The royal halls buzzed with anticipation as the long-awaited unveiling of my portrait of the King and Queen approached. Invitations had gone out far and wide—noble families, foreign ambassadors, even villagers from the surrounding communities had been summoned. This was more than just the debut of a painting. It was a celebration of unity, of image, of legacy. And, though unspoken, it was my moment.
The evening was set to dazzle. Silk drapes shimmered with royal hues, candlelight bathed the banquet hall in golden warmth, and courtly murmurs drifted over the orchestral melody. I walked beside my parents, the Queen smiling serenely, the King regal and stern. For once, the eyes of the court weren't on me—they were waiting for the art. And yet, my heart raced. Because the art was me.
"Are you anxious?" Elias' voice cut softly through my thoughts.
I turned to find him beside me, his gaze already on the covered canvas, his smile gentle.
"More excited than anxious," I said, smoothing the front of my gown. "Though I'm rather curious what people will say."
"You poured yourself into it," he replied. "They'll see that."
I allowed myself a small smile. He wasn't wrong. And if they didn't see it—well, I'd make them.
Sir Porfirio Paintsworth III hovered near the dais, fussing dramatically over the stage. I had, wisely, forbidden him from touching the painting, but he still managed to insert his flourishes from a distance. Occasionally, he cast me an exaggeratedly proud glance, as though my talent were somehow his doing.
At last, the moment arrived.
The orchestra played a triumphant note. The velvet curtain was drawn back with a practiced flourish—and the portrait was revealed.
Silence fell.
Then—applause.
Gasps and murmurs followed, rippling through the crowd like wind in silk. There they were: the King and Queen, poised in solemn grandeur. The King stood upright, powerful yet relaxed, his expression unreadable but unmistakably alive. The Queen sat beside him, regal and composed, her gaze calm and commanding. And yet—between them—there was something deeper. A unity. A subtle intimacy.
But that wasn't what drew every gaze.
There, curled lazily at the Queen's feet, was Whiskers—my ever-indulgent feline, painted in loving detail. His half-lidded eyes stared out of the canvas, unimpressed by the nobility on display. And just to the side, almost tucked within the frame as if by accident, sat me—on a throne of my own, a sly grin dancing on my lips as I looked up at my parents.
It was not just a royal portrait. It was a statement.
For a moment, my mother's eyes found mine. Her calm expression softened, just slightly. Not disapproval. Something else—amusement, perhaps. Pride. My father's brow arched at the sight of Whiskers, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"I said you'd see," Elias whispered beside me.
I grinned. "You were right."
Laughter burst from the Queen, clear and genuine. "I never imagined Whiskers would become part of royal iconography," she said, her voice rising for the crowd to hear.
The King snorted. "I'm unsure if I should be more impressed by the portrait's quality—or concerned that the cat has more presence than half my council."
That earned real laughter. Even some nobles smiled with something like sincerity.
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted—from reverence to delight. The nobles leaned in to study the piece more closely. Whispers turned to toasts. I was pulled into conversations, showered with compliments. Sir Paintsworth nearly wept.
"She's a prodigy," he declared dramatically, standing far too close to me. "Mark my words—equal to the finest artists in the realm!"
But I hardly heard him. My gaze was drifting.
Lady Anastasia stood across the room, her gaze darting between the painting and me and then back to the painting. Her smile was pinched. Her fingers gripped her goblet too tightly. Contempt? Jealousy? Anger that a seven-year-old had just hijacked the whole evening?
Honestly, I couldn't say.
And honestly—why was a full-grown noblewoman beffing with a literal kid?
I was seven. Seven. Did she anticipate that I would call her out to a duel in the garden at dawn using pudding spoons?
It was nearly flattering. Nearly.
Let her fume. Let her seethe. I had taken the essence of the royal family. I had created something genuine—remarkable, significant. They would remember it for years. And it wouldn't be the final thing they remembered me for.
This was merely the start.