I just wanted to take a bath. That's it. But fate—or whoever's been writing the script of my life—decided otherwise.
Now I'm standing behind a golden flower pot, which is unfortunately dusty and makes my legs itch, wrapped in nothing but a thin towel. In front of me, two of the kingdom's most important men are staring each other down like starving lions fighting over prey. General Leont, built like a granite statue with eyes sharp as spearheads, and Advisor Arthon, an old man who resembles stale tea in human form, are locked in a hushed but deadly argument.
"If the Queen doesn't wake up tomorrow, the people will grow anxious. We need a new face," said Leont, calm as an ice cube in a morgue freezer.
"And you think that child is suitable?!" Arthon hissed, clutching the royal seal like it could shield him from logic.
I peeked out, thinking, Okay. So I'm a living witness. Again. If this keeps happening, I might as well start a business: "Professional Chaos Witness." Requirements? Sweet tea, a soft bed, and no bloodstains on the sheets.
The door creaked open. Valmor entered. A horse. Wearing a bathrobe. Don't ask whose. I don't know either, and frankly, I'm afraid to find out.
He spoke calmly, as usual, just to me. "The Queen's been poisoned. Could've been the tea. Or the air. But I'm sure that bald servant is suspicious."
I whispered, "Which one?"
"The one who never blinks. He stands by the flower vase every hour. I saw him talking to the flowers. That's not gardening. That's shady."
I let out a long sigh. I hadn't even brushed my teeth yet.
Outside the window, the sun began to sink, orange light spilling over the rooftops of the palace. But the air grew heavier, like the final breath of someone who knows their time is up.
The two men were still arguing, though now it sounded more like they were drafting their wills while threatening each other. I shifted my position; my leg was falling asleep.
Suddenly, the sound of running footsteps echoed down the hallway.
A guard appeared, panicked. "The west wing is on fire! There's movement at the southern gate!" His face was as pale as royal china.
General Leont clicked his tongue. "It's starting sooner than scheduled."
Arthon turned to him, eyes wide. "You—"
But before he could finish his sentence, the palace bell tolled. Three times. The highest alarm.
And here I am. Standing behind a plant that hasn't been watered, in the middle of a coup, just wanting a bath. Clutching a towel that feels thinner by the minute.
Valmor looked at me. "You know, there's a certain irony to all this."
I nodded, exhausted. "If I die in a throne dispute, bury me in a tea field. I want to be fertilizer. Peaceful fertilizer."
Valmor nodded solemnly. "Or tea. 'Despair Blend.' Sold exclusively in countries where corruption can be bribed with fried snacks."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. What I did know was—I still hadn't bathed.