Happy Birthday Princess!

You are Ylisaveth, princess of Euromania and it is your 18th birthday. King Nymroud holds a grand party for her daughter. Everyone is invited.

Plot

The dawn of my eighteenth birthday arrived not with gentle light, but with the heavy, golden weight of expectation. From my balcony, I watched the sun gild the rooftops of Euromania’s capital, a city already buzzing with festival fervor for *me*. The scent of baking sweetbreads and forced blooms from the hothouses drifted up, a perfume of celebration that tightened a familiar knot in my stomach. Today, I would cease to be just Father’s daughter. I would be paraded as the future. My chambers were a hive of whispered excitement. My maids, Ara and Mila, unveiled the gown: a cascade of sapphire silk that whispered of deep oceans and midnight skies. As they laced me into it, their chatter was not of my wishes, but of the nobles—Duke This, Earl That—who would be watching, assessing, like buyers at a yearling auction. The final piece was my mother’s diamond necklace. They fastened it, and the stones lay cold against my skin, a beautiful, inherited frost. A soft knock. The door opened to reveal Arthurion. My constant shadow, my steadfast protector since we were both children scrambling in the palace gardens. In his polished armor, he looked every inch the royal guard. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice too formal, a wall erected for the day. “It is almost time.” But his eyes, those familiar, warm hazel eyes, held a silent reassurance. *Just another game, Lis. We’ll get through it.* The grand hall was a living jewel box. Father, on his throne, beamed with a pride so fierce it was almost a force. The air hummed with perfumed chatter and the clink of crystal. Then the trumpets blared, the doors swung open, and all of it stopped. Every gaze, a physical pressure, settled on me as I descended the staircase, my hand on Arthurion’s solid forearm. The applause was a wave I had to swim through. For a moment, I was outside myself, watching a serene, glittering princess in a painting. The music began, and the first suitor approached. Duke Philippo of the Southern Reach was charm incarnate. His smile was perfect, his compliments woven like fine lace. As we waltzed, his hand pressed a small velvet box into my palm. “To match the fire in your spirit,” he murmured, his breath warm near my ear. Inside, emerald earrings winked, cold and expensive. His whispered words were of alliances, of southern vineyards and strong borders. I smiled, my face a polite mask, feeling the weight of his ambition settle beside my mother’s diamonds. No sooner had the dance ended than a new tension entered the room. Duke Markus of the Northern Highlands moved like a quiet storm through the crowd, his presence causing a subtle, collective intake of breath. He bowed, his dark eyes holding mine before shifting to Philippo with a gaze that could freeze a river. “Might I have the honor?” It was not a request. Annoyance flickered across Philippo’s face before he yielded with a tight smile. Markus’s gifts were different: a single, perfect black rose, and a slender gold bracelet etched with the silhouette of mountain wolves. “A rose for tonight’s beauty,” he said, his voice a low rumble that felt more private than Philippo’s showy whispers. “And a bracelet for the strength I know you possess.” It was disconcerting. He saw a fighter, not just a prize. I felt suffocated. A jeweled bird passed from one gilded cage to another. My eyes, desperate for an anchor, found Arthurion. He stood rigid by a pillar, a statue of duty. Before I could second-guess, I walked to him. The court’s shock was a palpable ripple. “Dance with me, Arthurion.” He flushed from his neck to his hairline. “Your Highness, I couldn’t—the protocol—” he stammered. From the dais, my father chuckled and gave a permissive nod. What followed was the most honest part of my evening. Arthurion was wonderfully, terribly awkward. He stepped on my toes, muttered frantic apologies, and made such hilariously pained faces—as if navigating a field of daggers rather than a dance floor—that I laughed. I laughed until my sides ached and tears blurred the glittering hall. For three glorious minutes, I was just Lis, and he was just Arty, and the crown was nowhere to be found. Then my father claimed me. His arms, strong and familiar, pulled me into a gentle sway. “My little Lis,” he sighed, the king melting into the man for a moment. “Look at you. The court is dazzled.” His voice dropped, tender yet inexorable. “Soon, we must talk seriously of the future… of a union that will secure our kingdom’s peace and prosperity.” His kiss on my forehead was a seal. The door to the garden of my childhood clicked shut. The crown, no longer just an heirloom, settled onto my head, its weight real and chilling. As the clock chimed eleven, Father announced the revels would last until midnight. The noise swelled, a frantic, joyful crescendo. Then, on the twelfth, deafening chime, the world shattered. The explosion was a beast’s roar. Stone and splinters rained down. Through the smoke and screams, masked men poured in like nightmares given form. “The princess! Take the princess!” Steel shrieked against steel. Chaos. Terror. Then, three pillars in the storm. Arthurion was first, a solid wall of armor and fury at my side, his sword a blur. “Stay behind me!” Then Philippo and Markus were there, their courtly finery cast aside as they drew hidden blades, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as unlikely allies before me. The great hall became a butcher’s yard. And in the eye of the storm, three voices called, each pulling me in a different direction. “Princess, to the secret passage! Come with me!” Arthurion yelled, his hand gripping my arm, tugging me toward a familiar tapestry that hid a servant’s route. Safety. Secrecy. “Your Highness, my men are stationed outside! This way!” Philippo pointed to a side door, his face alight with strategic certainty. Protection. Power. “Trust me, I can get you to the high ground!” Markus urged, his eyes scanning the balconies for archers, his body angled to shield mine. Advantage. Perspective. My heart hammered against my ribs. The loyal friend. The political ally. The mysterious stranger. In that fractured second, my life hung on a choice I was paralyzed to make. The decision was stolen by a thunderous war cry. Through the main doors, a phalanx of spearmen led by the formidable General Maxeimus drove into the fray. Their discipline was a scythe cutting through chaotic wheat. The rebellion was crushed in moments, leaving behind only ringing silence, the moans of the wounded, and the sweet, iron scent of blood. Father crushed me to his chest, his heartbeat a frantic drum against my ear. “You’re safe. You’re safe.” The next day, a somber feast of honor was held. General Maxeimus, the timely hero, was lavishly praised. Philippo and Markus were celebrated for their valor, their rivalry politely shelved. Arthurion received a medal, his eyes finding mine across the crowded room—a quiet, unspoken question in them. But as I sat on the dais, picking at the food, nodding at the toasts, I felt nothing of an ending. The gilded illusion of my world lay in shards around me. The questions were now my constant companions, sharper than any sword: Who were those men? Who sent them? And when the moment of true peril comes again… whom do I trust? The birthday girl was gone. In her place sat a princess, armed with suspicion, and her story—our story—had just truly begun.

Opening scene

The dawn of my eighteenth birthday arrived not with gentle light, but with the heavy, golden weight of expectation. From my balcony, I watched the sun gild the rooftops of Euromania’s capital, a city already buzzing with festival fervor for me. The scent of baking sweetbreads and forced blooms from the hothouses drifted up, a perfume of celebration that tightened a familiar knot in my stomach. Today, I would cease to be just Father’s daughter. I would be paraded as the future. My chambers were a hive of whispered excitement. My maids, Ara and Mila, unveiled the gown: a cascade of sapphire silk that whispered of deep oceans and midnight skies. As they laced me into it, their chatter was not of my wishes, but of the nobles—Duke This, Earl That—who would be watching, assessing, like buyers at a yearling auction. The final piece was my mother’s diamond necklace. They fastened it, and the stones lay cold against my skin, a beautiful, inherited frost. A soft knock. The door opened to reveal Arthurion. My constant shadow, my steadfast protector since we were both children scrambling in the palace gardens. In his polished armor, he looked every inch the royal guard. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice too formal, a wall erected for the day. “It is almost time.” But his eyes, those familiar, warm hazel eyes, held a silent reassurance. Just another game, Lis. We’ll get through it.

Characters

Tags: Royalty Princess Noble Palace Romance HappyEnding Love

Chats Started: 43

By: slasherus

Stories

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