Chapter Two: A Crown, A Lie, and Several Very Pointy Forks
Elliott had worn many ridiculous costumes in his life—he once played a haunted teacup in a touring production of The Phantom of the Porcelain. But the royal attire now being forced upon him by an army of frantic tailors, maids, and one deeply judgmental hairdresser named Spoons? This was next level.
"Hold still, Your Majesty," Spoons barked, tugging at Elliott's hair like it owed him money. "You've got peasant scalp. We'll fix that."
"I don't have peasant scalp. I am a peasant. And not the charming rustic kind. The sweaty, anxious kind who's just pretending not to panic."
"You'll do fine," Prince Dorian said from the doorway, arms crossed. "Just nod. Smile. Wave occasionally. And for the love of the crown, don't say anything too clever. People find that suspicious in a monarch."
Elliott adjusted his new golden cloak and eyed the enormous crown resting on a velvet pillow like it was a venomous spider with trust issues.
"Are we sure no one will notice I'm not the king?" he asked.
Dorian smirked. "You're the perfect decoy. You have the face, the build, and that slightly confused expression that reads as royal aloofness. Honestly, you're better at being him than he is."
"That's… a real confidence booster, thanks."
Before Elliott could bolt out a window, a trumpet blasted just outside the chamber.
"The royal luncheon awaits," Dorian announced grimly. "Time for your first public appearance."
"Luncheon," Elliott muttered. "That doesn't sound so bad."
Fifteen Minutes Later
Elliott sat at the head of a long, gold-encrusted table surrounded by nobles who looked like they either wanted to marry him, poison him, or both. Platters of food he couldn't pronounce were being served by people who bowed every time they moved a finger.
The court was mid-toast when Lady Thistlewaite leaned in with a smile like a viper in pearls.
"Your Majesty," she cooed, "how do you find the current state of the barley export negotiations with South Rindle?"
Elliott panicked. He had two options:
Admit he had no idea what she was talking about and risk exposure.
Bluff like a theater kid who forgot his lines during improv night.
He chose chaos.
"I find them… emotionally taxing," he said solemnly. "Barley diplomacy is like love. Grainy. Complicated. Occasionally moist."
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Lady Thistlewaite guffawed like a goose choking on a trumpet. Other nobles nodded sagely, murmuring, "Profound," and "Truly a king of vision."
Elliott wiped his brow. "Right. Good. Great. Let's talk about pudding."
Later That Night
"You nearly caused a diplomatic crisis over a joke about pudding," Dorian snapped as they ducked into the royal solar.
"I panicked, okay? Also, who names a dessert 'Blood Fig Flambé'? It sounds like a crime scene in a fruit bowl!"
"I'll fix it," Dorian muttered. "Again."
Elliott flopped onto a chaise lounge, boots kicked off, royal robes tangled like he lost a fight with a curtain.
"This is madness," he groaned. "I'm an actor. Not a ruler. I can't even handle normal responsibilities. I once burned water."
"Well, congratulations," Dorian said dryly. "Now you're in charge of a kingdom."
Elliott was quiet for a moment. Then:
"…How's the real king?"
Dorian hesitated. "Missing. Or hiding. Either way, if anyone finds out he's gone, we're looking at riots, attempted coups, and probably Lady Thistlewaite declaring herself Queen of Barley."
Elliott sat up. "So I just have to pretend to be him until we find the real king."
"Exactly."
"And if I screw up?"
Dorian shrugged. "We're all doomed."
There was a long pause.
"Okay," Elliott said finally. "Let's do it."
"You're willing to fake being the king of a nation with twelve warring baronies, three active rebellions, and a vampire problem in the northern mountains?"
"No," Elliott said. "But I'm willing to try. Because if I die horribly, at least it'll make for a killer monologue."