Being seven years old and a genius is, honestly, exhausting.
Whenever I try to act like a good royal—drinking tea, nodding at ambassadors, smiling politely and not correcting them when they get our kingdom's name wrong—I feel like I'm slowly suffocating.
So of course, I wreak a bit of havoc. Not anything illegal, mind you. Just enough to make things… interesting.
Elias doesn't agree.
"I'm not here to spoil your party," he told me this morning, jogging after me with a satchel of sugar cubes. "I'm just saying you can't substitute the Grand Chancellor's wig with whipped cream!"
"It was foamed dairy sculpture," I clarified. "And he didn't even notice until it melted. That's a victory, in my opinion."
Elias sighed. "You've been expelled from three council meetings this week."
"Correction—I excused myself. Their conversations are as stale as week-old crumpets."
He opened his mouth—probably to say something noble and responsible and dull—but I had already turned the corner.
Today's agenda was simple: pretend to be the visiting Princess of Norvalia. Why? Because the Norvalian Princess was said to be shy, and I figured she could use some help making an impression. Namely, mine.
With Whiskers draped over my shoulders like a fur stole and a silk veil obscuring most of my face, I floated into the ballroom where the Norvalian delegation awaited.
"Ah, Your Highness," the steward intoned, bowing so low he nearly headbutted the carpet. "Welcome to the royal court!"
The diplomats curtsied. Servants scattered rose petals. Someone produced a very small harp.
"Your hospitality is most… flattering," I said in my best foreign accent, which sounded like I was both noble and mid-cough. "Please bring me… cake."
Across the room, the Queen gave me that look.
Elias burst in seconds later, breathless and already halfway through an apology.
"Everyone—this isn't the Norvalian Princess, this is—"
"One very respected guest," the Queen interrupted smoothly, rising from her seat. "And clearly, our daughter has many talents. Including lying."
I grinned sheepishly.
The real Princess of Norvalia arrived five minutes later and laughed so hard she nearly tripped over her own skirt. We had tea afterward. I taught her how to glue a diplomat's papers shut in a way that couldn't be detected.
Elias caught us elbow-deep in glitter and ink later that night.
"I give up," he groaned. "You are impossible."
"Incorrect," I said. "I am inevitable."
He gave me that look again—the one that meant he wanted to be annoyed but was secretly proud. Or worried. Or both.
Later, as we strolled the torchlit corridors, Elias spoke quietly.
"Why do you always push so hard?"
I looked up at him, serious for once. "Because they'll underestimate me anyway. I might as well give them something to talk about."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. But I'm learning to swordfight."
I raised a brow. "To duel me when I go too far?"
"No," he said, smiling. "To protect you when you do."
Whiskers meowed in approval.
And so, my mayhem continues—whipped cream wigs, borrowed titles, and all—with Elias one step behind, valiantly trying (and failing) to keep me out of trouble.
It's good to be the Princess.