"Where did you put it?" Ray asked, rifling through the bookshelf with growing impatience.
"I don't remember," Rui muttered, already checking random corners of the room that definitely did not contain books.
Grace, meanwhile, was half-lying across the bedside— legs dangling off the edge, head propped lazily on her left hand over a pillow. She watched the two with a soft, content little smile, the kind someone wears when quietly enjoying other people's chaos.
"Found it!" Rui suddenly announced.
"You did?" Ray perked up.
"Yeah… my 'moony'," Rui breathed in a dreamy, faraway voice.
"Moony?" Ray repeated, eyebrow climbing.
Rui held up a plush doll— a small, handmade wizard-themed creation clothed in gold-patterned fabric, lace trimmings, beads, and a little ribbon bow. It wore a pointed hat topped with a bell and pom-poms, its star-shaped button eyes glinting like it was ready to cast a spell. A tiny potion bottle hung at its side. Adorable. Dusty. Slightly tragic.
Rui hugged it tightly. "Oh, Moony, I missed you so much. I thought I lost you—"
She froze mid-sentence.
A chilling sensation crawled up her spine.
She turned.
Ray was staring at her.
Not normally. Not curiously. 'Staring directly into her soul'.
Rui let out a weak laugh. "Uh… Moony," she said, voice wobbling, "I'll… play with you some other day."
Still maintaining eye contact with Ray, she gently— 'very' gently— set the doll on the drawer like it was made of explosives and immediately pretended to search for the book again. A nervous bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.
Grace couldn't help it— she let out a tiny, amused chuckle, her caring smile only growing as the two resumed their frantic hunt.
.
.
"Found it!" Rui announced— again.
Ray didn't even bother looking up this time. He just let out a long, world-weary sigh. "Rui… not again."
"No, but I actually found it. The book."
That did it. Ray turned, eyebrow lifting in cautious hope. "Really?"
"Yeah, look." Rui held up the book like she'd just uncovered a long-lost treasure.
It was… a storybook. With a very questionable illustration of an egg on the cover— an egg that looked like it wasn't entirely sure it wanted to be an egg.
They offered the book to Grace, then perched beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight as they waited for her to open it.
She sat upright, swept her cape to the right, and took the book. Blinked at the odd artwork, and read the title aloud. "The Oval Egg?" Her tone carried the exact mix of confusion and concern reserved for things that 'might' be literature… but also might be a prank.
Grace looked at the two of them, eyebrows slightly raised, wearing a very "Are you seriously making me read this?" expression.
But their sparkly, overexcited eyes answered before either of them spoke.
"It's really good. And really emotional. We already read it once but—" Ray puffed up proudly, "—couldn't get enough."
Rui nodded so hard her ponytail almost became a helicopter.
"Well… if you say so," Grace muttered, the betrayal of trust already anticipated.
She opened the book.
"(Rui I understand. But Ray as well?)" she thought, sending him a judgmental side-glance before beginning. "Once upon a time, there was an egg named Oval…"
Her voice was light, airy, almost floating— helped by the cool after-rain breeze drifting in through the slightly open window. The curtains swayed lazily, a soft hush of wind filling the large room. On the right side of the bed, an enormous bookshelf loomed— a silent guardian of literature and every other subject it had sworn to keep watch over.
The bed was warm and ridiculously comfortable, which meant Rui and Ray were, of course, already dozing off like two overfed kittens. Grace, however, was too caught up in reading— and frankly too invested in finding out what sort of author would name an egg Oval.
The room was dim, but not dim enough to coax her to sleep. Not that she would, anyway. Her own room was practically a cave— dark hues everywhere, a silent declaration that she was not a 'bright colors and sunshine' person.
Finally, she reached the end.
"…and they made an omelette of him and ate him up," she concluded calmly, as if this were the most natural ending to a children's story.
She stared for a second, then let out a soft, incredulous puff of air. "Wow. What a story," she murmured. "I wonder who's writing these nowadays. Guess I'll have to talk to the publishers and… have a chat."
She closed the book with a decisive thump.
"What next, now—" She turned, only to see both of them already deep in dreamland, mouths slightly open, innocence restored by unconsciousness.
Grace softened. She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on their heads, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.
She rose quietly, placing the book back into the shelf— where it could trouble future generations— and went to close the window fully. As she did, she glanced outside.
The guests were gone. Only palace guards remained under the soft after-rain glow.
"Welfred's probably turned in by now… and I wish Uncle had as well."
Her thoughts drifted. "He said he needed to fix something with the weapon— or my present— so he could give it to me tomorrow… Is that why he left dinner early?"
"I hope so," she whispered.
She let the curtain slip from her fingers and quietly left the room.
.
.
.
"There we go," Grace murmured as she draped her cape over the wooden figure— just a carved torso with a head perched on a stand, yet tonight it somehow felt like an audience.
She stepped back, hands folding behind her as she released a steady breath. The cape settled perfectly, and Grace studied it for a moment.
"I've finally become the queen… officially," she said to herself with a small, breathy laugh, eyes lingering on the cape.
{ In Elenor, becoming ruler as a child was never as simple as inheriting a crown. If tragedy struck and a monarch died, the throne passed to their surviving partner. But if fate was crueller still— if both king and queen were lost— the eldest capable child was declared ruler… in name only.
Until adulthood, their reign was more ceremony than sovereignty. They couldn't draft laws, command the armies, sign treaties, or even step into a council chamber without an advisor trailing at their shoulder. They were expected to 'lead,' yet forbidden from steering too far in any direction.
It was a crown without weight, power without bite— like a tiger declawed. A monarch in every visible sense, and yet, in truth, a figurehead waiting for their real reign to begin.}