Bedtime Story: The Weird Life Of Royalty In Medieval Times

What if you found yourself in medieval times, not as a visitor, but as royalty, living inside the curious and often unsettling world of kings and queens? This second-person immersive narration places you directly within castle walls, where daily life is shaped by rigid rituals, bizarre customs, constant observation, and expectations that feel both grand and deeply uncomfortable.

A soft, steady fire crackles in the background, filling vast stone chambers with warmth as you move through candlelit halls, ceremonial bedrooms, and hushed corridors where privacy is rare and tradition governs even the smallest moments.

Told slowly and gently, this track is designed to keep your mind lightly engaged while helping your body relax, unwind, and drift into sleep as you explore the strange, quiet rhythms of medieval royal life.

Transcript

Hey guys.

This one starts with the smell of boiled ambition,

Twelve eggs too many,

And a pudding that might be alive.

You're the ruler of everything.

You can't control your court,

Your crown,

Your digestion.

Every bite could be poison.

Every smile could be plotting.

And yet,

Somehow,

The deadliest thing in the room is the breakfast.

Let's take a seat at the royal table and see who survives the first course.

Now get comfortable.

Let the day melt away,

And we'll drift back together into the quiet corners of the past.

The bed feels alive.

You shift,

And it sighs,

A thousand feathers whispering beneath the weight of your questionable authority.

Morning light spills across embroidered sheets,

Depicting saints who look as though they disapprove of sleeping past dawn.

Your nightcap,

Heavy and sweet-smelling,

Lists dangerously to the side like a pastry left too long in the sun.

And there it is again,

The crown,

Tilted,

Itchy,

Persistently real.

The metal pinches your scalp,

Pressing every bad decision you've ever made into your hairline.

A servant stands by the window,

Wringing his hands with the anxious energy of someone who has already been blamed for two things today.

Your Majesty,

He murmurs,

Voice trembling with the delicate balance between reverence and fear.

The morning court has begun without you.

You blink at him.

It's far too early for responsibility.

He continues.

Also,

There was a small uprising in the western kitchens.

Over.

Soup.

You stretch,

Yawn,

And decide to address the coup after you've located your left slipper.

You roll out of bed like a fallen statue,

Your nightshirt tangled around your knees,

And the crown slides forward to nearly blind you.

The servant gasps and rushes to adjust it,

Muttering a short prayer to whichever saint handles wardrobe disasters.

You allow it,

Mostly because standing still requires less effort than dignity.

Across the room,

Sunlight catches the edge of a mirror,

And for a moment,

You meet your own reflection.

You look regal in the way a cat might look philosophical,

Entirely by accident.

Your hair rebels in all directions.

The crown,

Slightly too large,

Hangs at an angle that would make a sculptor weep.

You imagine this is what power looks like,

An exhausted person who hasn't seen their own forehead in weeks.

The floor is cold,

The kind of cold that reminds you wealth is not insulation.

You step carefully,

Trying to remember which of your twelve slippers you wore last night.

A faint trail of rose petals suggests someone attempted romance,

Or perhaps just wanted to disguise a spill.

You follow the petals to an overturned slipper near the hearth,

Its silk crushed,

Its buckle still sticky with honey.

You decide not to ask.

Another servant enters with a basin of steaming water and a towel that smells faintly of lavender and regret.

She curtsies,

Eyes lowered.

For your face,

Sire,

You dip your hands in the water and splash your cheeks.

The shock of heat almost brings you into consciousness.

Almost.

Outside the window,

Bells ring in.

Uneven rhythm.

One toll for the market,

One for the church,

One for someone's forgotten funeral.

You wonder idly if the bells ever stop,

Or if they,

Too,

Are trapped in service to tradition.

Somewhere below,

A horse neighs in protest against something invisible.

You sympathize deeply.

Your majesty,

The first servant says again,

Voice tightening.

The council awaits.

They are restless.

You know what restless means in court language.

It means hungry,

Bored,

And slightly treasonous.

You sigh.

The crown shifts again.

You lift it from your head and examine it in the morning light.

It's heavier than memory,

Ornate and unnecessary.

Up close,

You notice tiny scratches where past rulers must have gripped it during sleepless nights.

You trace one with your thumb.

Someone before you thought this was glory.

Someone before you believed this metal meant control.

You consider throwing it out the window,

Just to see what sound it makes when it hits cobblestone.

Instead,

You set it gently on the table beside a cup of cold wine.

A compromise.

The crown can rule the cup for a while.

The servant clears his throat,

A noise both polite and desperate.

You finally find your other slipper beneath the bed,

Guarded by a small mouse who looks unimpressed by your rank.

You slip it on,

Adjust your nightcap,

And try to remember how to look like a person who knows what they're doing.

The corridor outside hums with the faint buzz of political tension and beeswax candles.

You take one step toward it and immediately wish you hadn't.

The world beyond your chamber is filled with voices that will ask things of you.

Decisions,

Decrees,

Mercy.

The world inside the chamber smells like warm bread and cowardice.

You decide to linger a little longer.

The servant bows again,

The universal sign of both loyalty and exhaustion.

Shall I announce you,

Sire?

You glance back at the crown,

Sitting smugly beside the wine.

It gleams in the light,

Pretending innocence.

You take a deep breath,

Feel the weightless space above your head where it should be,

And smile.

Not yet,

You say.

Let them wait.

And for a moment,

Standing there in your lopsided slippers,

You feel gloriously free like a monarch who has briefly misplaced the burden of being royal.

The crown will still itch later,

Of course,

But for now,

It can wait too.

You wake to the smell of boiled ambition and overcooked poultry.

Morning has come again,

Dragging its responsibilities behind it like a tired servant.

You shuffle toward the long table in the solar,

Where breakfast waits if breakfast can be called a pile of confusion disguised as food.

There are twelve eggs,

Still steaming,

A loaf of bread the size of a helmet,

And something grey,

Quivering on a silver plate that looks like it once dreamed of being edible.

Your steward hovers nearby,

All tight smiles and cold sweat.

The royal pudding,

Sire,

He whispers,

As though naming a curse.

You eye it suspiciously.

What's in it,

You ask.

His mouth opens,

Then closes again,

Like a fish uncertain of the tide.

Tradition,

He says finally,

Which is never a good answer.

At your right stands the royal taster,

A small wiry man with a mustache that has seen things.

He bows so low you can hear his joints crack.

You've never asked his name.

It feels impolite to know too much about someone who might die for you before the second course.

He takes a spoonful of the grey pudding,

Hesitates,

And mutters something that might be a prayer or a recipe.

Then he swallows.

Everyone in the room leans forward a fraction of an inch,

As though suspense were an ancient rite.

He coughs once,

Twice,

Then gives a weary thumbs up.

The steward exhales audibly.

He lives,

Someone murmurs.

Mostly,

Someone else adds.

You take your seat,

The wooden chair groaning beneath the weight of monarchy and mild dread.

The bread is dense enough to be considered a weapon.

You break off a piece and feel your wrist protest.

Butter gleams beside it,

Pale and trembling,

As though it too fears being judged.

You smear some across the bread and chew thoughtfully.

It tastes of salt and silence.

Across the hall,

A pair of servants pour wine into your cup,

Careful to avoid eye contact.

It's barely past sunrise,

But wine is medicinal,

Or so the physician claims good for the blood,

Bad for the memory.

You sip anyway.

It's thin,

Sour,

And utterly honest.

Your mind drifts to the council chamber,

Where a dozen men in fur-lined robes are probably arguing about something important,

Like the price of salt,

Or whether the moon favors your dynasty.

You know you should join them soon.

But there's something hypnotic about breakfast.

The quiet clatter of spoons.

The faint squeak of a mouse stealing crumbs.

The subtle tension of every servant praying you don't choke.

The pudding stares back at you.

Its surface ripples faintly,

As though alive.

You prod it with the spoon,

Half expecting it to protest.

Are you certain this is food?

You ask no one in particular.

The steward bows again.

My lord,

It is the same recipe your ancestors enjoyed.

You glance at the portraits on the wall,

Pale faces,

Hollow eyes,

The unmistakable expression of people who endured many questionable meals.

You decide not to argue with history.

You take a tentative bite.

It's neither sweet nor savory,

Existing in that mysterious middle ground where flavor goes to die.

Still,

The hall watches,

Holding its collective breath.

You chew slowly,

Dramatically.

The taster looks ready to faint.

You swallow and set the spoon down.

It's traditional,

You declare.

The court exhales in unison,

As if you've just negotiated peace.

The steward claps his hands,

And a small boy rushes forward with more eggs.

You wave him off.

Enough,

You say,

Though you're not sure whether you mean food or responsibility.

The boy retreats,

Nearly tripping over his own enthusiasm.

Through the high windows,

Sunlight spills across the table,

Catching on silver platters and gilded cups.

It should feel grand,

But it only reminds you how lonely luxury can be.

You wonder briefly what the peasants eat.

Something simple,

Probably.

Something that doesn't stare back.

The taster clears his throat gently.

Would your majesty like the honeyed pears,

He asks.

You glance at him.

This man who has risked his life for your breakfast,

And feel a flicker of absurd affection.

No,

You say.

Let the pudding finish its victory.

A faint ripple of laughter passes through the servants,

Cautious and short-lived.

You pretend not to notice.

You stand,

Wiping your hands on a napkin so fine it could be used as scripture,

And look once more at the feast you didn't really want.

The bread sits half-eaten,

The pudding defiant in its survival.

Outside,

The bells toll for morning prayers.

You sigh,

Another day of decisions,

Masks,

And careful nods.

But for now,

You've lived through breakfast,

Which feels like triumph enough.

You take one last sip of wine,

Tilt your crown back into place,

And rise to face the day.

The taster watches you leave with a mix of admiration and pity.

He knows,

As you do,

That every royal meal is an act of faith,

And this one,

Mercifully,

Didn't require a funeral.

You never realize how many people it takes to bathe one monarch until they all arrive at once,

Marching into your chamber like an invading army armed with towels.

Each carries a steaming bucket,

Their faces solemn,

As though they're about to baptize you into sainthood instead of soap.

You're seated in the great wooden tub,

Stripped of everything but a faint sense of entitlement and an alarming awareness of how human you are beneath the robes and titles.

The water is tepid,

Not warm,

Not cold,

Just ambitious enough to disappoint you.

Steam curls lazily in the air,

Carrying the scent of lavender,

Wet wood,

And faint humiliation.

One attendant kneels to pour water over your shoulder with the reverence of a priest.

Another scrubs your arm in slow,

Circular motions as if polishing a relic.

The third just stares into the distance,

Lost in the kind of spiritual crisis that can only come from washing royalty's ankles.

Not too hard,

You murmur,

Because you've learned that if you sound soft enough,

They mistake laziness for grace.

The attendant nods as if you've revealed divine wisdom.

Somewhere in the room,

A page sings off-key to fill the silence.

The song is about chivalry,

Or turnips.

It's hard to tell,

Since both are equally praised in this kingdom.

The sound echoes against the tiled walls,

Oddly holy,

Like the world's most inconvenient hymn.

You try not to think about how many people are watching you,

Pretend not to notice them.

A maid wrings out a cloth and drapes it over your forehead,

And for a moment,

It feels almost peaceful.

Then someone argues about the correct temperature of the rinse water.

Two attendants square off like rival philosophers.

One insists the king's skin thrives under mild heat.

The other quotes an apothecary who claims cold water fortifies the humors.

You raise a hand to settle it,

And accidentally splash yourself in the face.

The court chronicler will likely call this a moment of royal contemplation.

The wooden tub creaks as you shift your weight.

Beneath your feet,

A layer of petals floats aimlessly,

Disguising how old the bathwater truly is.

You stare at them drifting,

Pink and pale,

Like noble thoughts that went nowhere.

You wonder if your ancestors endured this same ritual,

Or if some ancient king had the courage to simply not bathe at all and declared its sacred tradition.

One of the older attendants scrubs your back with the vigor of a soldier avenging an insult.

You make a noise somewhere between dignity and complaint.

Majesty must shine,

She mutters,

As if your skin contains the reputation of the entire realm.

You almost tell her that shining is overrated,

That kings are not brass candlesticks.

But then another bucket of lukewarm water hits your shoulders,

And silence is all philosophy.

Someone produces a bar of soap carved into the shape of a lion.

You recognize it as a gift from a foreign envoy,

A diplomatic gesture that smells faintly of goat.

The attendants lather it with care,

Discussing the latest rumors in voices just low enough to seem accidental.

You catch fragments,

Something about a lord's daughter,

A knight's disappearance,

The baker who claims to have seen an omen in his dough.

They never think you're listening,

Which is half the pleasure of being royal.

The water cools too quickly,

Settling into that unpleasant middle ground where you can feel both clean and betrayed.

You watch the ripples fade,

Tracing faint lines of light across the wooden rim of the tub.

A servant approaches with a towel so large it could double as a diplomatic treaty.

She wraps it around you as though covering a secret.

For one brief second,

You imagine vanishing completely,

Walking out into the corridor,

Wrapped in linen,

Crown abandoned,

Title left floating among the petals.

But then someone coughs,

And the illusion collapses.

They lift you from the tub with practiced efficiency,

Drying each limb as if preserving evidence.

You stand there,

Dripping,

And vaguely saintly,

While the attendants bustle around with the chaos of purpose.

One bows and presents a comb.

Another whispers something about scented oils to flatter the divine nose.

You allow it all.

You have learned that surrender is its own form of ceremony.

By the time they finish,

You are powdered,

Perfumed,

And reassembled into something almost human.

The floor gleams,

The towels steam,

And the air hums with the faint pride of a job completed without scandal.

You thank no one but nod as if blessing them.

They beam.

They'll tell stories later of how kind you were,

How radiant your skin looked,

How you smiled at them like a saint.

When the chamber empties,

You sit back in the still air,

Damp hair clinging to your neck.

The tub stands there,

Wooden and hollow,

Still steaming faintly like a ghost of routine.

You look at it and think not for the first time that maybe dignity is simply the art of pretending your bathwater isn't shared by twelve pairs of hands and one nation's expectations.

The wardrobe stands against the wall like a cathedral of poor decisions.

Its doors groan as they open,

Releasing the scent of cedar,

Dust,

And faint despair.

Inside,

An entire forest has been sacrificed for your sleeves.

Silks whisper.

Velvets sigh.

Brocades shimmer in the dim light,

Heavy with jewels that promise nothing but shoulder pain.

You stare at the garments the way one might stare at an approaching storm,

Awestruck,

Resentful,

And slightly curious which one will kill you first.

Three attendants hover nearby,

Armed with ribbons and opinions.

One holds a tunic embroidered with enough gold thread to bankrupt a monastery.

Another presents a doublet so stiff it could deflect arrows.

The third simply waits,

Clutching a belt of braided silk and muttering about fashion decrees.

You choose the least offensive option only for all three to exchange horrified glances as though you've just suggested attending court in a potato sack.

They descend upon you like well-meaning vultures,

Arms lifted,

Legs adjusted,

Fabric tugged into submission.

You are less a person now and more an ongoing construction project.

A sleeve refuses to cooperate.

Two servants debate which arm it belongs to,

One citing tradition,

The other citing geometry.

You stand motionless,

Letting them argue over your anatomy as if it's an academic exercise.

Eventually,

They settle it by flipping the garment upside down and calling it innovation.

Buttons appear endless,

Treacherous,

Each one a tiny act of defiance.

One attendant works silently down your front,

Fastening them with the patience of a saint,

And the precision of someone who knows this could end in a beheading if misaligned.

You breathe shallowly,

Not out of vanity but necessity.

Silk tightens across your chest like a very polite python.

The collar rises high enough to restrict most philosophical thought.

You begin to understand why portraits of royalty always look faintly suffocated.

A mirror waits nearby,

Tall and unkind.

You catch a glimpse of yourself,

Half-dressed,

Half-trapped,

An accidental artwork of wealth and exhaustion.

The colors dazzle in a way that suggests pain was involved in their creation.

Someone announces that green is the color of power this season,

And another nods reverently,

As though nature has been waiting centuries for this decree.

You briefly consider declaring mud fashionable,

Just to watch them panic.

The head servant approaches with your cloak,

A monstrous piece of velvet lined with fur that could warm a small village.

It settles around your shoulders with a satisfying thud.

You immediately begin to sweat.

The attendants beam with pride,

Mistaking discomfort for majesty.

Perfect,

One declares,

Stepping back to admire the result.

You feel like a gilded roast ready for presentation.

They move on to accessories,

Which is their word for additional suffering.

A chain of office is draped around your neck,

Heavy enough to qualify as a mild crime.

Rings are slid onto fingers already calloused from signing decrees.

Someone attaches a jeweled brooch shaped like a lion,

Though the lion appears to be grimacing.

Finally comes the crown,

Or,

As you privately call it,

The migraine enhancer.

The servant lifts it with both hands and lowers it onto your head with ceremonial slowness,

As though crowning a particularly guilty saint.

You straighten,

Or try to.

The combined weight of your outfit could anchor a ship.

The attendants fuss with invisible creases,

Whispering about how the Duke of Montshire wore his hose higher,

Or how the Duchess of Elmere's ruffs are imported.

You nod at all of it,

Pretending to understand,

Secretly wondering what it might feel like to walk barefoot through a field again.

One of them asks if you would like a scent applied a new mixture from the apothecary involving amber,

Rosemary,

And the memory of better days.

You decline.

The air already smells thick enough to be eaten.

They look disappointed but obedient.

A servant hands you your gloves,

Which take so long to put on that by the time you finish,

You've forgotten why you needed them.

The final adjustment comes from the oldest attendant,

Who smooths the collar with a hand trembling from decades of service.

She steps back,

Eyes softening.

Magnificent,

She whispers.

You nod,

Not sure if she's admiring you or the illusion you've agreed to inhabit.

When the doors to the corridor open,

Cool air hits your face like mercy.

You take one slow step forward,

Your garments rustling in protest,

Every movement orchestrated by centuries of etiquette.

Somewhere behind you,

The wardrobe stands empty and smug,

Already plotting tomorrow's torment.

You walk on,

Tall,

Heavy,

Beautiful,

Absurd.

Somewhere between costume and crown,

You remember there was once a simpler way to exist.

Wool against skin,

Dirt under nails,

Wind without witnesses.

The thought flickers,

Small and treasonous,

Before being swallowed by the silk.

The throne room smells faintly of wax,

Wet wool,

And the collective despair of people who have been waiting since dawn.

You sit on the throne,

Spine straight,

Face composed,

Pretending this is what leadership looks like.

Sunlight filters through tall windows,

Slicing the air into polite golden squares.

At the far end of the hall,

The first petitioner bows low,

Hat in hand,

Eyes filled with the fragile hope of someone who thinks the crown is listening.

He begins a long,

Winding story about a goat.

You lose him at North Pasture.

Something about a neighbor,

A fence,

And an incident involving unchaperoned livestock.

You nod gravely,

The universal signal of royal comprehension,

And say,

We shall look into it.

The man beams,

Convinced justice has been served.

You have already forgotten his name.

Beside you,

The royal scribe scratches furiously at parchment,

Capturing every detail,

As if the fate of the realm hinges on this goat.

You suspect he does it less for record-keeping and more for entertainment at dinner.

Next comes a woman holding what appears to be a cabbage wrapped in a baby's blanket.

She insists it's cursed.

It whispers at night.

She says,

Eyes wide.

You lean forward,

Curious despite yourself,

But she presses the vegetable to her chest protectively,

As though the thing might overhear.

You glance toward the bishop,

Who looks equally baffled but mumbles something about holy water and agricultural demons.

You pronounce the matter most serious.

The cabbage emits a squeak.

You decide not to ask.

A boy steps forward with a complaint that his father's shadow has gone missing.

The crowd murmurs approval.

A missing shadow is exactly the sort of scandal that keeps the kingdom interesting.

You ask if perhaps it was just the lighting.

He insists,

No,

It's been gone for three days,

And his father now frightens the hens.

The scribe writes this down as if chronicling a legend.

You promise an investigation,

Though you know your guards barely manage to find their own boots most mornings.

The line of petitioners stretches endlessly,

A human tapestry of misery and misplaced optimism.

There are disputes over rivers,

Over marriages,

Over a cat that allegedly serves two households and pays loyalty to neither.

Someone claims their cow began speaking Latin during last night's thunderstorm.

You raise an eyebrow,

Impressed.

The court murmurs approval,

Half convinced this might be a sign of divine favor.

You issue a proclamation banning cows from the priesthood,

Just to be safe.

At some point,

The steward brings you a cup of watered wine,

Which you sip while an old man describes how his neighbors are stealing the rain from his side of the field.

You ask him to clarify.

He can't.

Neither can you.

The scribe looks delighted.

The guards yawn discreetly,

Shifting their weight from one leg to the other.

The herald has long since stopped shouting the names of the petitioners and now simply waves them forward in resigned rhythm.

Every story sounds familiar.

A chicken lost here.

A haunted well there.

A dispute over who owns the windmill on alternating Tuesdays.

You nod and hum thoughtfully,

Occasionally uttering indeed or most troubling,

Phrases that mean nothing and everything.

Occasionally,

You glance up at the vaulted ceiling where painted saints gaze down with the kind of patience you envy.

Their faces are cracked,

Faded,

Yet eternally composed.

You wonder what they would do with all these complaints.

Probably listen.

Possibly smite.

The scribe clears his throat discreetly whenever your attention drifts too far.

He is loyal in that maddening way scholars are devoted not to you,

But to the idea of you.

His quill scratches like a tiny executioner,

Sealing each absurdity into history.

You imagine future generations poring over these records,

Reading about the year of the cursed cabbage and thinking this must have been a fascinating era.

Hours pass in measured misery.

Your crown feels heavier than law,

Pressing against the back of your skull as though eager to remind you that you belong to everyone but yourself.

A small child approaches at last,

Clutching a broken toy sword.

He wants it fixed because he plans to slay dragons when he's older.

You tell him the realm would be lucky to have him.

For once,

The words don't feel hollow.

When the final petitioner bows and retreats,

The chamber exhales.

Servants scurry to clear the benches.

Guards stretch.

The scribe flexes his ink-stained fingers.

You rise slowly,

Every muscle protesting,

And glance down at the parchment pile beside your throne.

Names,

Grievances,

Superstitions all neatly recorded.

None of it will matter tomorrow.

But for today,

It feels like governance,

Or at least the closest imitation available.

You leave the hall with the faintest trace of a smile,

Thinking perhaps this is what ruling truly is.

Listening to the noise of the world,

Pretending it makes sense,

And hoping no one notices that you don't either.

Lunch arrives dressed as ceremony,

Though it feels more like theater.

The hall glows with afternoon light,

Pouring in through stained glass that makes every noble look slightly more divine than they deserve.

Long tables stretch across the floor,

Filled with silks,

Jewels,

And opinions.

At the far end,

Beneath banners depicting lions that have never existed,

Sits the high table,

Your stage,

Your trap,

Your daily entertainment.

You take your seat,

Crown polished,

Posture impeccable,

Surrounded by the most dangerous creatures in the kingdom,

Your relatives.

The first course is soup,

Which sounds innocent until you remember what the cooks can do with onions and suspicion.

The nobles murmur praises before even tasting it,

Terrified that disapproval might be treason.

The Duchess of Harrow,

Wrapped in enough lace to smother an infant,

Leans forward and asks if you've heard about Lord Fenwick's moat.

You haven't,

And yet you nod wisely.

Ah,

Yes,

You say,

Quite the development.

Around the table,

Heads bob in agreement,

As though frogs in a ditch are a matter of national importance.

To your left sits your cousin,

The one with too much perfume and not enough discretion.

Her smile is a performance of loyalty,

Dazzling enough to distract those who don't know better.

You do.

Between sips of watered wine,

She slips in compliments shaped like daggers.

Your Majesty looks positively radiant,

She says,

Voice sweet as poison.

It's remarkable how ruling agrees with you,

Even after all those challenges.

You meet her gaze and smile back,

The kind that makes courtiers nervous.

It's the diet,

You say,

Mostly betrayal and boiled roots.

She laughs too loudly.

Servants glide between the tables,

Pouring more wine,

Laying down roasted quail that smells faintly of overambition.

Nobles pretend not to watch how much everyone else eats.

Gluttony,

After all,

Is only scandalous when performed by someone poorer.

You pick delicately at your food,

Pretending to be above hunger,

Though you'd trade half your kingdom for a loaf of bread you didn't have to share with forty witnesses.

Conversation shifts from moats to marriages.

The Earl of Dreth describes his daughter's engagement as though it were a military conquest.

The countess beside him sighs that her own son has sworn off matrimony until he's had spiritual guidance,

Which everyone knows is code for the tavern maid said no.

You listen,

Nodding at intervals,

The way one might to an opera sung in a language they don't understand but must applaud anyway.

A platter of fish arrives,

Its eyes still intact,

Staring upward in silent horror.

You wonder if it feels familiar.

Across the table,

The archbishop blesses the meal again,

A little too loudly,

As though divine favor might drown out gossip.

The air hums with forced laughter and the clink of goblets.

Someone mentions the peasant riots in the east,

And for a heartbeat the hall goes quiet until a baron jokes that at least the frogs are loyal.

Everyone chuckles dutifully.

Your cousin leans closer,

Her voice a whisper wrapped in honey.

There are rumors,

You know,

Whispers that you might consider naming an heir soon.

You tilt your head slightly,

As if pondering theology.

Rumors are like fish,

You say softly,

Best served cold and eaten by someone else.

She smiles thinly and turns her attention back to her plate.

Dessert arrives in the form of a towering pie,

Filled with something unidentifiable,

But impressively flammable.

The nobles cheer when it's set alight,

Though no one seems eager to eat it.

You sip your wine again,

Noting that the steward has refilled your cup three times without asking.

That's never a good sign.

Across the hall,

Two knights argue over whose family crest has more lions,

As if breeding imaginary beasts grants moral authority.

The heat from the candles makes the air shimmer.

You can feel the weight of every gaze flicker toward you,

Each one calculating,

Measuring,

Aligning themselves to whatever they believe you'll say next.

Power tastes a lot like overcooked poultry,

Dry,

Faintly metallic,

And always served with too much ceremony.

You raise your goblet in a lazy toast.

To prosperity,

You say,

And the table echoes you in unison.

You wonder how many of them mean it.

When the meal finally ends,

Servants clear the plates with the quiet efficiency of people who know better than to interrupt politics disguised as politeness.

Nobles rise,

Bowing,

Murmuring farewells thick with hidden intent.

You remain seated for a moment,

Letting the hall empty,

Your reflection caught faintly in the silver dishes.

The crown on your head feels heavier than it did at breakfast.

Your cousin lingers at the doorway,

Offering one last smile that could curdle milk.

Until next time,

Dear Majesty,

She says.

You wave a hand,

Dismissing her like a ghost.

When she's gone,

You drain the rest of your wine and stare into the cup's dull gleam.

In the end,

The difference between lunch and diplomacy is mostly the tableware.

The fool arrives before supper,

Cartwheeling through the great hall as though physics itself were his servant.

His hat is a disaster of color and sound,

A collection of mismatched bells that ring every time he breathes.

The courtiers pretend not to flinch,

Pretending also that his presence is charming rather than necessary.

You sit on your throne,

The most uncomfortable seat in the kingdom,

And watch as he juggles three wooden clubs and a goose that looks like it has seen too much.

The bird honks at intervals,

A tragic metronome to the fool's chaos.

He lands the act with a bow so deep his bells chime like a small confession.

The nobles clap politely,

Terrified of being the only ones who don't.

You laugh,

Because you're supposed to,

But it slips out unevenly,

Half amusement,

Half fatigue.

He catches the tone instantly,

The way a hound catches scent.

Ah,

He says,

Rising,

Eyes gleaming.

The sovereign laughs with the weariness of ten thousand tax collectors.

The hall titters,

Uncertain if this is safe to enjoy.

You smile anyway.

It feels good to pretend you're part of the joke.

The fool dances closer,

Balancing a candlestick on his chin.

Wax drips down the side of his face,

Hissing like tiny protests.

He grins through it all.

A man who has made peace with discomfort.

Your Majesty,

He says,

The peasants whisper your name when they drink their ale.

Some say you are merciful,

Others say you are mad.

Which should I confirm?

His tone is light,

But the question lands heavy.

The courtiers exchange glances,

Careful ones that say nothing and everything at once.

You raise an eyebrow.

Tell them both,

You say.

It keeps things interesting.

He claps his hands in delight,

The bells on his wrists jangling like gossip.

A wise answer,

He declares,

And dangerously honest.

I must write that down before it vanishes into the air like hope.

He rummages in his pockets and produces a quill,

An apple,

And a dead mouse,

Then decides none of them are useful and tosses them over his shoulder.

The goose honks again,

Offended on behalf of order itself.

The court relaxes by degrees,

Sensing that the storm of wit has passed.

The fool turns his attention to the Duke of Malden,

Whose mustache has long been the subject of whispered horror.

My lord,

He cries,

How fares your mustache in these humid conditions?

Does it still double as a net for passing moths?

The duke chokes on his wine while the others laugh in restrained bursts.

You catch the fool's eye and see at the flicker of triumph,

The satisfaction of survival.

Humor is his armor,

Sharper than any sword in the room.

He twirls again,

This time too close to a torch,

And the edge of his hat catches fire.

A lady screams.

The goose flaps into the rafters.

The fool calmly pats out the flame with the nonchalance of a man accustomed to disaster.

See,

He shouts cheerfully,

Even the fire wants to be part of the act.

The court erupts into relieved laughter,

That strange mixture of fear and joy that defines most of your reign.

You find yourself watching him more closely now,

The exaggerated gestures,

The painted grin,

The way he performs exhaustion as if it were art.

Yet,

His face,

Stripped of expression for just a moment,

Looks older than yours.

You wonder who decided laughter was safe enough to be royal,

Who first thought to keep a man like this near the throne to absorb all the tension the crown creates.

The fool senses the shift in you.

He straightens,

Takes a mock bow,

And murmurs softly,

Careful,

Majesty,

Staring too long at a mirror might show you who's really the fool.

For a heartbeat,

The hall feels too quiet.

The courtiers shift in their seats,

Uncertain if this is treachery or truth.

Then he laughs,

A wild,

Bright sound that makes the silence flee.

You exhale and join in,

Because not laughing would be worse.

He returns to his juggling,

Tossing apples now,

Each one rising and falling with impossible grace.

By the time he finishes,

The hall is alive again,

Chatter spilling through the air like spilled wine.

He bows low,

Bells chiming one last apology,

And backs away until he disappears behind the curtain.

You sit still for a long moment,

Your smile fading into something thoughtful.

The goose waddles back across the floor,

Honking once,

As if to punctuate the evening's meaning.

You lift your cup,

Drink deeply,

And listen to the echoes of laughter dying against the stone walls.

For a brief,

Dangerous second,

You envy the fool his freedom to speak,

To mock,

To burn,

And still bow at the end.

Then the moment passes,

And you remember your role.

You are the one who cannot juggle,

Cannot jest,

Cannot stumble without consequence.

So you do what kings do best.

You straighten your crown,

Call for wine,

And prepare to laugh again tomorrow.

The garden looks peaceful from the balcony,

Rows of roses,

Tidy hedges,

Sunlight resting on the marble statues like approval itself.

But the moment you step into it,

The illusion collapses.

The air smells faintly of manure,

Perfume,

And intrigue.

The roses are beautiful,

Yes,

But in the way snakes are beautiful before they bite.

You walk slowly,

Hands clasped behind your back,

Pretending to admire the blooms while trying to ignore the rustling sound of gossip sprouting faster than the ivy.

Behind you,

Courtiers trail at a polite distance,

Moving in a formation that resembles worship until you realize they're just keeping close enough to hear.

The Countess of Velmar pretends to examine a tulip while whispering something sharp to her companion.

The Duke of Harrow follows,

Pretending to cough each time she says something scandalous.

Their choreography is flawless,

Like dancers in a play no one admits is happening.

You can almost hear the words forming in the air,

Rumors about your love life,

Your diet,

Your recent decision to move the royal astrologer to a tower for clarity.

The courtiers have already decided this means madness or romance,

Possibly both.

A bee drifts by,

Lazy and golden,

And you envy its purpose.

It knows exactly what it's meant to do,

Buzz,

Sting,

Die.

There's honesty in that simplicity.

You,

On the other hand,

Exist in an ecosystem of conversation that feeds on itself.

The moment you open your mouth,

Ten versions of your words bloom elsewhere,

Each more absurd than the last.

You pause beside the fountain,

Where the water spills gently from the marble hands of a saint who probably never existed.

The statue's expression is eternally patient.

You wonder if that's what holiness truly is,

Just very controlled boredom.

Nearby,

Two young ladies pluck petals from a rose,

Pretending to debate love,

But clearly debating you.

You catch the sound of your own name in the word,

Eyebrows.

You look up just as they curtsy,

Faces pink with guilt.

Majesty,

One says too quickly,

We were admiring the flowers.

You nod,

Because everyone here lies beautifully.

You move on,

Stepping along the gravel path that winds between hedges trimmed to perfection.

Each snip of the gardener's shears sounds like punctuation in a rumor you'll hear tomorrow.

The king spends hours among the roses,

They'll say,

Contemplating his sins,

Or writing secret poetry.

In truth,

You're just trying to avoid the council meeting about tax reform,

But no one believes simple explanations when elaborate ones feel better in the mouth.

A breeze passes,

Scattering petals across the path like a gesture of apology from nature.

You reach out to catch one.

It lands on your sleeve,

Pale pink against velvet,

And for a second,

The garden falls quiet.

Even the courtiers seem to pause,

Waiting for meaning to happen.

Then you sneeze.

It's loud,

Unroyal,

Final.

Somewhere behind you,

Someone gasps.

Within a day,

It will be written that your sneeze foretold either famine or victory,

Depending on which chronicler is paid first.

The chancellor appears from behind a hedge,

Carrying a stack of scrolls,

Like a man bringing doom to a picnic.

Your Majesty,

He says,

Bowing.

The council awaits your decision regarding the border tolls.

His voice carries enough gravity to bend the flowers toward him.

You gesture vaguely at the roses.

I am communing with nature,

You say.

He blinks,

Unsure if it's a dismissal or a revelation.

The courtiers exchange knowing looks.

By supper,

Someone will declare that you speak to the flowers.

By tomorrow,

Someone else will claim they answer.

You continue your walk until the murmur of voices fades into the buzz of bees.

Beyond the last hedge,

The world softens open fields,

Real air.

Silence,

Unedited by rumor.

You linger at the threshold but do not cross it.

Outside is freedom,

But inside is expectation,

And expectation has better wine.

Turning back toward the palace,

You catch sight of your reflection in the fountain's surface,

Dignified,

Composed,

Slightly ridiculous.

You stare until a ripple distorts it into something less certain.

For all their talk,

The courtiers will never know how ordinary you feel,

How absurd it is to be both feared and gossiped about,

Both legend and sneeze.

You pluck a rose,

Careful to avoid the thorns,

And tuck it into your sleeve.

Tomorrow someone will write that it symbolizes peace,

Or lust,

Or divine favor.

The truth is simpler.

It was just the nearest bloom,

But you've learned that truth rarely survives the garden.

The queen's new hobby begins innocently enough.

Or at least,

That's what everyone tells themselves,

While pretending not to stare at the growing collection of paintings cluttering the solar.

Canvases lean against walls and furniture,

Saints and martyrs rendered in oils that shimmer with devotion,

Or something close to it.

The first portrait,

Saint Alaric,

Has the bishop's nose.

The second,

Saint Mildred,

Bears a striking resemblance to the lady in waiting,

Who recently received a suspiciously generous dowry.

The third is you,

Or rather someone who might be you if you were blessed with patience,

Better cheekbones,

And a less complicated expression.

The queen sits by the window,

Brush in hand,

Hair tied up with a ribbon splattered in colors too vivid for the times.

The light catches her face,

And for a moment,

You understand why people have gone to war over less.

She paints with focus,

Lips pursed,

Humming some half-remembered hymn that sounds suspiciously bawdy when it drifts through the corridors.

You watch from a safe distance,

Because interrupting her during her creative revelations has been classified as a punishable offense ever since she threw a pallet at the lord treasurer for questioning her depiction of St.

Ethelred's abs.

The court pretends not to notice the pattern forming in her art.

They crowd around the finished pieces,

Murmuring about divine inspiration while desperately avoiding the bishop's eye.

The bishop himself has begun avoiding everyone's,

Particularly yours,

Perhaps afraid that confession will now include a gallery tour.

You catch him crossing himself backward once during chapel,

Eyes darting toward the queen's wing of the palace like a man praying to remain unpainted.

At dinner,

Conversation shifts carefully around the subject.

Nobles compliment her artistic vision in tones usually reserved for diplomatic hostages.

The Duke of Merrow declares that her latest work captures the essence of faith itself,

Though you're fairly certain he's staring at the neckline rather than the halo.

The queen accepts their flattery with the serene confidence of a woman who knows exactly how far she can push piety before it bites back.

You try to sound supportive.

You say things like remarkable use of color and how innovative to include the saints humanity.

She beams,

Takes your hand,

And insists that one day she'll paint you again,

Properly this time.

You have no idea what that means,

But you're certain it's a threat disguised as affection.

The servants gossip behind tapestries,

Claiming the queen paints only at night,

That she mixes her pigments with wine and whispers secrets into the canvas.

One swears he saw a portrait's eyes move.

Another insists she's working on a massive altarpiece depicting Judgment Day where everyone in court is present alive or otherwise.

You've learned to stop asking for details.

The less you know,

The less you'll have to deny later.

Sometimes you catch her studying faces at court,

Eyes narrowing as if measuring them for immortality.

Her subjects smile nervously,

Unsure whether to feel honored or doomed.

You wonder what she sees when she looks at you,

The monarch,

The partner,

Or simply another shape to trap in pigment.

One evening,

When the candles burn low,

She asks if you believe art can make someone eternal.

You tell her eternity sounds exhausting.

She laughs and says that's why she paints instead of ruling.

Weeks pass and the palace begins to resemble a gallery curated by madness and beauty in equal measure.

The queen's paintings multiply like gossip,

Crawling up walls,

Invading corridors,

Spilling into antechambers.

Every saint looks faintly familiar now,

Each face carrying some echo of the living.

The courtiers walk with their chins tucked low,

Afraid of being canonized without consent.

Even the jester refuses to enter her studio,

Muttering something about holy ghosts and unpaid models.

One morning,

You find her asleep in the chair by the window,

Brush still clutched in her hand.

A new painting rests on the easel,

Unfinished,

Half-shadowed,

Unmistakably you.

The likeness is uncanny,

But the eyes are different,

Softer,

Tired,

Perhaps.

There's something in the way she's painted your mouth,

As though she's forgiven you for something you haven't done yet.

You stand there for a long time,

Caught between admiration and unease,

Until she stirs and looks up at you with a small,

Secret smile.

Don't worry,

She says.

It's not finished.

You're too alive.

You nod,

Unsure what that means,

But somehow grateful.

Later,

As the court whispers and the bishop prays a little louder than usual,

You pass through the halls lined with her saints and wonder which of you she'll paint next,

And whether immortality is just another form of scandal dressed in divine light.

The morning of the tournament arrives with more noise than sense.

Trumpets blare from every direction,

Each one slightly off-key,

As though the kingdom itself is trying too hard to impress.

You sit beneath a silk canopy that smells faintly of damp hay and ambition,

Watching a parade of armored men attempt to look heroic while being led by horses that clearly know better.

The crowd surges around the lists,

Peasants waving flags,

Merchants shouting wagers,

Nobles pretending they don't gamble.

Everyone smells of roasted meat and anticipation.

The herald announces each night with grand enthusiasm,

His voice cracking on the syllables of names too long for human use.

Sir Godfrey of Greifen,

Defender of chastity and.

.

.

The rest is swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

Then comes another.

Sir Aldous the Bold,

A cheer.

Sir Bernard,

The slightly confused,

A laugh.

You clap politely,

Pretending to care who wins,

Though your attention keeps drifting toward the juggler attempting to charm a goose behind the stands.

The goose seems unimpressed.

The queen sits beside you,

Fanning herself with the kind of grace that could end a war if properly weaponized.

She leans in and whispers,

Remind me again why we do this.

You glance at the field where two knights are already circling like armored beetles.

Because it looks like control,

You say.

She hums,

Unconvinced.

The first joust begins.

Spears lower,

Hooves thunder,

Banners snap in the wind.

It's magnificent,

Until one of the horses veers left and the other knight misses entirely,

Spearing the banner instead of his opponent.

The crowd gasps,

Then cheers anyway because failure performed with confidence counts as entertainment.

You raise your goblet in solemn acknowledgement of mediocrity.

Next,

Rides out a knight so small in stature that the squire has to help him mount.

His armor gleams as if freshly polished by anxiety.

The herald announces him as Sir Percival the Brave,

Though bravery seems a generous translation of volunteered accidentally.

You find yourself rooting for him instantly,

Perhaps because the others look too polished,

Too practiced,

Too painfully noble.

Sir Percival wobbles in the saddle,

Visor crooked,

Lance trembling in his grip.

When the horn sounds,

He charges in a line that could only be described as interpretive.

His opponent,

Distracted by laughter from the crowd,

Misses entirely.

Somehow,

Percival's lance glances off the other's shield,

And the impact sends both horses spinning like startled dancers.

Dust erupts,

A collective gasp follows,

And when it clears,

Sir Percival is standing technically on his own two feet,

While his opponent lies groaning in the mud.

The silence lasts only a moment before the crowd erupts into chaos.

They cheer,

Throw flowers,

And chant his name as though he's slain a dragon instead of physics.

You can't help it,

You laugh,

The kind of laugh that shakes your shoulders and makes the courtiers glance at one another nervously,

Unsure if laughter from the throne is ever safe.

You wave at Percival,

Who looks dazed but proud,

Like a man who tripped into destiny.

The queen hides a smile behind her fan.

You've found your champion,

She teases,

A hero for the ages.

You nod,

Or a warning for future ones.

The steward hurries to your side,

Flushed and sweating.

Shall we present him with the wreath,

Your Majesty?

He asks.

You glance toward the field,

Where Percival is now fainting into the nearest puddle,

The wreath sliding gently from the squire's hands onto his chest.

Yes,

You say,

That seems appropriate.

The afternoon drags on,

Filled with more jousts,

Duels,

And one accidental brawl involving two knights who discovered they were both courting the same baker's daughter.

You sip wine and pretend this is all part of divine order,

Though it feels more like organized chaos disguised as sport.

The crowd lives for it,

The pageantry in blood,

The illusion that bravery can be measured in broken bones.

By sunset the air smells of trampled grass and singed feathers.

The field is littered with splintered lances,

Dented pride,

And the occasional unconscious knight.

You rise,

Wave to the roaring masses,

And declare the tournament a triumph.

They believe you,

As they always do,

Because victory is easier to crown than question.

As the stands empty and torches flicker to life,

You spot Sir Percival being carried off by two squires,

His helmet still on backward.

For a moment,

You think about what courage really looks like.

Maybe not shining,

Maybe not sharp,

But stumbling and persistent and entirely unprepared.

You lift your goblet in his direction,

A private toast to noble accidents.

The trumpets sound one last time,

As if the kingdom itself insists on ending with a flourish.

You smile faintly.

Tomorrow the knights will nurse their bruises,

The crowds will exaggerate,

And the poets will turn clumsiness into legend.

That's the beauty of it.

Every disaster becomes history if you describe it loudly enough.

The royal falcon sits on your shoulder like it owns both you and the air around you.

Its talons dig just deep enough to remind you who's really in charge.

The bird's eyes gleam small,

Sharp,

And golden,

Full of the kind of intelligence that never once considered compromise.

You inherited it,

Technically,

From your father,

Along with three feuding provinces and a war no one remembers starting.

The falcon was supposed to symbolize power,

Grace,

Dominion over nature.

Instead,

It looks perpetually offended,

As if every breath you take personally insults it.

This morning begins with its usual defiance.

The falconer,

A man who treats birds with the reverence of saints,

Insists it needs exercise.

You nod indulgently,

And he opens the aviary door like a priest unveiling relics.

The falcon spreads its wings,

Glorious and terrible,

Feathers shining in the dawn light.

For a moment,

Even you believe in majesty.

Then it flies three feet,

Lands on your shoulder,

And refuses to move.

The falconer coughs delicately.

Perhaps it feels a bond with your majesty,

He says.

You suspect bond is falconer language for mutiny.

The bird accompanies you to the council meeting,

Where the smell of parchment and anxiety fills the room.

Diplomats bow,

Their eyes flicking nervously between your face and the predator perched beside it.

The chancellor clears his throat and begins to speak about taxes,

His voice trembling each time the falcon shifts its weight.

It lets out a low,

Guttural sound,

Half growl,

Half sigh that silences the room more effectively than you ever could.

You pat its wing approvingly.

My advisor agrees,

You say,

And the courtiers nod,

Visibly relieved to have any guidance at all.

The ambassador of Flanders arrives next,

Carrying the kind of smile that hides a dozen insults.

He bows too deeply,

Says too much,

And gestures too widely.

The falcon watches him,

Unblinking,

And then,

With the slow inevitability of fate,

Leans forward and bites him on the ear.

Chaos erupts.

The ambassador yelps.

The falcon hisses triumphantly.

You murmur,

Ah,

Yes,

Foreign policy and signal for wine.

The matter is,

Surprisingly,

Resolved within the hour.

No one argues with a bird that understands power dynamics better than half your counsel.

Later,

You retreat to the gardens for what the servants call reflection time,

And what you call avoiding work.

The falcon rides your shoulder like a living crown,

Feathers brushing against your cheek.

You talk to it,

Quietly,

As you walk among the hedges.

You tell it things you can't tell your advisors the truth about how the kingdom feels too large,

Some days and too small on others,

How ruling is a constant performance where silence earns more applause than sincerity.

The bird listens,

Head tilted,

Occasionally clicking its beak as if taking notes.

You start to wonder if it understands.

When the chaplain approaches,

Muttering blessings under his breath,

The falcon swoops down to snatch the bread from his tray.

The poor man freezes,

Clutching his cross.

A test from God,

He declares shakily and retreats before divine logic can fail him.

You look down at the falcon devouring its prize in the grass.

You really are my spirit animal,

You tell it.

It doesn't look up.

In the afternoon,

The falconer returns,

Flustered and reverent,

Carrying a glove the size of a small shield.

It must hunt,

Your majesty,

He pleads.

It's what it's born for.

You glance at the bird,

Who stares back with utter disdain,

A monarch recognizing another.

It hunts,

You say,

Just selectively.

The falconer looks,

Puzzled,

So you clarify.

Mostly diplomats,

He bows,

Uncertain if that was a jest.

You're uncertain too.

By evening,

The falcon has moved from your shoulder to the back of your throne.

It perches there while you sign decrees,

Its talons tapping lightly in time with your pen.

Each document receives a small grunt of approval or disapproval,

Which the clerks dutifully record as if divinely inspired.

The bird is becoming a legend faster than you ever did.

You imagine future generations carving statues of it beside you,

The king and his feathered conscience,

Twin tyrants of very different temperaments.

As night falls,

You open the window to let it fly free.

It doesn't move.

The falcon looks at you,

Eyes bright and knowing,

And ruffles its feathers in dismissal.

So you leave it there,

Silhouetted against the dying light,

The one creature in your realm that obeys no one and serves nothing but its own sharp will.

You envy that.

Somewhere beyond the walls,

The world turns.

Armies march.

Alliances shift.

Prayers rise.

But inside your chamber,

The falcon watches,

Silent and supreme.

You raise your goblet to it and whisper,

To sovereignty.

It blinks once,

Unimpressed.

Then,

With the quiet grace of absolute authority,

It steals a piece of your dinner and flies into the dark.

The banquet begins before you're ready for it,

Which is true of most royal obligations.

The hall blazes with candles,

Hundreds of them,

Flickering like nervous courtiers.

Every surface gleams the silver,

The crystal,

The sweat on the servants' foreheads.

You sit at the center of it all,

The still point in a storm of chatter,

Music,

And the smell of roasted animals.

Someone announces your presence with a trumpet blast that nearly knocks a chalice from the table.

Conversation pauses,

Heads bow,

And the orchestra strikes a note so triumphant it sounds like victory's hangover.

Your dinner stretches the length of a battlefield.

There are dishes whose ingredients you recognize only,

From Scripture.

Roast peacock with gilded feathers arranged for show.

Trout pie shaped like a bishop's hat.

Pickled pears glistening in syrup the color of ambition.

Every plate screams of effort.

You nod graciously at each presentation,

As though you personally approve of this culinary absurdity,

While praying no one notices that you only ever eat the bread.

The nobles on your right argue about taxes with the same energy children use to fight over toys.

The ones on your left compare their tapestries.

At least one of them is lying about owning one.

You sip your wine,

Which tastes like something between vinegar and punishment,

And watch them all perform civility like it's an Olympic event.

The ambassador from the Western Duchy rises for a toast.

He praises your wisdom,

Your strength,

Your ability to exist in the face of adversity.

He's been in your court for three months,

And still hasn't noticed that flattery bounces off you like arrows against armor.

You raise your goblet anyway,

Smiling the way one does when bribery arrives disguised as admiration.

Behind him,

Someone attempts to clap,

Misses their timing,

And knocks over a platter of pheasant.

A servant swoops in,

Efficient as gilt.

Across the table,

The Duke of Merrow is clearly drunk.

His wig sits crooked,

His laughter a full second behind everyone else's.

You watch him lean toward the Countess of Velmar,

Whisper something unwise,

And promptly spill half his drink onto her jeweled sleeve.

Her expression could curdle milk.

You pretend not to notice,

Because noticing would require ruling,

And ruling interrupts digestion.

The musicians shift songs.

The lute player is excellent but tragically earnest,

Pouring his soul into melodies about love and loyalty,

Two concepts that exist here mostly as conversation topics.

A few courtiers sway,

Mistaking sentimentality for grace.

You continue eating,

A small,

Steady rhythm of movement.

The knife,

The fork,

The occasional glance that keeps people guessing whether you're listening.

The Queen,

Or King,

Depending on who you're pretending to be today,

Catches your eye from across the table.

Her smile carries too much meaning,

The kind that could start either a scandal or a war.

You raise your brow and return.

The message is simple.

Not tonight.

She returns to her meal with a laugh so soft only you hear it.

The air grows thicker with wine and pretense.

Laughter becomes louder,

Stories longer,

The truth smaller.

Someone behind a curtain vomits discreetly,

Or at least tries to.

A page hurries past holding a platter of something unidentifiable,

And you can't tell whether it's dessert or an act of violence.

The Chancellor proposes a toast to peace.

The General toasts to victory.

You toast to survival.

Everyone drinks to all three.

At some point,

The Ambassador of Flanders begins an elaborate speech involving metaphors about rivers and unity.

You nod along until your attention drifts to the chandelier overhead,

A masterpiece of iron and beeswax trembling slightly under its own brilliance.

For a moment,

You wonder what it would feel like if the whole thing fell,

Not out of malice,

Just curiosity.

Dessert arrives in procession.

Sugared almonds,

Molded marzipan castles,

A custard shaped suspiciously like your late uncle.

The nobles cheer as though sugar were salvation itself.

You accept a bite,

Sweet enough to erase thought.

The court poet stands and recites something about divine destiny that rhymes poorly with majesty.

No one listens except the poet who will write about this silence as rapture.

When the final course is cleared,

Servants pour more wine you didn't ask for,

And the last of the guests begin to sway in their seats like exhausted candles.

You rise,

Signaling the end of indulgence.

The crowd stands,

Bowing,

Mumbling blessings.

The ambassador wipes sweat from his brow.

The Duke of Merrow snores quietly into a bread roll,

And somewhere in the shadows,

The vomitor attempts dignity.

You step away from the table,

Your robes heavy with the scent of meat and ceremony.

Behind you,

The laughter continues,

Softening into the kind of noise that will become memory by morning.

You pause at the doorway and glance back once.

The peacock sits untouched,

Still magnificent,

Still absurd,

Its feathers catching the candlelight like an accusation.

You smile faintly.

Dinner has been conquered,

Diplomacy postponed,

And history mercifully fed for another day.

Night comes softly,

Though never quietly.

The castle exhales after a long day of pretending to be noble.

The corridors dim,

The torches hum,

And servants move like ghosts,

Carrying basins and secrets.

You retreat to your chambers,

The echo of diplomacy still clinging to your sleeves.

The air smells faintly of smoke,

Lavender,

And responsibility.

You long for sleep,

But sleep never arrives on command.

It must be coaxed,

Bribed,

Tricked into visiting.

You begin the ritual the way your mother taught you,

Though you've long since forgotten which part was faith and which was habit.

Three circles around the bed,

Clockwise for fortune.

The floor creaks in protest at the weight of tradition.

Somewhere in the dark,

A mouse watches,

Unimpressed.

You toss a pinch of salt over your left shoulder,

Though you can never remember what it's supposed to ward off demons,

Envy,

Or last week's council minutes.

The salt lands on your cloak instead,

Leaving a constellation of superstition on velvet.

You pause by the tapestry of St.

Mildred,

Whose embroidered face has watched every royal generation lose its mind in this very room.

Her eyes are calm,

Compassionate,

And slightly judgmental.

You whisper goodnight to her,

Because you always do.

It's not that you believe she's listening,

It's that you can't risk her not.

Her stitched hand holds a lily.

Her stitched lips curve in the faintest smile,

And the flicker of candlelight gives her an unsettling sense of awareness.

You mutter a few extra words,

Just in case politeness translates across dimensions.

The chamber is vast and ornate,

Built to impress rather than comfort.

The bed could sleep a small village,

And the canopy above is painted with constellations that someone once claimed matched your birth.

You no longer trust the stars.

They gossip too much.

The mattress sighs as you sit,

The sound like parchment being folded,

And you feel the weight of the crown even though it's long since been set on the table beside the wine.

You stare at it for a moment,

Gleaming faintly in the low light,

And imagine it whispering nothing divine,

Just a reminder that tomorrow exists and expects things from you.

You blow out one candle,

Then another,

Leaving only the stubborn one on the bedside table,

Its flame trembling as if uncertain of its own authority.

Shadows lengthen and merge,

Turning the room into a story you half-remember.

You remember the superstition about counting heartbeats before closing your eyes.

Seven means safety,

Nine invites dreams.

You try for seven,

But reach eight and lose track,

Distracted by the soft tapping of the wind against the shutters.

The sound could be a branch,

Or a hand,

Or history trying to get in.

You murmur the names of the saints you actually like,

The ones who seem to understand bureaucracy and bad decisions.

Saint Honorius,

Patron of scribes and those who say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Saint Osmond,

Who supposedly once fell asleep during his own coronation.

You skip Saint Bartholomew,

He feels smug.

Finally,

You whisper Saint Mildred's name again,

Because she's still watching.

The tapestry seems to shift in the candlelight,

Her expression deepening as if she's withholding commentary.

The room cools as night stretches itself across the windows.

You pull the blankets up,

Still wearing too many layers,

Because royalty is allergic to simplicity.

The mattress feels like a throne in disguise,

Soft,

Suffocating,

Vaguely judgmental.

You turn once,

Then again,

Chasing comfort across the embroidered sheets.

The falcon on its perch by the window stirs,

Feathers rustling like paper.

Even it can't sleep easily under these walls.

You think about the peasants who believe you dream prophetic dreams,

That your visions steer the fate of the kingdom.

In truth,

Your dreams are mostly about losing shoes or showing up to parliaments without trousers.

You wonder what that means for the realm.

Perhaps Saint Mildred knows,

Though she's keeping her counsel.

You close your eyes anyway,

Whispering to her one last time,

Not for miracles,

But for something smaller.

A quiet mind,

Perhaps.

The last candle gives up,

Its smoke curling like a question.

The room settles into stillness,

Save for the soft sigh of the curtains moving with the wind.

You lie there in the dark,

Counting your breaths,

Your thoughts,

Your doubts,

All of them piling softly atop one another.

Somewhere below,

The castle hums with dreams not your own.

Eventually,

You drift half-waking,

Half-sleeping,

Between prayer and pretense.

The last thing you see before surrendering to the dark is Saint Mildred's faint smile,

Glinting in the shadows like she knows how the story ends.

Sleep arrives reluctantly,

Like a servant summoned too many times in one night.

It settles on you unevenly,

Pulling you halfway into its grasp before reconsidering.

The bed is too soft,

The air too heavy,

And the silence too loud.

You lie still,

Staring at the canopy where painted stars shimmer faintly in the glow of the dying fire.

The world outside continues,

Its spinning soldiers standing guard,

Nobles snoring,

The occasional cat plodding,

But within these walls,

Time thickens like honey.

When you finally drift off,

It's not gentle.

One moment you are counting breaths,

The next you are barefoot in a field so wide it feels impossible.

The grass ripples like applause,

The wind carries no scent of politics,

No hint of obligation.

You are no one here,

And it feels almost holy.

You run,

Not elegantly more,

Like an escaped thought,

But it's enough.

The sky burns gold,

The ground hums beneath your feet,

And for the first time in years,

You are entirely unobserved.

There are no courtiers,

No decrees,

No waiting signatures.

Just you,

Unburdened,

Unthrown,

Alive.

Then,

Inevitably,

The dream shifts.

It always does.

The field darkens,

The wind turns colder,

And a faint tolling begins in the distance.

Bells or taxes,

It's hard to tell.

The horizon folds inward,

The grass curls into scrolls of parchment,

Each blade etched with words you can't read fast enough.

You try to run again,

But the ground catches your ankles in red wax seals.

Somewhere above you,

Saint Mildred frowns down from a cloud,

Disapproving of your fiscal management.

You wake with a gasp,

Tangled in the sheets,

Heart pounding as if you'd just escaped an audit.

The fire has gone out,

Leaving only embers and shadows.

You reach for the bell rope and tug once.

Within minutes,

Your chamberlain appears,

Bleary-eyed but pretending otherwise.

He asks if the realm is in peril.

Worse,

You say.

I dreamed again.

He nods solemnly,

As though you've declared war.

Shall I fetch the astrologer?

Moments later,

The court astrologer shuffles in,

Draped in robes that smell faintly of smoke and smugness.

His eyes gleam with the certainty of a man who sees meaning in everything.

You recount your dream while he hums thoughtfully,

Taking notes on parchment shaped like a star.

When you finish,

He declares,

A clear sign of victory,

Majesty.

The open field represents triumph,

The running freedom,

And the bell divine acknowledgement of your destiny.

He bows,

Awaiting applause.

Before you can respond,

The door creaks again and the royal cook enters,

Summoned by rumor or coincidence.

She folds her arms,

Unimpressed by astrology or grandeur.

You had the mutton pie again,

Didn't you?

She asks.

You hesitate.

Perhaps.

She snorts.

Then it means indigestion.

Nothing divine about that.

You're lucky it wasn't the eel.

The astrologer stiffens,

Offended on behalf of the cosmos.

My interpretations are sanctioned by the heavens and mine,

She retorts,

By your stomach.

They glare at each other,

Celestial theory versus culinary fact,

And you sit between them,

Half amused,

Half exhausted.

You decide to compromise.

It was both,

You declare.

Victory and indigestion.

The universe is complicated.

That seems to satisfy them.

The cook leaves muttering about butter and the astrologer bows deeply before retreating to chart your fate anew.

The chamber quiets once more.

You sit by the window,

Looking out at the faint line of dawn sneaking over the rooftops.

The city sleeps restlessly,

Unaware that its ruler is interpreting dreams like omens from a reluctant god.

You think about the field again,

The feeling of air unburdened by history,

The absence of titles and crowns.

Maybe that's what the dream really means.

Not victory,

Not digestion,

Just wanting to be smaller than your responsibilities for a while.

You return to bed but don't expect more sleep.

The sheets are cool,

The air heavy with the faint scent of smoke and lavender.

You close your eyes anyway,

Half hoping to see the field again,

Half fearing the taxes will chase you there too.

The embers crack softly,

Like laughter from another world.

When dawn finally breaks,

You're still awake,

But you smile.

There's comfort in knowing that even kings and queens can't control their dreams.

Some things remain gloriously outside the crown's jurisdiction,

Like sleep and freedom,

And the meaning of running barefoot through a world that doesn't ask for anything in return.

Morning crawls in through the tall windows,

Dragging the light behind it like an afterthought.

The court stirs,

Yawns,

Straightens its collars,

And pretends to be ready for another round of ceremony.

You sit on the throne,

Or rather,

The throne sits on you.

It's carved from an ancient oak feld before anyone had the courage to question trees,

And it smells faintly of beeswax,

Damp velvet,

And inherited anxiety.

The seat is too hard,

The air too warm,

And the silence before the first petition feels like the pause between confession and judgment.

The herald announces your presence for the fifth time,

As if repetition might make the miracle stick.

Courtiers shuffle,

Bow,

And freeze into shapes that imply loyalty.

The scribe clears his throat and begins to read from the day's list.

Disputes,

Taxes,

Lost animals,

Requests for divine intervention disguised as policy proposals.

You listen,

Nodding occasionally in ways that convey authority,

Mercy,

Or mild constipation,

Depending on the angle of your chin.

The first petitioner enters a farmer with the posture of someone who has been awake since the invention of mud.

He bows so low you can see the back of his head glisten.

His goats,

He explains,

Have been possessed by demons or possibly bad cheese.

The local priest recommends exorcism.

His wife recommends stew.

You nod wisely,

Order an investigation,

And watch relief flood his face like sunrise.

He backs away,

Mumbling blessings that sound suspiciously like curses for your enemies.

Next comes a merchant wearing the kind of perfume that commits assault.

He complains that bandits have stolen his silk,

His coins,

And his sense of self-importance.

You promise swift justice,

Which in royal language means someone else will deal with this eventually.

He bows,

Lingers a moment too long,

And leaves a trail of clove-scented despair behind him.

The chamberlain opens a window discreetly.

Fresh air stumbles in,

Trips over the incense,

And gives up.

Then there's the noblewoman,

With three small dogs and one large grievance.

She claims her neighbor's falcon has been eyeing her pets with malicious intent.

The neighbor stands beside her,

Looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else,

Including war.

The dogs yip in chorus.

The falcon,

Perched on the neighbor's arm,

Looks utterly innocent,

Which is suspicious in itself.

You decree that the falcon must be muzzled,

A suggestion that causes everyone to nod gravely,

And no one to understand how.

The falcon blinks.

You win.

As the morning stretches on,

So does the smell,

A thick stew of incense,

Perfume,

Candle,

Smoke,

And humanity.

The courtiers dab their foreheads,

Fanning themselves with the speed of moral decay.

You try to look serene,

Though the air feels heavy enough to chew.

Occasionally,

A petitioner faints,

And the attendants rush forward as if fainting were a competitive sport.

Each collapse is followed by murmurs of divine favor.

You begin to suspect that some of them are doing it for attention.

Your thoughts wander,

As they often do,

Toward an alternate life.

You picture yourself as a miller,

Sleeves rolled up,

Arms dusted in flour,

Listening to the honest song of the water wheel.

No petitions,

No flattery,

No smell of ambition fermented in wool,

Just the rhythm of work,

The satisfaction of creation,

The quiet.

You're halfway through imagining your first loaf when the chancellor coughs meaningfully,

Dragging you back to the present.

A bard approaches next,

Clutching a lute and the confidence of a man who has never been booed by nobility.

He begins to sing an ode in your honor,

Rhyming sovereign with For Again,

Which earns him a few winces from the literate members of court.

You applaud anyway,

Because even bad poetry has its uses.

It fills time without requiring decisions.

The bard bows,

Beams and exits,

Clearly believing himself immortalized.

By noon,

Your head feels stuffed with parchment.

The scribe's voice has turned into a steady drone,

And your fingers tap against the armrest in rhythm with your irritation.

Somewhere behind the throne,

A servant drops a goblet,

And the sound echoes like a prophecy.

You decide it's a sign that the session should end.

That will be all for today,

You declare,

Rising with the slow grace of someone who's earned their stiffness.

The courtiers bow again,

A wave of fabric and fear,

And begin to disperse.

The smells follow them out,

Lingering like uninvited thoughts.

You remain seated a moment longer,

Staring at the empty space where power pretends to live.

The throne beneath you creaks,

As if sharing its opinion on everything that's just transpired.

You smile faintly,

Stretch your hands along the carved arms of the chair,

And whisper to no one,

Tomorrow I'll be a miller.

The throne says nothing.

It doesn't believe you.

The servants move like whispers through the veins of the castle.

You hear them before you see them footsteps on cold stone,

The clink of pitchers,

The muted hum of gossip traveling faster than any royal decree ever could.

They are everywhere and nowhere at once,

Part of the walls themselves,

The true machinery behind the illusion of your authority.

You've ruled long enough to know that if the kingdom ever truly fell,

It would not be because of war or famine,

But because the laundry staff decided they'd had enough.

From your vantage point,

You catch only fragments.

A maid balancing a tray twice her size mutters curses that could curdle cream.

Two footmen bicker in stage whispers about who misplaced the royal slippers again.

The steward,

Gaunt and perpetually exasperated,

Tries to maintain decorum,

While the scullery boy uses the silver basin as a hat.

They all move with the choreography of people who have long stopped pretending to care about perfection,

Because they're the ones who clean up after it.

Once,

During a rainstorm,

You wandered into the servants' hall by accident,

Following the smell of fresh bread.

No one noticed you at first.

They were laughing loudly,

Freely,

Without the politeness that weighs down noble laughter.

One woman sat on a barrel,

Apron dusted with flour,

Telling a story about the royal falcon stealing the chaplain's wig.

The others howled,

Tears in their eyes,

Cheeks flushed from the work and wine.

You stood there,

Unseen,

Feeling both intruder and ghost.

For a moment,

You wanted to sit with them,

To join their world of sweat and jokes and small joys that didn't require permission.

Then,

Someone noticed you,

And the laughter died so quickly,

It left a silence shaped like guilt.

You've never gone back.

Still,

You hear them,

Through the floorboards,

Through the walls,

Their world hums beneath yours.

In the evenings,

When the courtier's voices fade into the hush of diplomacy and deceit,

You catch the echo of something real,

Someone humming an old song while scrubbing floors,

The clatter of cutlery being sorted by hand,

The soft thud of boots dancing in the corridor after hours.

The kingdom above them pretends to be solemn,

But below,

It breathes and laughs and argues about things that actually matter,

Like who broke the butter churn,

Or whether ghosts can cook.

The butler,

A man who has served three monarchs and aged like a myth,

Once told you in confidence that the cat runs the household now.

Everyone listens to her,

He said,

Straight-faced.

She sits on the linen inventory,

And no one questions her authority.

You almost knighted the cat just to see the reaction.

She still greets you with the disdain reserved for equals.

Sometimes,

When you pass the kitchen,

You smell the comfort of meals that never reach the royal table,

Thick stews,

Burnt crusts,

Laughter mixed with spice.

You imagine them sitting together long after the last dish for you has been served,

Trading stories about nobles who mispronounce their own titles or wear their crowns backward after too much wine.

You envy them their permission to exist unobserved.

No portraits,

No heraldry,

No expectations beyond the next sunrise.

You think about the maid who rolls her eyes when you issue another decree about grain storage.

She knows what will really happen the farmers will do,

As they always have,

And she'll still have to explain to the kitchen why there's no flour again.

Or the stable boy who hums lullabies to horses that have more sense than most dukes.

Or the laundry girl who flirts shamelessly with the guard at the east gate,

A romance as doomed and alive as the roses outside your window.

They live like sparks under your rule,

Brief,

Bright,

And unstoppable.

When night falls,

The castle shifts into its truer self.

Courtiers vanish into their rooms,

But the servants remain awake,

Reclaiming the spaces they keep spotless by day.

You've glimpsed it once or twice,

The laughter echoing off stone,

Someone sneaking a dance in the great hall while polishing the floor,

A boy asleep on a pile of clean linens like a saint of exhaustion.

It feels almost holy,

That kind of living.

You stand at your window,

Watching the faint glow from the servants' quarters.

You can't hear their words,

But you can feel the pulse of their world beneath yours,

Steady and alive.

You realize that kingdoms don't run on crowns or decrees,

They run on the quiet competence of those who never get painted in murals.

You take off your robe,

Place the crown on the table,

And let the night settle around you.

Somewhere below,

Someone laughs,

And it sounds like freedom.

The feast begins the way all unnecessary things do with trumpets,

Shouting,

And an alarming number of napkins.

No one remembers what you're celebrating,

Only that it involves swans,

A banner with too many adjectives,

And the promise of meat.

The hall is dressed within an inch of its life,

Garlands drooping under their own optimism.

The tables buckle with the weight of dishes that gleam like bribes.

You sit at the head of it all,

Your smile as polished as the silverware.

The servants bring out the animals and processions fit for saints,

Swans roasted to a golden arrogance,

Pigs glazed and twirling,

Doves stuffed with herbs,

And a sense of misplaced martyrdom.

The goat arrives last,

Led by two boys who look equally nervous.

Its expression is pure resentment,

As though at once held a title before being demoted to centerpiece.

The steward bows deeply,

Declaring it symbolic of plenty.

You're not sure who's plenty.

The goat chews on a ribbon in protest.

The court applauds the spectacle.

Nobles murmur compliments they don't mean,

Courtiers smile until their faces ache,

And someone strikes a lute chord that dies of embarrassment halfway through.

You lift your goblet,

Toast something vague like the enduring prosperity of us all,

And watch as the room drinks to the idea rather than the truth.

The wine is strong enough to make anyone feel optimistic for at least three minutes.

At the far end of the table,

A juggler performs for a group of barons.

His balls are replaced with apples,

Then apples replaced with knives,

Then knives replaced with pies,

Because progress is a dangerous thing.

He tosses one too high,

Reaches too late,

And the pie arcs gracefully through the air before collapsing into the lap of the Duke of Merrow.

For a long moment,

No one breathes.

Then the duke laughs,

Loud and false,

The kind of laugh that sounds like diplomacy.

Everyone joins in.

You clap politely,

The sound measured between indulgence and warning.

The goat chooses that moment to bleat loudly,

Shattering whatever grace the evening had left.

The juggler bows too low,

The duke dabs at his tunic,

And someone in the back whispers,

Is this part of the entertainment?

The bishop crosses himself just in case.

You can feel the weight of your crown tilt slightly forward,

As if trying to hide its face.

Dinner continues.

Trays circulate,

Dripping gravy and pride.

The air thickens with the smell of overachievement.

A poet stands to recite verses about divine abundance,

But his metaphors collapse halfway through,

Drowned by the noise of the pig being carved.

The courtiers pretend to listen,

Nodding at the rhythm rather than the meaning.

You suspect this is how policy works too.

By the third course,

Everyone is pretending not to be full.

The queen fans,

Herself,

Murmuring something about divine punishment.

The falconer sneaks bites from a platter meant for the bishop,

Who pretends not to notice.

You take another sip of wine and feel it settle in your stomach like a small rebellion.

Outside,

Thunder grumbles,

Either weather or foreshadowing.

When the desserts arrive,

The servants look almost apologetic.

Towers of sugared fruit,

Pastries shaped like mythical creatures,

Puddings trembling under candlelight.

The goat watches from its post with quiet contempt.

The bard begins a song about glory,

Promptly forgets the second verse,

And repeats the first as if it were profound.

The audience applauds anyway,

Too tired to distinguish sincerity from habit.

You glance down the table and see the juggler again,

Pie remnants still clinging to his tunic.

He looks around as if searching for redemption,

Then decides against it.

You envy him slightly the freedom to fail publicly and survive it.

Around you,

The courtiers lean into conversation,

Their laughter louder now,

The kind that doesn't belong to joy but to relief.

You feel detached,

A spectator in your own celebration.

The goat bleats again,

Softer this time,

Like an exhausted philosopher.

For reasons you don't examine too closely,

You raise your glass toward it.

To resilience,

You murmur.

The nearest nobles repeat it instantly,

Mistaking irony for wisdom.

The toast spreads down the hall,

Echoing back as a chorus of self-congratulation.

When it's over,

The musicians play something lively,

The servants begin clearing bones,

And the air starts to cool.

You sit a moment longer,

Staring at the half-eaten swans,

The puddles of wine,

The crumpled napkins shaped like surrender.

It occurs to you that this is what victory must look like when no one remembers what it's for.

You rise,

Thank everyone for their loyalty,

And make your way toward the door.

Behind you,

The goat escapes.

The hall erupts in laughter,

Applause,

And mild panic.

You don't turn around.

Some celebrations,

You think,

End better without witnesses.

The royal bathhouse was meant to symbolize refinement,

A marble sanctuary of steam and serenity,

Where the nobility could wash off the sins they weren't ready to confess.

In theory,

It works.

In practice,

It's chaos wrapped in humidity.

The air hangs thick with lavender oil and entitlement.

Steam curls around every corner like gossip with good posture.

You enter the scene cautiously,

Crown left behind,

Towel draped with the authority of someone pretending to be relaxed.

The attendants bow and scatter like startled pigeons,

Setting out buckets,

Brushes,

And confidence they clearly don't feel.

A chorus of nobles chatters around the central pool,

Their voices echoing in bursts of laughter that sound too bright to be sincere.

The Duke of Harrow is already submerged to his chin,

Complaining that the water is too democratic.

Shared warmth breeds shared weakness,

He proclaims,

Before being splashed in the face by a countess who disagrees.

Across from them,

Two young knights argue over whose reflection looks braver.

You lower yourself into the water,

Careful not to look undignified,

Which is impossible when you're surrounded by half naked politics.

The heat hits you like divine punishment.

Someone has poured too much rosemary into the mix.

The steam smells like a medicinal battlefield.

You attempt composure,

Though every part of you is questioning your life choices.

The bathhouse attendants move about with ladles and towels,

Muttering prayers to patron saints of discretion.

That's when the shouting begins.

A lady shrieks,

Pointing at the corner of the pool where something dark and ambitious moves through the steam.

At first,

People assume it's someone's loose wig,

Until it hisses.

The attendants freeze.

The nobles erupt into pandemonium.

Towels fly.

Slippers scatter.

Alliances dissolve instantly.

Out of the corner emerges a rat,

Massive,

Glistening,

And entirely unrepentant.

It walks along,

The marble edge with the confidence of a philosopher who knows no one can prove him wrong.

The archbishop faints immediately,

Toppling into the shallow end with a splash that sends ripples of heresy across the surface.

The Duchess of Velmar clutches her pearls,

Though she's not wearing any,

And declares it an omen.

Of what?

Someone demands.

Cleanliness,

She says dramatically,

Before retreating behind a curtain.

You,

Trapped somewhere between authority and absurdity,

Attempt diplomacy.

It's only a rat,

You announce,

Which does nothing to help.

The creature pauses,

Sniffs the air,

And proceeds to climb onto a discarded towel.

The towel belongs to the treasurer,

Who yelps and sprints for the exit,

Dignity shedding faster than steam.

The rat,

Triumphant,

Surveys the bath like a conquering hero.

Someone throws a sandal.

Someone else starts praying.

You start laughing,

Not out of amusement,

But because reason has clearly drowned.

The queen enters mid-chaos,

Robed in silk and fury.

What,

She demands,

Is happening?

A dozen people begin to answer at once.

The archbishop,

Now conscious,

Insists the rat is a divine messenger.

The treasurer calls it a demon.

The falconer,

Inexplicably present,

Claims he can train it.

The rat chooses this moment to leap gracefully into the central pool,

Causing a tidal wave that extinguishes three candles and one fragile truce.

Silence follows,

Thick and dripping.

The rat paddles in lazy circles,

Squeaking as if giving a sermon.

A nobleman whispers,

It swims better than my son.

You,

Still laughing softly,

Declare,

Let it be.

Perhaps it seeks baptism.

The queen glares,

But the attendants nod reverently,

Uncertain whether you're serious or inspired.

Eventually,

The beast climbs out,

Shakes itself dry,

And disappears into a drain as if the entire debacle were an illusion designed to test everyone's patience.

The nobles begin reconstructing their dignity,

Pretending to have found enlightenment.

The archbishop,

Seizing opportunity,

Declares the event a miracle,

A sign of purification,

Of renewal.

The crowd murmurs agreement because it's easier than admitting they panicked.

You decide not to correct him.

History always prefers miracles to rodents.

By the time the commotion fades,

The bathhouse smells faintly of panic and citrus oil.

Towels are gathered,

Excuses rehearsed,

Reputations repaired.

Someone,

In the aftermath of confusion,

Suggests mixing herbs and ash into a paste to ward off future infestations.

The idea catches fire immediately.

The cook,

Overhearing,

Claims it could double as a cleanser.

Someone coins the word,

Soap.

Applause follows,

As though civilization has just been invented.

You rise from the water,

Feeling lighter,

Not clean exactly,

But less burdened by the idea of control.

The rat,

Wherever it's gone,

Has done you a favor.

The nobles will talk about this for weeks,

Spinning panic into parable.

You wrap yourself in a towel,

Nod to St.

Mildred's portrait above the doorway,

And think,

As the steam closes behind you,

That miracles are usually just messes with better timing.

You decide to write after midnight,

When the castle softens into silence and even the torches seem to whisper instead of burn.

The ink is your invention,

Equal parts wine,

Vanity,

And terrible decision-making.

It smells faintly of hope and tomorrow's humiliation.

The letter itself is not meant for politics or policy.

It's for someone far away,

Someone who once laughed at your jokes before realizing they were supposed to bow afterward.

You keep it brief,

As all dangerous things should be.

You begin with grace,

The kind that hides weakness inside wit.

You mention the harvest,

The weather,

The way the moon seems indecently bright when you can't sleep.

You hint at longing the way a painter hints at guilt-broad strokes disguised as art.

Then,

Because you are only human beneath the crown,

You add one reckless line too many.

A.

Confession dressed as metaphor,

A truth small enough to fit between sentences.

You read it back,

Decide it's foolish,

And send it anyway.

You tell yourself it will vanish quietly into the night.

By morning,

The courier is gone,

The letter folded into destiny's pocket.

You sit through council meetings that drone like flies in a jar.

The chancellor argues about tariffs,

The treasurer sighs about deficit.

You nod strategically,

Thinking only of the letter's flight through fog and forests.

The world looks brighter,

Softer.

It lasts until supper.

The first sign of disaster comes in the form of laughter.

Too loud,

Too shared.

You glance up to see a minstrel tuning his lute at the far end of the hall.

You don't remember requesting music.

He smiles too cheerfully,

Too knowingly,

And begins to sing a ballad about a monarch's tender quill and the ink of forbidden delight.

You feel the blood drain from your face like tax revenue in spring.

The courtiers lean forward,

Delighted.

Each verse grows more creative,

Less accurate,

Yet somehow unmistakably yours.

The queen looks at you with the calm of someone filing away a weapon for later use.

The duke of Merrow grins,

Mouthing along to the refrain.

Even the servants pause in their duties,

Torn between horror and entertainment.

You consider feigning outrage,

But the minstrel's rhyme schemes are so appalling they almost distract from the betrayal.

Almost.

When he reaches the final verse,

Something about love's decree written in wine and folly,

The hall erupts in applause.

You join in,

Clapping lightly,

A perfect performance of amused detachment.

The sound echoes strangely in your ears,

Hollow and sharp.

Somewhere beneath it,

A scream curls itself into silence,

Careful not to be noticed.

Afterward,

The courtiers swarm you like moths to embarrassment.

A charming piece,

One exclaims.

Who could have inspired such passion?

Another teases.

You smile until your face aches,

Offering vague jokes about artistic license and the hazards of public affection.

You want to vanish into the floor,

But royalty is not granted that mercy.

Instead,

You toast to the minstrel's talent,

Ensuring his survival,

Because nothing disarms suspicion like generosity.

Later,

Alone in your chamber,

The laughter still hums in your skull.

You pour wine,

Though you've already drunk enough ink for one week.

On the table lies a copy of the song,

Hastily transcribed by someone eager to immortalize your humiliation.

The handwriting is elegant.

The refrain,

Unfortunately catchy.

You stare at it until the words blur into rhythm.

You wonder who intercepted the letter.

A servant with quick eyes?

A clerk with slow morals?

Perhaps fate itself grew bored and decided to meddle.

You imagine your noble friend hearing the ballad in some distant hall,

Smiling despite the scandal,

Perhaps recognizing your foolish heart between the rhymes.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps they are laughing,

Too.

The candle burns low,

Wax spilling like confession.

You pick up your quill,

Consider writing again,

Then think better of it.

Some lessons are best learned once.

You pour the remaining ink back into the wine bottle,

A quiet burial for your sincerity.

Outside,

The wind howls through the courtyard,

Carrying faint echoes of that cursed tune.

You raise your glass to the empty room.

To secrecy,

You whisper,

May it rest in peace.

Then you drink,

Half hoping the wine still remembers how to forget.

You wake up with a sneeze so violent it could start a minor rebellion.

Before you can reach for a handkerchief,

The royal physician appears from nowhere,

As if summoned by your body's betrayal.

He peers at you with the solemnity of a man about to misinterpret everything.

An omen,

He whispers,

Clutching his bag of horrors.

A disturbance in the humors.

You have learned from experience that this phrase means he's about to bleed something important out of you.

He begins his ritual with dramatic precision,

Opening jars,

Muttering Latin phrases that sound suspiciously like excuses.

The leeches come first,

Squirming in a bowl beside your bed like small damp threats.

They draw out the imbalance,

He explains,

Which is apparently located somewhere near your dignity.

You protest weakly,

But he assures you that resistance only encourages illness.

Within moments,

The leeches are attached,

Doing whatever it is leeches do when they think no one's watching.

You try not to think about it.

The queen walks in mid-procedure,

Takes one look,

And announces she'll return when you're less amphibian.

The court chaplain follows,

Muttering blessings over the leech bowl in case one of them is possessed.

The physician nods approvingly as though faith and parasites make excellent colleagues.

You sit there,

Pale and glistening,

A monarch reduced to biology's punchline.

Once the leeches have had their fill or simply grown bored,

The physician replaces them with charms,

Strings of garlic,

A copper coin under your tongue,

And something he calls blessed onion vapor.

This turns out to involve burning onions near your face while chanting about purification.

The smoke burns your eyes,

Your nose,

And possibly your soul.

Breathe deeply,

He says.

Healing is pain leaving the body.

You suspect it's actually comfort leaving the room.

The physician then produces a vial of liquid that smells like despair steeped in vinegar.

A tonic,

He says proudly,

For the royal constitution.

You ask what's in it,

And he lists ingredients that sound more like a witch's alibi than medicine.

You drink anyway,

Because the alternative is listening to him explain humoral theory again.

The taste is indescribable,

Which is fortunate,

Because memory tries to protect you from it.

Outside your chambers,

Word spreads quickly.

The courtiers gather like crows,

Whispering about your health with the enthusiasm usually reserved for scandal.

One claims it's divine,

Punishment for raising taxes.

Another insists it's proof of saintly transformation.

The bishop prays for your swift recovery.

The treasurer prays for your life insurance not to activate.

And the cook simply prays you don't die before supper.

The nation waits,

Holding its collective breath,

Which is the most attention they've paid to you in months.

By evening,

The physician returns with an alarming smile.

The treatment has succeeded,

He declares,

Though you feel worse than when you started.

He gestures to your face.

You're less gray,

He says,

More greenish now,

A sign of vitality.

You are unconvinced.

He prescribes bed rest,

More vapor therapy,

And a daily prayer to Saint Pustula,

Patroness of skin conditions.

You pretend to be asleep until he leaves.

When the door closes,

You peel off the remaining leech with the weary delicacy of someone removing political alliances.

The air still smells faintly of cooked onions and desperation.

You open a window,

Let in the cool night,

And breathe freely for the first time all day.

Across the courtyard,

You can hear laughter from the servants' quarters,

Healthy,

Ordinary laughter that doesn't require a charm to justify it.

You pour yourself a small glass of wine and call it preventive medicine.

Somewhere in the castle,

The physician is likely writing his report,

Claiming credit for your miraculous recovery.

Tomorrow,

He'll tell the court that you survived through divine favor and leech discipline.

You'll nod solemnly and say nothing,

Because contradicting him would only result in more onions.

As you lie back,

The night settles around you,

Quiet and forgiving.

The candle flickers beside your bed.

The last leech wriggles lazily in its jar,

And you wonder how much of rulership is just pretending the cure is working.

You close your eyes,

Half amused,

Half exhausted,

And whisper to the ceiling,

Long live the patient.

The ceiling,

Mercifully,

Doesn't answer.

They arrive at dawn,

A slow-moving miracle wrapped in mud and devotion.

Pilgrims,

They call themselves,

Though they look more like survivors of an argument with geography.

Their leader,

A woman with eyes like cracked glass,

Kneels dramatically before you and declares that they have seen your face in the sky.

You haven't even had breakfast yet.

The courtiers murmur,

Scandalized or impressed.

It's hard to tell which.

You adjust your crown and pretend this sort of thing happens every day.

The woman continues,

Describing how clouds formed your likeness above a meadow,

Just as the sun split the horizon,

Like holy parchment.

She adds details you wish she hadn't,

A glowing halo,

A tear of rain running down your cheek,

And a faint smell of roasted lamb.

The chaplain coughs meaningfully,

Already preparing his sermon.

You suppress the urge to look guilty for existing.

You invite the pilgrims into the hall,

Partly out of mercy,

Partly out of curiosity.

They shuffle in with the reverence of people entering a dream they might wake from.

Their clothes are a patchwork of miles,

Their sandals held together by faith and stubborn thread.

One carries a small wooden icon painted with what might be your face or a startled turnip it's hard to tell under the layers of varnish.

They insist it glows at night.

You nod politely and ask if it also does taxes.

The courtiers gather like ravens at the edge of spectacle.

The queen sits stiffly,

Her expression hovering somewhere between disbelief and annoyance.

The archbishop,

Sensing opportunity,

Begins muttering about divine portents and sainthood applications.

You make a mental note to increase his tithe.

The pilgrims,

Unaware of the politics swirling around them,

Simply look at you with a kind of awe,

Usually reserved for eclipses or well-baked bread.

You ask what the vision means,

Hoping for something manageable,

Like peace or plant more turnips.

Instead,

They speak of a prophecy,

A time of renewal guided by the sovereign of radiant clouds.

The treasurer pales visibly,

Whispering about the cost of radiant anything.

Someone suggests building a shrine.

Someone else suggests imprisonment.

You sip your watered wine and decide both options sound exhausting.

As a compromise,

You offer them food and shelter,

Bread,

Cheese,

Maybe even a bath if they promise not to anoint it afterward.

They accept with tearful gratitude,

Blessing you so fervently that your eyebrows feel consecrated.

The court applauds,

Partly relieved,

Partly disappointed that no lightning struck anyone.

You declare that they may rest within the city walls,

But advise them with kingly gentleness not to start a cult until after the harvest.

The queen nearly chokes on her wine.

Later,

As the hall empties,

You linger near the window,

Watching the pilgrims settle in the courtyard.

They sing as they unpack,

Low and haunting,

Voices rising like smoke.

Children chase the echoes.

Guards pretend not to listen.

You wonder what it feels like to believe in something that completely.

The archbishop corners you again,

Parchment in hand,

Proposing an official pilgrimage route.

2.

Capitalize spiritually.

Of course.

You tell him to pray about it and close the door.

That night,

Sleep refuses you.

The sky outside churns with clouds,

Restless and luminous.

For a moment,

One does seem to take shape,

Cheekbones too familiar,

A mouth drawn in worry.

You blink,

And it's gone,

Replaced by nothing more than weather.

You laugh softly into the dark.

The court poet will hear of this,

You think.

And by next week,

Your cloudy doppelganger will have saved the nation in verse.

In the morning,

The pilgrims depart,

Leaving offerings at the gate.

A handful of wildflowers,

A carved spoon,

And a loaf of bread shaped vaguely like your head.

The steward tries to confiscate it for safety reasons.

You take a bite instead.

It's a little too dense,

But strangely comforting,

Like most faith.

The queen watches you from across the table,

Unimpressed but resigned.

At least they didn't ask for money,

She says.

You smile,

Give it time.

As the sun climbs higher,

The last of the pilgrims disappears down the road,

Banners fluttering,

Songs drifting back through the mist.

You stand at the window again,

Crowned slightly askew,

Wondering what the world will make of the story by the time it circles back to you.

Somewhere,

Someone will swear you healed a river or tamed the moon.

You sigh,

Take another bite of bread and whisper to no one in particular.

Next time,

Let the clouds pick someone else.

The plan begins with ambition and ends,

As most royal plans do,

And with confusion.

You gather your counsel in secrecy or what passes for secrecy in a palace where the walls have opinions and announce your brilliant idea.

You'll send a spy into the neighboring kingdom.

The court gasps,

Thrilled by the word spy.

It sounds exotic,

Dangerous,

Full of velvet cloaks and whispered rendezvous.

You don't mention that the candidate list consists mostly of men who think subtlety is a kind of cheese.

After much deliberation,

You choose one Sir Cedric of Brambley,

A man whose defining quality is enthusiasm.

He bows so deeply his hat falls off,

Swears loyalty,

And leaves immediately to blend in with the shadows.

Unfortunately,

The shadows are three steps behind him,

Wheezing to keep up.

Within an hour,

Servants report seeing him interrogate a pigeon for classified information.

You decide not to worry.

Spies,

You tell yourself,

Are mysterious by nature.

The next day,

Before dawn has even fully committed to happening,

Cedric returns,

Covered in dust,

Wearing a grin large enough to be diplomatic.

He bursts into the great hall mid-breakfast.

Mission accomplished,

He declares,

As crumbs of bread and confusion scatter in equal measure.

The courtiers freeze,

Forks halfway to mouths.

You stare at him,

Calculating the odds that accomplished means burned something down.

What did you discover?

You ask,

Quietly,

Because that's how one should speak about espionage.

Cedric misunderstands the assignment completely.

He clears his throat,

Squares his shoulders,

And begins to shout.

The neighboring king is suffering from gout.

His cook despises him,

And his mistress is actually his cousin.

The room erupts,

Not in horror,

But delight.

Gossip travels faster than plague,

And you can already hear scribes scratching notes for the court chroniclers.

Cedric continues,

Oblivious to the chaos he's unleashed.

Also,

He adds proudly,

They know we're spying on them.

The treasurer groans.

The queen places her forehead in her hand.

You sip your wine and pretend this was the plan all along.

When he starts reenacting his stealth maneuvers with exaggerated gestures and sound effects,

You find yourself admiring the sheer commitment.

Subtlety may not be his strength,

But confidence radiates off him like heat from a forge.

By midday,

The news has spread across the castle.

The courtiers are already debating whether to send another spy or simply invite Cedric's opposite number for tea and call it even.

The archbishop insists this debacle is divine punishment for deceit.

The chancellor insists it's an opportunity for diplomacy.

The queen insists that next time,

You vet candidates for volume control.

You spend the afternoon pretending to consider their advice while watching Cedric in the courtyard,

Proudly recounting his tale to anyone with ears.

When evening falls,

You hold a small ceremony in the hall.

Cedric kneels before you,

Beaming,

Unaware that the entire event feels like a historical footnote in the making.

You tap his shoulder with a sword and declare him Sir Cedric the Audible.

The court erupts in polite applause.

The queen coughs into her goblet.

Cedric rises,

Cheeks flushed with glory,

And loudly proclaims his gratitude to his wise and cunning monarch.

You raise your glass in silent surrender.

Later,

When the hall empties and only the echoes remain,

You sit beside the fire and consider what just happened.

The spy who couldn't whisper has somehow achieved what no diplomat could.

Half the nobles are laughing again,

The servants have stories to last the winter,

And the neighboring kingdom,

Upon hearing of his performance,

Will likely be too bewildered to retaliate.

There's strategy in absurdity.

You decide.

You picture Cedric marching into the enemy court,

Announcing himself as a humble observer of suspicious habits,

And the thought makes you smile.

Perhaps subtlety is overrated.

Perhaps there's power in being underestimated so thoroughly that the world stops expecting logic from you.

You raise your goblet to the empty room,

The fire crackling like laughter.

To confidence,

You say softly,

The deadliest weapon of all.

Outside,

Cedric's voice echoes faintly through the courtyard as he explains espionage to a very unimpressed cat.

You close your eyes,

Feeling oddly at peace.

Somewhere between idiocy and brilliance,

Your kingdom might just survive.

The royal ballroom glitters like a fever dream,

Hundreds of candles trembling in chandeliers that look one cough away from disaster.

The musicians tune their instruments with the confidence of men who've never played sober,

And the scent of spiced wine and powdered ambition fills the air.

You stand at the top of the staircase,

Draped in silk and apprehension,

Surveying your court as it readies itself for a night that history will later call memorable,

Though no one will agree on why.

The nobles arrive in waves,

Each one louder and more perfumed than the last.

The Duchess of Merrow wears a gown so wide it could block a doorway,

The count of harling sports jewels that make him look like a chandelier's rebellious cousin.

Somewhere,

Someone drops a goblet,

And the sound rings like a prophecy.

The ball has begun.

You descend the stairs with the deliberate grace of someone who's practiced falling,

Elegantly.

All eyes follow.

Applause ripples through the crowd,

Because power,

Like music,

Demands rhythm.

You smile,

Bow slightly,

And are immediately swept into conversation with three people you don't like,

And one who wants to marry you for strategic reasons involving sheep.

You nod,

Smile,

And murmur platitudes while scanning the room for anything resembling an exit.

The orchestra strikes its opening chord,

Too loud,

Too confident.

Couples take the floor,

Swirling like peacocks trapped in polite combat.

You are pulled into the dance by duty,

Or possibly by the duchess herself,

Who grips your hand with surprising strength.

You twirl.

You glide.

You nearly collide with a servant carrying a tray of tarts.

The court gasps,

Then laughs,

Then pretends it never happened.

You are royal.

Therefore,

Nothing you do is a mistake,

Merely a metaphor.

Halfway through the second dance,

Someone's hand flames.

It's unclear how perhaps a candle,

Perhaps divine intervention,

But the effect is instantaneous.

The musicians falter,

Guests scatter,

And a knight throws his cloak over the blaze like a man saving honor itself.

The room fills with the smell of singed vanity.

The victim,

A baroness of indeterminate rank,

Insists she is perfectly fine,

Though her pride now smolders faintly.

You call for more wine,

Because nothing soothes chaos like shared intoxication.

The festivities resume,

Albeit shakily.

A prince from the northern territories attempts to impress a duchess by quoting poetry,

Only to realize halfway through that he's addressing a dog wearing a ribbon.

The dog,

To its credit,

Takes the compliment well.

Courtiers whisper,

Laugh behind fans,

And invent a new rumor before dessert is served.

You stand by the window,

Watching the moon reflect off the goblets,

Wondering if anyone at all remembers how to be sincere without witnesses.

Then,

It's your turn again.

The queen insists you dance once more for the people,

She says,

Though you suspect it's for the painter lurking in the corner.

You take the floor,

This time alone,

Bowing as the music swells.

You step forward,

Turn,

And immediately trip over your own train.

A collective gasp fills the hall.

You recover quickly,

Spinning the stumble into an elaborate flourish that even the musicians pause to admire.

Someone begins clapping.

Others join.

Within seconds,

Your near collapse has transformed into legend.

Wine flows freely now.

The laughter grows louder,

The music bolder,

And the night dissolves into fragments of brilliance and embarrassment.

Two knights duel with breadsticks.

A lady faints from excessive admiration.

Someone starts juggling pairs.

You sit on your throne-like chair at the edge of it all,

Watching the chaos unfold,

Feeling oddly proud.

This is your kingdom,

Messy,

Loud,

Alive.

By the time dawn stains the windows pink,

Half the guests are asleep where they fell,

And the other half are pretending they're not.

You rise quietly,

Stepping over a snoring ambassador,

And walk to the balcony.

The night air is cold,

Sharp,

And real.

Below,

The courtyard glitters with the remains of festivity,

Spilled wine,

Dropped gloves,

The faint laughter of those still awake.

You breathe it in,

This proof of life beneath the formality.

Somewhere inside,

A historian is already composing tomorrow's account.

The grandeur,

The majesty,

The composure of their sovereign,

Who danced flawlessly and ruled the room with grace.

You smile at the thought.

History,

You know,

Always edits the truth in your favor.

Behind you,

The orchestra plays one last note,

A tired,

Beautiful sigh.

You raise your glass to the empty hall and whisper to chaos and the courage to look elegant in it.

Then you drink,

Knowing tomorrow they'll remember only the majesty,

Never the fall.

The morning arrives too soon,

As it always does,

Dragging light across the ceiling like an accusation.

The air smells faintly of last night's candles and the half-truths they illuminated.

You're sitting by the window,

Crown resting crooked on the table,

Beside a half-empty goblet of mead that was once warm and full of optimism.

Outside,

The city yawns,

Chimneys coughing smoke,

Bells mumbling themselves awake,

Market carts already rattling toward another day of commerce and complaint.

You watch it all from your gilded perch,

A monarch wrapped in a robe that used to symbolize power and now mostly symbolizes draft protection.

It's quieter than you expected.

No trumpets,

No heralds,

No urgent knock about some missing ambassador or angry bishop.

Just the kind of stillness that makes you realize how loud life usually is.

You take a sip of the cold mead,

Grimace,

And decide it suits the mood.

Across the table,

Crumbs from last night's feast cling stubbornly to the linen like small,

Edible reminders that even majesty sheds.

You flick one away and immediately feel you've committed an act of diplomacy.

The crown catches the first slice of sunlight,

Its jewels blinking like hungover stars.

It looks heavier than usual,

More honest without your head beneath it.

For a moment,

You wonder if it misses you when you're not performing for it.

You reach out,

Touch its rim,

And remember every absurdity it has overseen.

Peasants who saw your face in clouds,

Nobles who set themselves on fire for attention,

Physicians who fought demons with onions,

And a falcon who understood politics better than most advisors.

You could almost laugh,

If laughter didn't feel so much like surrender.

The queen still sleeps behind the curtain,

Her breathing steady,

Her patience untested for the moment.

You envy her ease.

She'll wake soon,

Stretch like royalty perfected,

And ask what today demands.

The answer will be the same as always,

Everything.

You'll nod,

Sit straighter,

Wear the crown again,

And play your part.

But not yet.

Not while the world still pretends you're allowed to pause.

You lean forward on the sill,

Elbows pressing into cold stone,

And look.

At your kingdom,

The rooftops layered like scales,

The streets coiling with potential disasters you haven't named yet.

Somewhere,

A baker drops his first loaf,

A guard sneezes at his post,

A servant curses softly while chasing the cat that outranks him.

Life moves on,

Gloriously indifferent to ceremony.

The absurdity of it warms you.

A pigeon lands on the balcony rail,

Staring with the judgmental calm of one who's never been responsible for anything.

It tilts its head,

Coos once,

And promptly steals a crumb from your sleeve before flying away.

You watch it vanish into the rising light and think,

Briefly,

About joining it.

Not as a bird,

Exactly,

But as something untethered someone who could walk into a market unnoticed.

Trade names for smiles,

And not worry about the weight of history pressing on their spine.

You know you never will,

But the imagining is its own kind of rebellion.

The city grows louder.

Church bells,

Laughter,

The rhythm of ordinary survival.

Soon the petitions will begin again.

The nobles will reappear with their grievances disguised as compliments,

And someone will inevitably find a way to turn breakfast into politics.

You sigh,

Not unhappily,

Just aware.

Majesty,

You realize,

Is simply persistence in a costume.

You look once more at the crown,

Gleaming smugly in the sun,

And wonder if it understands the joke how you serve it more than it serves you.

How both of you shine best when someone else is watching.

You take another sip of mead,

Raise the goblet toward the empty hall,

And murmur.

To the fools who keep pretending this makes sense,

The silence answers like applause.

For now,

You let the kingdom wake without you.

The courtiers can handle their gossip,

The ministers their numbers,

The cooks their chaos.

You'll sit a little longer,

Watching the day unfold from its fragile beginning,

Pretending you're not at its center.

Outside,

The sky brightens,

Reckless and golden.

Somewhere below,

A child laughs for no reason at.

All.

You smile into the light,

Crown still on the table,

Hands sticky with crumbs,

And something close to peace.

The world continues imperfect,

Magnificent,

And entirely beyond your control.

And for once,

That feels like grace.