Then the Emperor, still visibly aging ten years in one conversation, muttered, "You… own the palace wine?"
"Oh yes," I said. "The limited-edition one? Imperial Approval? That's mine. The chardonnay that made your cousin cry? Mine too."
The room imploded.
Chaos. Gasps. Someone fainted into a potted plant.
The Empress started laughing.
I took a dramatic step forward, chin high. "I'm not loyal to crowns. I'm loyal to alcohol content, fermentation time, and good business sense. And that's more than I can say for some of your lords."
Then I twirled dramatically to leave.
"Wait," the Emperor said. "One last thing… who's he?"
He was pointing to my assistant.
I grabbed his wrist, tugged him forward, and flashed a smile that could get me banned from every royal portrait.
"That, Your Emps, is my soon-to-be husband—if he permits me."
The court shattered.
The nobles howled.
My assistant died spiritually in real-time.
And I?
I flounced out with the dignity of a hungover queen and the grin of someone who just made the Empire rethink its entire PR strategy.
"Yvaine," he hissed once we were clear. "What the hell was that—"
"Hush," I beamed. "House Husband of the Year doesn't get to complain."
He groaned.
And I laughed. All the way home.
End of Chapter 5...