The palace breakfast was usually a serious occasion: dignified nobles muttering over their tea, pages creeping through the corridors, and stewards reading out menus in awed seriousness.
Not today.
It started with a noise—a splat—as Duke Farrow's silver spoon plunged, unaccountably, into his bowl with too much force. He prodded it again. Something moved beneath the surface.
A white ghostly face emerged from the bottom of his porridge.
The Duke shrieked.
Spoons clinked. Porcelain broke. Two guards collapsed. The specter was actually a delicately carved potato colored white and infused with oat milk for three hours to achieve "phantasmic sogginess," Charlotte's private notes read.
Down the hall, other aristocrats opened lids to discover gelatin quiches jiggling with messages within: "The Ghosts Know Who Stole the Kitchen's Honeycake!" and "Beware: You Are Being Judged."
Next, the choir of bewitched candlesticks—each one fitted with miniature wax whistles which let out piercing laughter at carefully coordinated moments. One shrieking noblewoman slapped one from a footman's hand.
Charlotte sat quietly in the corner, her pale blue breakfast dress, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Mira sat next to her, eyes wide with excitement, fingers dancing as she signed orders to a kitchen girl standing close by:
Phase Two. Roll out the rolling goose.
And roll it did.
A silver platter, highly polished, with a taxidermied goose on top, was pushed from a sloping corridor. It rolled straight into the knees of Lord Bramble, who fell back into a fountain.
The dining room descended into pandemonium. Nobles ran for cover. Laughter and indignation blended like sugar and salt.
At the far end of the room, Elias leaned against a pillar with the permanent expression of a young man witnessing the end of civilization. Still, there was a glimmer of pride.
Charlotte turned to Mira with a conspiratorial grin. "I'd say. success?"
Mira nodded solemnly and signed: Duke Farrow may never eat porridge again.
The Consequence
Later that afternoon, Charlotte was summoned.
Not to her chambers.
To the royal audience hall.
The stroll was longer than usual. Guards pushed open the door with gloomy faces. The King was there with the Queen, both enveloped in still authority.
Laughter in the dining hall had long ceased.
"Draw near," said the King.
Charlotte complied, back straight as a rod, chin raised so precisely.
The Queen's tone was steel-sharp, covered in velvet. "Would you care to explain how three visiting ambassadors were gifted with haunted fruit, and the Bishop discovered jelly with eyes?"
Charlotte cleared her throat. "Technically, the spooky fruit was intended for Duke Farrow. The eyes were a distraction, and the jelly was part of an ongoing exercise in psychological conditioning to promote humility."
Silence.
Then the King asked, "Was Elias involved?"
She hesitated. "He's on probation."
The King blinked. "I see."
The Queen descended from the dais. "Charlotte. You're bright. And we appreciate your. spirit. But this is the palace. All actions have implications. Even tomfoolery speaks volumes here."
Charlotte moved uncomfortably.
"You got them laughing," the Queen went on. "But you also made two nobles with influential sponsors look foolish. The Bishop is calling for atonement. And the visiting dignitaries have written their letters home."
"Oh," Charlotte said, just a little deflated.
You are not in trouble," said the King. "But take notice. You're under observation. And every joke, no matter how charming, has an echo."
The Queen smiled thinly. "We'd like to know what you do next."
Aftermath – The Debrief
Later that night, back in the war room, Charlotte collapsed theatrically onto a pillow.
"I was warned. That's just about worse than punishment.
Mira set a cup of tea down next to her and signed: You frightened a bishop. I call that success.
Charlotte smiled.
Elias, sitting close to the fire with his armor unbuckled halfway, raised his head. "You're fortunate. They're giving you time to discover your edge. Just. keep it sharp."
Charlotte tossed a biscuit at him. He caught it with one hand.
"Next time," she announced, "fewer ambassadors. More pudding."
Mira signed: Agreed. And perhaps no jelly eyes.
The three of them sank into soft laughter, the candlelight dancing over their faces.
And so, the Prank Corps survived—no longer merely a game, but something more. A release. A resistance. A means for a future queen to test her power in shadows and laughter. before she used it in broad daylight.