The Grand Ballroom of Oakhaven was a masterpiece of excess. Gold leaf clung to every pillar, and the massive crystal chandeliers dripped with wax that smelled of expensive jasmine. From my position near the heavy velvet curtains of the service entrance, I watched the "One Percent" of this world.
They were exactly like the billionaires I used to manage. They wore smiles like armor and held wine glasses like weapons.
"More wine, girl! Don't just stand there gaping at the finery," a stout Duke barked at me, thrusting an empty silver goblet toward my chest.
"Of course, Your Grace," I said, my voice dropping into the pitch-perfect, submissive tone of a career servant. I poured the dark red liquid with a steady hand, keeping my eyes downcast.
As I moved through the crowd with my tray, I wasn't just serving; I was mapping. I noted who was whispering to the Empress's secretary, which Generals were huddled in the corner, and—most importantly—who was laughing at the empty chair reserved for the "Trash Prince."
"He probably passed out in the stables again," I heard a young Countess titter behind her silk fan. "The Empress was too kind to even put a plate out for him."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," her companion whispered. "She wants him there so the Northern Envoys can see exactly how pathetic the King's second son really is. It makes the Crown Prince look like a god in comparison."
I tightened my grip on the tray. Just wait, you vultures, I thought. The main attraction hasn't arrived yet.
Suddenly, the great brass horns sounded at the entrance. The Head Herald stepped forward, his voice booming across the silent hall.
"His Imperial Highness, Prince Bastian of Oakhaven!"
The room went dead silent. A few people actually snickered, expecting a man in stained clothes to stumble through the doors. The Empress, sitting on her raised dais, adjusted her crown with a smug, satisfied smirk.
Then, the doors swung open.
Bastian didn't stumble. He marched.
The midnight-blue velvet I'd spent forty-eight hours perfecting caught the light of a thousand candles. Every step he took was measured, powerful, and utterly regal. The "greasy" hair I'd styled was now a sleek, dark frame for a face that looked carved from marble.
The snickering stopped instantly. The Countess dropped her fan. The Empress's smirk didn't just fade—it vanished, replaced by a look of pure, cold fury.
Bastian didn't look at the crowd. He walked straight to the center of the floor, stopped before the Empress, and gave a shallow, perfectly executed bow.
"My apologies for the delay, Mother," his voice rang out, clear and sober. "I wanted to ensure I was dressed appropriately for such a... momentous occasion."
"Bastian," the Empress hissed, her fingers gripping the arms of her throne so hard her knuckles turned white. "You look... recovered."
"Health is a fickle thing, isn't it?" Bastian replied, his eyes meeting hers with a challenge that made the air in the room feel thin. "One day you are drowning, and the next... you find your footing."
He turned to the Northern Envoys, who were staring at him with newfound respect. "I believe we were discussing the border trade agreements? I spent my 'recovery' reading the ancient ledgers. I found some very interesting discrepancies in the tax margins."
I saw the Crown Prince, Bastian's older brother, go pale. He looked at the Empress, his eyes wide with panic.
Checkmate, I thought, slipping back toward the kitchen. He's got them on the defensive. Now, it's my turn to find the killing blow.
The kitchens were a chaotic mess of steam and screaming chefs. I ignored the noise and headed for the "Wine Cellar"—which I knew was actually a meeting spot for the Empress's personal guard.
I ducked behind a stack of flour sacks just as two men in black leather armor stepped into the light.
"The Prince is sober," one hissed. "The plan is ruined. If he speaks to the King tonight, the Empress will have our heads."
"He won't speak to anyone," the other replied, checking the edge of a long, thin needle. "The 'medicine' Sarah brought him failed, so we use the direct method. Once the toast starts and all eyes are on the Crown Prince, I'll slip behind him. One scratch is all it takes. He'll look like he had a heart attack from too much wine."
My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a political game anymore. They were going to kill him in the middle of the ballroom.
I looked around the kitchen. I didn't have a sword. I didn't have magic.
But I did have a large jar of industrial-strength pepper, a heavy rolling pin, and a corporate brain that knew exactly how to create a distraction.
"If you want to play dirty," I whispered, grabbing the rolling pin, "then let's see how you handle a professional 'cleanup' crew."