The Reborn Empress

The banquet hall's air turned viscous as Crown Prince Ryan limped through the gilded doors, his cane striking the marble like a funeral drum.

Every noble bowed so low their foreheads grazed their kneecaps—all except Ella, who dipped just enough to avoid treason charges. Loyalty has its limits, she mused, especially when the man you're saluting once strangled his falcon for flying too high.

"Gods, he's gotten uglier," Mia muttered, peering through her fingers. "That scar looks like someone embroidered rage onto a potato."

Ryan's face did indeed resemble a disgruntled root vegetable: pockmarked, lopsided, and crowned by a scowl that could wilt roses. His left leg, mangled in a "hunting accident" (read: failed assassination attempt), dragged behind him like a grudging afterthought.

Chloe materialized at Ella's elbow, syrup-sweet. "Dear niece, isn't His Highness magnificent? Such… presence." Her nails dug into Ella's arm like talons. "They say he's seeking a devoted companion to ease his loneliness."

"By 'companion,' you mean sacrificial lamb to replace the wife who mysteriously choked on pheasant bones?" Ella replied cheerfully. "How progressive."

Across the room, Grace tittered to a baroness, "Our Ella adores charitable work! Why, reforming a grieving widower would be her life's calling!"

"Ah yes," Mia whispered. "The ancient feminine urge to fix men who deserve compost heaps."

Ryan's gaze swept the crowd, lingering on young women like a butcher eyeing cuts of meat. When his stare snagged on Ella, she resisted the primal urge to hide behind a potted fern. Eyes like a frostbitten pond, she thought, and twice as welcoming.

"Lady Smith." His voice rasped like rusted chains. "That gown suggests you're mourning. Who died?"

"The concept of subtlety, Your Highness." Ella curtsied, pressing Lily's pendant to her throat—a grounding weight. "I mourn the hours wasted on trivial court gossip. You understand, I'm sure."

Brooding silence. Then, a snort. "Cheeky wench." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of stale wine and poor decisions. "I like my women spirited. Makes breaking them… rewarding."

Emily, half-hidden behind a pillar, dropped a tray of dumplings. The clatter snapped Ryan's attention away.

"Well?" he barked at Chloe. "Where's the girl who paints those absurd flower murals?"

Chloe paled. "M-my daughter Cindy excels at watercolors, Your Highness!"

"Bah. Flowers are for funerals." Ryan's cane jabbed toward Ella. "This one writes poisonous little essays about court corruption. I want her."

A collective gasp. Mia choked on her wine.

Grace swooped in, crocodile tears gleaming. "Your Highness honors us! But dear Ella is so… fragile since her mother's passing. Why, just yesterday she fainted at the sight of…"

"Aunt Grace," Ella interrupted, "are you describing me or your chamber pot?" She turned to Ryan, channeling the serene madness of someone with nothing left to lose.

"Your Highness flatters me. But alas, I lack the qualifications to be your bride: a tolerance for body odor, an obsession with tax audits, and the ability to swallow pride alongside questionable meat pies."

The nobles froze. Somewhere, a lute string snapped.

Then—laughter. Bellowing, knee-slapping guffaws erupted from Ryan's throat. "Sharp tongue, dull future," he wheezed. "We'll see how you quip while embroidering my crest onto wedding linens."

As he hobbled away, Chloe hissed, "You'll accept his proposal, you ungrateful shrew. Or your father's next letter will detail how tragically his men perished in the north."

Ella plucked a honey-glazed walnut from a passing tray. "Careful, Aunt. Threats are like walnuts—hard to chew when your teeth mysteriously vanish."

Later, in the moonlit courtyard, Emily scrubbed at imaginary stains to avoid crying. "He'll kill you," she whispered.

"He'll try." Ella traced the scar on her palm—a relic from James Brown's betrayal in another life. "But orphans, widows, and inconvenient wives have a habit of haunting him."

"So we flee? Disappear?"

"And let Chloe win?" Ella snorted. "I'd rather marry a hive of bees. No, we'll play Ryan's game… with better rules." She nodded to Mia, who lingered by the azaleas, pretending not to eavesdrop.

Mia sauntered over. "If you're planning royal assassination, I volunteer to spike the wine."

"Tempting. But I prefer public humiliation." Ella handed her a note. "Deliver this to Ethan Davis. Let's see if his hatred of the crown outweighs his distrust of me."

As Mia sprinted off, Emily groaned. "Must we ally with that barbarian?"

"Desperate times, Em. Desperate, deliciously petty times." Ella watched fireflies dance, their glow soft against the coming storm. Let Ryan scheme. Let Chloe gloat.