The silence did not last.
It shattered.
"IMPOSSIBLE—" "THE THRONE MOVED—" "SHE'S STANDING TOO CLOSE—" "ARREST HER—NO, DON'T TOUCH HER—"
The throne room erupted into chaos like a carefully rehearsed play that suddenly forgot its script.
Avelyncè Ryler stood very still in the center of it all, hands folded neatly in front of her, wondering if pretending to be a statue would help.
It did not.
---
"Everyone," Prince Caelan said calmly, raising one hand.
No one listened.
"The throne has never—" "This violates at least twelve laws—" "She's not even nobility—"
Caelan raised his voice slightly.
"Everyone."
The throne pulsed.
Once.
The sound wasn't loud, but it carried authority—deep, ancient, and unmistakably annoyed.
The court fell silent instantly.
Avelyncè blinked.
"…It listens to you?" she asked Caelan.
He glanced at the glowing throne, then at her.
"I think," he said slowly, "it listens to you."
"Well," she replied, "that's unfortunate."
---
The High Chancellor stepped forward, face pale. "Girl," he said, pointing an accusing finger, "state your name and purpose in this room."
Avelyncè straightened. "Avelyncè Ryler."
A pause.
"…And your purpose?"
She hesitated. "I was delivering documents."
The Chancellor stared.
"…To the throne?"
"No. To the archives."
Another pause.
"And how did you end up here?"
Avelyncè thought for a moment. "Wrong turn."
Several nobles gasped.
Caelan pressed his lips together. He was either suppressing a laugh or deeply reconsidering the empire's security.
---
The throne pulsed again—brighter this time.
One noble fainted.
Another whispered, "The throne likes her."
"I don't like her," muttered a lady of the court.
The throne pulsed again.
The lady immediately shut up.
Avelyncè glanced at Caelan. "Is it… always this sensitive?"
"No," he said honestly. "It usually tries to kill people."
"Oh," she said. "Good. So this is better."
---
The Chancellor rubbed his temples. "This is a misunderstanding. Guards, escort her—gently—out of the throne room."
A guard took one step forward.
The throne's light flared.
The guard froze mid-step.
Avelyncè winced. "I'm sorry. I swear I'm not doing this on purpose."
Caelan crossed his arms, studying the scene with open fascination.
"It appears," he said, "the throne has decided you're staying."
The Chancellor nearly screamed. "IT DOESN'T DECIDE—"
The throne pulsed.
Hard.
The marble floor cracked.
The Chancellor fainted.
---
Avelyncè stared at the unconscious man.
"…Should I apologize?"
Caelan finally smiled—small, crooked, and unmistakably amused.
"I think," he said, "you've just been promoted."
"To what?"
He looked at the throne. Then back at her.
"My problem."
The throne pulsed warmly.
Avelyncè sighed.
"I knew I should've stolen the pastry and gone home.