Ten hours ago, before Stephanie's ridiculous barrage of questions began, the gardens were draped in that lazy, golden sunlight—straight out of a fairy tale. The air was thick with laughter and dainty little clinks because, of course, the princesses were throwing another one of their extravagant tea parties beneath a canopy of blooms. But honestly? Not all that laughter was actually real.
Anastasia's fingers were clamped tight around her teacup. She'd been forcing a polite smile for what felt like ages, pretending she wasn't dying to scream every time Tyven Cerzt opened his smug mouth. Tyven—ugh. He was basically the human embodiment of an eye roll. Smug, irritatingly self-assured, way too confident for someone sitting among a circle of princesses.
Clarisse and Danielle were eating it up, giggling at whatever dumb thing he said. Meanwhile, Anastasia's patience was worn paper-thin—actually, already torn. So when Tyven sent another one of those arrogant glances her way, she just snapped. She shoved her chair back, the screech bouncing off the marble.
"I'm done with this tea party," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to shatter glass.
Her sisters froze mid-sip, eyes huge.
"Big Sister?" Estella squeaked, holding her cup like it might escape.
"I'm done. Have fun," Anastasia said, not bothering to look back.
She walked away, totally put-together on the outside, but inside she might as well have been on fire.
She'd barely turned the corner towards her room when she heard that infuriatingly familiar voice.
"Leaving already, Your Highness?"
She stopped in her tracks. Oh, for the love of— "You again."
Tyven Cerzt, all shining armor and cocky swagger, was right behind her. Sword swaying at his hip like he was in a parade.
Anastasia spun around, finally dropping her royal mask. "What the actual @#$ do you want, you— @#$_$@## b@#$!"
Yeah, it just kind of burst out.
Tyven hesitated for a split second, then broke into an enormous, stupid grin. "Will you look at that—the perfect princess knows how to swear."
"Don't get used to it," she fired back, cheeks going red. "I'm just exhausted."
He kept pressing, tilting his head. "Or maybe you're tired of pretending to be perfect all the time?"
Her glare could have melted iron. "Maybe I am. Still not your problem."
He sauntered along like he owned the palace. "So, where to, Your Highness?"
"Anywhere you aren't."
He just shrugged. "Tough luck. I'm stuck with you today—your personal bodyguard."
She ignored him and stormed into her chambers. But then—of course—she heard the door click behind her. Unbelievable.
She spun, eyes wide. "Are you kidding me? You actually followed me?"
Tyven just raised both hands, grinning like a menace. "Relax. Knight's duty and all."
"Not the duty of a creep!" she shouted, jabbing a finger at him.
He just laughed, completely unfazed. "So I'm a knight and a pervert? Not bad, I'm collecting titles."
She shot him a look that could kill. "You. Are. Impossible."
He gave a little bow, ridiculously polite. "Thank you."
Anastasia was practically shaking—she looked a second away from hurling a pillow at his head. "Whatever. Fine. Stay. But seriously, shut up. I'm studying."
He arched an eyebrow. "You actually study in here?"
"Yes. Not that it's any of your business."
No tutors? No professors? Not even a fancy academy?"
"I like my peace and quiet," she snapped, sharp as a blade. "Socializing is for emergencies only."
Tyven lounged against the wall, arms folded like he ran the place. "So basically, you're an antisocial grouch. Wow, what a refreshing change for royalty."
Anastasia slammed her book shut so hard the sound echoed. "Can you not talk for, I don't know, one minute?"
He just grinned, totally unfazed. "Nope."
And so the hours crawled. Anastasia tried to study. Tyven seemed determined to drive her up the wall—teasing, nitpicking, tossing out random comments, bragging about who-knows-what, being a one-man circus. At one point, he even had the nerve to criticize her handwriting.
"Don't curve your letters like that," he said, leaning over her shoulder. "Looks sloppy."
Snap—her quill broke in two. "Get. Out."
"Can't," he replied, far too cheerful. "Cerzt duty."
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. The Cerzt clan—everyone respected them. Even her father. Tyven's family basically had magic pouring out their ears and the Emperor's ear, too. She couldn't yell at him or throw him out, not unless she wanted the Emperor himself breathing down her neck.
She'd had enough.
Anastasia raised her hand, and boom—five golden magic circles spun into the air. The room dropped to freezing. The air crackled, little hairs rising on end.
"Divine spirit of wrath," she intoned, her voice echoing and eerie, "hear me—"
And Tyven just—poof—vanished.
Her spell sputtered out. "What the—?"
A breath brushed right by her ear. "You botched the fifth circle."
She whirled around so fast she nearly tripped. Tyven stood behind her, arms folded, looking way too satisfied with himself. "That's not how you summon a divine. You missed the sigil alignment."
"Wha—?"
"Here," he interrupted, maddeningly calm. "Let me."
He flicked his wrist. Five circles appeared, perfectly aligned. The glow brightened—then, with a soft flash, a fairy zipped into the room, wings sparkling like spilled diamonds.
"See?" he said, like it was nothing. "Easy."
Anastasia shooed the fairy away with a puffed-up huff, cheeks flushed pink. "Why are you so annoyingly good at this?"
"Because," Tyven murmured, stepping closer, "I'm older. And, you know, a lot smarter."
He tipped her chin up with one finger, his eyes all mischief and velvet. "A princess should know when to surrender."
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. She shoved him hard, face blazing. "D-Don't touch me, jerk!"
He winked. "Gotcha."
"You are impossible!" she shrieked, grabbing for the closest vase.
Tyven just raised an eyebrow. "Careful. That's a Valegrath import. Costs more than your tiara."
Her arm froze. She let out a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh, set the vase down, and muttered, "You're unbelievable."
She flopped back at her desk, flipping her book open with a dramatic huff. "If you're not leaving, at least make yourself useful."
"Whatever you say, princess."
And, surprisingly, he did. Tyven fixed her posture, straightened her spellwork, even pointed out theory mistakes. He explained things with that infuriating confidence, tossing in sarcastic remarks just to keep her teeth grinding.
By the time she finished scroll number three, the moon hung outside the window, silver and smug. Anastasia stretched, bones cracking. "I'm starving."
"Finally," Tyven muttered, rolling his eyes.
"I'm going to the kitchen."
"Guess I'm coming too," he said, sticking to her like a second, more annoying shadow.
As they wandered the long, echoing corridor, Anastasia broke the silence. "Who are you stuck with tomorrow?"
"Clarisse," Tyven answered, as casual as always. "She's fun. Likes my weapon—might show her how to shoot."
Anastasia glanced over. "Clarisse wants to be a knight. But with this whole succession mess, her mom's forcing her to be Empress instead."
"Royal life sounds exhausting," Tyven sighed. "All that power, zero freedom. Hard pass."
They reached the kitchen, and the staff scattered like startled birds. "Your Highness! Lord Cerzt!"
Anastasia gave a polite smile. "Relax. I'm just hungry. I want to bake something."
The chefs traded those sly, barely-contained grins—yeah, everyone was in on the secret about Anastasia and her baked goods. Girl had a reputation.
Tyven shot her a look, one eyebrow climbing high. "Wait, you bake?"
She rolled her eyes so hard you could almost hear it. "Wow. Try not to sound so shocked."
He just shrugged. "You don't exactly seem like the flour-and-fire sort."
She hit him with a sweet smile, all teeth. "Is that so? You cook, then?"
He gave a little huff. "Please. I'm not totally useless."
"Prove it." She tossed him the kitchen authority medallion like she was throwing down a gauntlet. "Congrats, boss. You're in charge now."
Tyven just stood there blinking. "You're actually serious?"
"We'll be the judges. Go on, impress us—if you think you can."
He grinned, just a touch mean. "Remind me, am I supposed to be your bodyguard or your fiancé?"
Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?!"
He waved her off, but his voice was a bit tight. "Relax, it's sarcasm. Alright, fine. Let's get this circus going."
No more chatter. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the knives. The kitchen instantly hushed, everyone's eyes on him. Tyven moved like this was second nature. Knives flashing, dough handled with real care, veggies lined up like tiny soldiers—he was a machine.
And he didn't just toss together some eggs or toast. No, he went all out. Marzipan candies, Tarte Owte of Lente (don't ask me, but the chefs looked impressed), rustic bread, even mooncakes—he knocked out the entire menu in half an hour.
Anastasia just stared. "You're done? Already?"
He set down the last dish, cool as ever. "Discipline. Try this one—it's my specialty. 'Elarion Dawn.'"
He slid plates across to her and the kitchen crew.
The head chef leaned in, took a long, theatrical sniff. "Oh, stars, that's good."
The junior cooks buzzed, all skeptical and whispering.
Then they tasted.
You could've heard a pin drop. And then—
"This flavor—"
"Unreal! It's perfect—"
"Oh my god, the texture—"
Anastasia blinked at him like he'd sprouted wings. "When did you learn to cook like that?"
Tyven gave a little half-smile. "My grandmother taught me. Kept it up after she passed." He paused, too quick to notice, and his eyes went dark. "Lost my sense of taste, though. Accident. So, you know. It's just habit now."
Anastasia looked away, awkward. Changed the subject fast. "Well. Consider me impressed."
The chefs agreed, tripping over themselves to heap on the praise.
Tyven just frowned. "Hang on, how'd we end up with a judging panel? You're the one who roped me into this."
Anastasia just shrugged, all innocent. "At least I got a meal out of it. I was starving."
And then she smiled—like, really smiled. Not her court-princess smile, but a real one. First time he'd seen it.
Tyven froze, chest going all tight and strange. What was that about?
He coughed, trying to cover. "Jeez, you eat like a pig. Maybe pace yourself?"
The kitchen erupted.
"Lord Tyven!" one of the cooks hissed. "You can't say that—"
The head chef just snorted. "Looks like our Princess and Lord Cerzt are getting friendly."
"WE ARE NOT!" Anastasia yelled, slamming her hand down, face beet red.
Tyven just grinned, completely unapologetic.
Anastasia grabbed her skirts and stormed out, radiating pure rage.
Tyven started after her, but the head chef caught his arm, gentle but firm. "Sir… she wasn't always like this. Since the whole succession mess, things have been hard for her. Maybe just… try to help her calm down. She could use it."
Tyven hesitated, lips pressed thin, then gave a stiff nod. "I'll try."
He went after her.
When he reached her rooms, the door was already closed. This time, he didn't barge in. Just stood guard outside, arms folded, quiet for once.
Hours slipped by. The palace stilled. Lights dimmed, halls grew silent.
Eventually, the door creaked open. Anastasia stepped out, still in her study dress, looking almost surprised to find him there.
"You're still here?" she asked.
"Guard duty," he said, as if it was obvious.
She squinted at him. "What's with the sudden Mister Formal?"
He stood up straighter, deadpan. "State your business, Your Royal Highness."
She just stared—like she'd caught a puppy reciting poetry. "…Nothing. I'm off to see Stephanie."
Anastasia didn't waste a heartbeat, just bolted, Tyven tagging along behind her like some overzealous puppy who'd memorized the etiquette handbook. They reached Stephanie's chambers, where the backup maids did their bow-and-curtsy number. One of them piped up, all starchy and proper: "Your Highness, Princess Stephanie remains in the library."
"How long's she been in there?" Anastasia demanded, already halfway to exasperated.
"Ten hours, Your Highness."
Anastasia's eyes went full cartoon, wide and incredulous. "Ten hours?!"
Next thing, she's tearing out of there, petticoats flying, heels tapping a frantic rhythm on the marble. Tyven's right behind her, pretending he's unfazed. "Relax! She's probably writing or studying or having a test herself!"
"She's been in there too long!" Anastasia snapped, not even slowing.
Tyven reached for her wrist, but she yanked away like he'd offered her a live snake.
They charged down the library corridor, and, because fate's got jokes, Anastasia's heel decided to give up on life. Snap, she toppled forward. Tyven dove, aiming for hero points, but his foot caught on the rug. Why are palace carpets always plotting against people?
"Wait—!"
Both of them crashed down in a heap, Tyven basically squashing her.
Naturally, that's when the massive library doors chose to swing open.
The guards gaped. The maids did a perfectly synchronized gasp—probably practiced. Jane and Stephanie peeked out, looking like startled kittens.
"Um... Sister Anastasia?" Stephanie blinked, apparently missing the memo on public disasters. "Why are you... on the floor?"
Anastasia looked up, caught the full humiliation, Tyven still sprawled on top of her—and turned scarlet. Nuclear scarlet.
"Get OFF me!!" she shrieked, any last trace of dignity gone.
Tyven, totally unfazed, just shrugged. "Hey, at least we made an entrance."
Jane's eyebrow shot for the stratosphere.
Stephanie cocked her head, all wide-eyed confusion. "Seriously, why are you both lying on the floor?"
Anastasia groaned into the marble. "Don't. Even. Ask."
Tyven smirked. "Well, your sister did fall for me."
The hallway went dead silent. You could probably hear a pin drop or a mouse sweating.
"MATTHEW TYVEN VON CERZT!!!" Anastasia bellowed, her voice echoing like a battle cry.
TO BE CONTINUED...