Fueled by the bitter, glorious kick of Vesperia's smuggled espresso, I was actually managing to put one foot in front of the other. We strolled into the temple's inner garden, a place filled with white roses that looked far too smug about their own purity.
"So," Vesperia said, her burgundy skirts sweeping over the gravel with a satisfying crunch. "You've spent your entire debut year perfecting the 'I might shatter if you look at me' routine, only to throw it away for a shot of caffeine and a religious scandal? Bold, Liliana. Extremely bold."
"I'm pivoting," I said, squinting at a sun that was way too bright for my liking. "The 'Fragile Lily' brand was getting a bit claustrophobic. Besides, did you see Seraphina's face? She looked like she'd accidentally swallowed a lemon when I brought up the fallen angel bit."
Vesperia laughed, a sharp, genuine sound. "She'll be scrubbing the altar in 'repentance' for a week. You've successfully weaponized your own helplessness. I didn't think you had the—"
"LILIANA!"
The voice boomed through the garden like a thunderclap, vibrating through the soles of my shoes. I winced. I knew that voice. It was the sound of a man who owned far too many capes and not enough hobbies.
Prince Cassian burst through the rosebushes. He didn't use the path; he literally parted the shrubbery like he was leading a cavalry charge. Behind him, Sir Alistair and a dozen Knights were sprinting, their armor clanking so loudly it probably scared the local birds into early migration.
"Your Highness!" I gasped, dropping Vesperia's arm and immediately sagging against a stone fountain to maintain my 'brand.'
Cassian reached me in two strides, his face a mask of frantic, beautiful agony. He didn't even look at Vesperia. He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes searching mine as if checking for signs of demonic possession.
"I heard the report!" he roared softly—which is a skill only romance leads have. "The Saintess... she cast a slur upon your very soul! She called you a creature of the pit! My poor, sweet, battered lily... has the trauma fractured your spirit?"
He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Vesperia with enough ice to freeze the fountain. "And you! Lady Vesperia! Why is she standing? Why is she not in a cushioned chair? Can you not see the air in this garden is swirling with allergens that could overwhelm her delicate lungs?"
Vesperia sighed, swirling her flask. "She was doing just fine, Cassian. We were having a conversation about... theology."
"Theology is too heavy for her!" Cassian declared, sweeping me up into his arms before I could even protest. I felt like a sack of very expensive potatoes. "Liliana, do not speak. The effort of explaining such horrors will surely drain your remaining life force."
He looked back at his Knights. "Alistair! Secure the garden! Let no one mention the word 'angel' or 'demon' in her presence again! It is a trigger for her fragility!"
I looked over Cassian's shoulder, meeting Vesperia's eyes. She was watching me being carried away, a look of profound amusement on her face. She raised her flask in a silent toast.
I'm eighteen, I thought, my head resting against the Prince's hard, muscular chest. I'm a university student. I have a midterm I'm missing. And yet, I am currently being treated like a highly combustible flower.
"Wait," I wheezed, trying to sound faint. "Your Highness... the Saintess... she said I fell..."
"I know, my love," Cassian whispered, his voice dripping with protective fury. "And for that, she shall pray until her knees bleed. But for now, we must get you to the palace. I've ordered the royal mattress-makers to double the fluffiness of your bed."
I closed my eyes. The coffee was still humming in my veins, giving me the urge to run a marathon, but I was trapped in the 'Princess Carry' of doom.
Back at the palace, the "Mattress Crisis" was in full swing. Cassian had retreated to the war room—probably to plan a tactical invasion of the Saintess's cathedral—leaving me in the care of a dozen maids who were currently debating the softness of my silk sheets.
Feeling the espresso-induced itch in my legs, I decided to do something scandalous: I stood up. Without help.
"My Lady!" Mina gasped, dropping a feather pillow. "The Prince's orders! You are to remain horizontal until the moon reaches its zenith!"
"The moon can wait, Mina. I need to walk off this... spiritual trauma," I said, already halfway out the door.
I wandered through the corridors, my eyes darting between the gold-leafed moldings and the portraits of moody-looking ancestors. The castle was beautiful, but it felt like a very expensive waiting room.
"Mina," I said, stopping in front of a massive stained-glass window. "I've been meaning to ask—mostly because the 'fallen angel' comment rattled my brain—why exactly am I living here? In the Prince's palace? Is this a high-end hostel? A really fancy witness protection program?"
Mina stopped dead, looking at me with genuine confusion. "My Lady... surely the shock hasn't gone that deep? You live here because the engagement contract is being finalized. You were brought here to prepare for your life as the future Crown Princess. This palace is to be your home for the rest of your days."
I froze. My brain, fueled by caffeine and 4,562 romance novels, processed this information. The "Ethereal Feather" wasn't just a guest. She was the endgame.
Then, it happened. A sound bubbled up from my chest that definitely wasn't "soft" or "lyrical."
I started to laugh.
It wasn't a dainty giggle. It was a full-throated, university-student-after-three-all-nighters cackle. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, gasping for air as the absurdity of the situation hit me. Me? The girl who tripped over a charger cable and survived on spicy chips? The future mother of a nation?
"My Lady!" the maids cried, huddling together in fear. "The demon-naming has driven her to hysteria!"
"No, no," I wheezed, wiping a tear from my eye as I straightened up. I looked at Mina, my expression finally settling into something dangerously honest. "It's just... that's the funniest thing I've heard in my entire life."
"Funny?" Mina whispered. "To be the Crown Princess?"
"The Prince," I said, shaking my head as I started walking again, my gait steady and unimpressed. "He's handsome, sure. He's got the jawline of a god and enough protective energy to power a small city. But honestly? He is so not my type."
The hallway went silent. A vase nearby didn't break, but I'm pretty sure the air itself cracked.
"Not... your type?" Mina stammered. "But... he is the sun of the kingdom! The pinnacle of masculinity! The—"
"He's a hover-parent with a cape, Mina," I interrupted, tossing my hair back. "I like men who let me walk up stairs without calling a national emergency. I like people who can handle a bit of logic without thinking the world is ending."
I looked out at the courtyard where Sir Alistair was currently lecturing a rosebush on how to be softer for my sake.
"I don't want a crown," I muttered, more to myself than them. "I want a burgundy dress, a sharp tongue, and someone who doesn't think I'm made of sugar and glass. If the Prince wants a lily, he should go to a florist."