Prince Adrien arrived in the Queen's private sitting room still smelling faintly of metal and sweat. He had just finished his morning sword practice and his hair was sticking to his forehead in that dramatic, princely way that Rowan claimed was "good for morale."
The Queen did not look impressed by morale or sword practice. She set down her delicate teacup with slow precision, the kind that meant someone was about to have a conversation they didn't want.
"Sit," she commanded.
Adrien sat. Not because he feared her—though honestly, everyone feared her a little—but because it was faster than arguing.
Rowan lingered at the doorway with a tray of sliced fruits and lemon pastries. He was not technically invited but he also wasn't told to leave, which in palace language meant stay and observe cautiously.
The Queen folded her hands. "The etiquette trial concluded yesterday."
Adrien nodded once.
"All the candidates, thoroughly evaluated by decorum, posture, conversational grace, stamina, practical thinking and cutlery competency."
Her voice tightened on the words 'cutlery competency', which likely reminded her of Candidate Twenty-One attempting to butter a napkin.
Rowan' face twitched. He whispered to no one, "In my defense, I warned them about the spreader."
Adrien leaned back. "So it's done."
"Yes." The Queen's eyes narrowed. "And what do you think of the results?"
Adrien blinked slowly. He truly had no opinion. "I think," he said, choosing his words with regal care, "that I'm glad I was not involved."
The Queen stared as though considering throwing the teacup at him. "That is not what I asked."
Rowan placed the pastry tray on a side table and murmured, "We all suffered. Emotionally. Spiritually. And in Candidate Twelve's case, physically."
Adrien ignored him. "Mother, they are your trials. You designed them. Surely your opinion is the one that matters."
"Correct," she said instantly, which was suspiciously fast even for her. "But it is tradition for the prince to review progress."
"Progress toward what?" Adrien asked.
"Marriage," she answered, as if the word were obvious. "And monarchy. And the future. And all things I have worked tirelessly for while you flail swords around at dawn."
Adrien considered pointing out that sword practice was essential military training, but experience taught him it would be considered an excuse.
"I do not have thoughts," he said instead. "Not useful ones. Not on marriage."
Rowan perked up. "Well, if you're curious, Candidate Four can bow so low she might lick the marble if asked. Candidate Six tried to discuss war during tea, which I believe counts as treason or insanity. Candidate Fifteen apologized to her fork."
Adrien glanced at him. "Why?"
Rowan shrugged. "The fork seemed intimidating."
The Queen continued as if Rowan were furniture. "Of all the candidates, at least ten are acceptable for proceeding to final Test."
Adrien's brows rose. "Only ten?"
"If I were generous, twelve," she corrected. "If I were ruthless, seven."
Rowan whispered, "If Her Majesty were truly honest, possibly five and a half."
The Queen pretended not to hear. "Now, I asked for your opinion—"
"You did," Adrien confirmed.
"But since you clearly do not intend to form one, I shall proceed as I wish."
Adrien nodded once. "All right."
Rowan's eyes widened. "Wait. No argument? No princely objections? No dramatic speeches about destiny?"
Adrien shook his head. "None."
The Queen stood, the image of victory.
"Excellent. Then I will handle the next stage."
Adrien didn't flinch. "As you always do."
Rowan mouthed, bold statement.
The Queen smiled in that silent, terrifying way that suggested both efficiency and mild threat.
"Good. We understand one another. You may go."
Adrien rose, relieved. On his way out, Rowan whispered, "Hey, blink twice if you require rescue."
Adrien did not blink at all.
Rowan sighed. "Ah. Acceptance. The final stage of royal suffering."
Behind them, the Queen sipped her tea—calm, confident, and already planning chaos for final test.
Adrien escaped the Queen's sitting room with the quiet urgency of a man fleeing paperwork. He intended to return to the training yard, maybe swing a sword until his thoughts stopped having opinions.
But halfway down the corridor, someone rounded the corner at high speed and nearly collided with him.
Anastasia.
Her arms were full of folded linens and embroidery samples. She blinked up at him, startled but not flustered, as if nearly knocking over a prince belonged to her daily routine.
His face lit but returned to normal when realized he is a prince now, not a guard.
"Good afternoon, your highness!"
She was about to bow when he gestured to stop her.
"please Anastasia, refrain from these formalities. I have enough people for this."
She gave a light nod with smile.
"You look like someone who just survived something important." Her tone was light.
Adrien huffed a quiet laugh. "A conversation with my mother. Some say it counts as warfare."
Anastasia smiled, soft and amused. "Did she win?"
"She always does," he admitted.
They walked side by side down the hallway without meaning to. Anastasia adjusted the bundle in her arms. "It's about the trials, isn't it?"
Adrien did not confirm, but she didn't need him to.
"My opinion is irrelevant," he said. "Mother has already decided how the future must look."
Anastasia slowed, as if weighing her words. "But the future belongs to you."
Adrien swallowed, unsure what to say to that. Her voice didn't challenge him—only stated a fact he preferred to ignore.
"Choosing a queen is not simple," she continued, gentler now.
"She must stand beside you before the people, manage a palace, wear crowns, smile during endless speeches." She paused, eyes thoughtful. "But she will also be your wife."
The corridor quieted. Adrien's heartbeat did not.
Anastasia shifted the linens against her hip and added, "Queens serve the kingdom. Wives share the heart. You should listen to both. Especially the second one."
Adrien stared at her, surprised by the warmth behind such simple words.
"I don't know how to do that," he murmured.
Anastasia smiled, a quiet smile that made no demands. "Most people don't. You just learn it."
And then she walked on, leaving him alone with the echo of her advice—and his suddenly inconvenient heart.
* * *
Rowan left the Queen's room with a tower of folders. He was passing through the enormous corridor when a folder nearly slipped from his hands.
"Careful!" Drizella's voice rang from behind. She stepped forward and caught the folder just in time.
"Ah—thank you," Rowan said, cheeks warming. "I—uh—I can manage, really."
Drizella tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. "You're standing under a chandelier. Maybe you can't manage."
Rowan laughed nervously, shifting half of the folder to her.
"Yes, well… sometimes palace ceilings are too ambitious. I'll note that in my reports."
Drizella chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that made Rowan's stomach do something he refused to name.
They reached to the Queen's study room and placed the folders on the table.
"I appreciate your… precision," she added, brushing imaginary hair locks from her face behind her ear. Her eyes lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary.
Rowan's heart skipped.
"Precision is kind of my specialty. Besides… I like Royal folders. I—uh—I like helping folders not fall. It's… noble work."
Drizella laughed outright this time. "You make disaster sound charming. Dangerous and charming—what a combination."
Rowan scratched his head, awkwardly trying to hide how much her laugh made him want to stay frozen in place. "I… hadn't thought of that. Dangerous? Charming?"
"You're hopeless," she said, smirking. "But in a way that isn't entirely terrible."
He blinked, and for the first time all day, he felt lighter. He wanted to linger in this small, quiet bubble of teasing, where she wasn't a royal responsibility, and he wasn't just a flustered helper.
"So," Drizella said, tilting her head again, "think you can survive the rest of this trial without knocking over another chaos?"
Rowan grinned, feeling warmth creep into his chest. "With you around? I might just try."
Her smile softened. "I'll be watching."
And as they returned to their duties—side by side, laughter tucked between them—Rowan realized that maybe, just maybe, working with Drizella wasn't the hardest thing in the palace. It might also be the most delightful.
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SIDE NOTE: next chapter will be good. I promise.
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