If there was a personal hell for future queens, Sarisa was beginning to suspect it looked a lot like her office.
Paper. Paper everywhere.
Stacks of missives, reports from the border garrisons, requests for funding from sanctimonious temple ministers, lists of guests for the coming banquet, and three separate copies of the same trade agreement, unnecessary flourish from the scribe.
There was a diagram of projected wheat production that seemed to multiply every time she blinked. Her inkwell was nearly empty, and her pen was going blunt.
She'd lost track of how many times she'd signed her name. The muscles in her hand ached in ways usually reserved for long training sessions.
All this, and it wasn't even noon.
She slumped in her high-backed chair and stared at the ceiling, letting the pen drop to the blotter.
Her office was beautiful—marble columns, tapestries in stormy hues, an arched window letting in golden sunlight—but none of that mattered now.
It could have been a broom closet for all the joy it brought her.
How did it come to this? she wondered, not for the first time.I should have learned to fake a fainting spell like Aunt Miris. Or run off to sea and changed my name. I could have been a mysterious ship captain—anything but this.
She glared at the neat stack of incoming correspondence, as if it might catch fire by sheer force of will.
A clock on the wall chimed a soft, polite note: nearly lunch.
Sarisa resisted the urge to throw it out the window.
She rubbed her temples and forced herself to return to the present. If she could finish just these five petitions, she might—might—have time to eat something and not risk a blood sugar collapse in the middle of her mother's next lecture.
The pen hovered over the page.
The sound of the door opening caught her off guard.
She looked up, irritation forming like a cloud."I'm busy, can this wait—"
But it wasn't a scribe, or a councilor, or even a flustered page.
It was Prince Vaelen.
He stood framed in the doorway, holding a tray laden with food: sliced herbed chicken, fresh fruit, tiny pastries still steaming, and most importantly a silver pot of Sarisa's favorite jasmine tea.
He wore a relaxed, navy-blue tunic embroidered with subtle gold stars. His hair, for once, was a little messy, and his grin was that of a man utterly unfazed by protocol.
"May I enter the royal sanctum, or is this the hour of curses and misfortune?" he asked.
Sarisa blinked, then found herself fighting a smile."Only if you come bearing food."
He held the tray aloft, solemn. "A peace offering from the House of Vaelen. I come in search of mercy and, failing that, snacks."
She gestured him in, grateful for the interruption."You have a knack for timing, Prince."
He set the tray on the edge of her desk with a flourish. "Call it intuition. Or a well-placed bribe to your kitchen staff."
She rolled her eyes. "I suppose I should thank you, but if you steal my favorite tea, I might revoke your diplomatic status."
Vaelen poured a cup with the air of a high priest. "Heavens forbid. Would you like lemon or honey?"
"Honey, if you please. Two spoons."
He prepared it with exaggerated precision, then handed her the cup. She inhaled deeply—the scent alone made her shoulders unclench. The first sip was warm perfection.
"You look exhausted," he said lightly, setting out plates of food for them both. "Should I fetch a medic or simply threaten your paperwork with fire?"
She snorted. "Fire would be faster. Do you have any idea how many forms I have to review before lunch? And then after lunch? There's a requisition for additional funding for ceremonial candles. Ceremonial! As if we don't already have five storerooms full."
He peered at a page near the top of her stack. "Ah, and here I see a request for a commemorative statue. Of a cow."
Sarisa groaned. "Don't remind me. Apparently the cow symbolizes fertility in the valley, but last year, they wanted a statue of a turnip."
Vaelen grinned, eyes twinkling. "Perhaps you could compromise. A statue of a cow eating a turnip."
She barked a short laugh, and some of the weight slid from her chest."Gods, you're worse than my cousin Zareth."
He adopted a wounded look. "I'll have you know my jokes are very popular at diplomatic summits. Though I admit, the standards are low."
She shook her head, still smiling. "Thank you, though. For the tea. And the reprieve."
He nodded. "Of course. If I may—" He nudged the tray closer. "You need to eat. I've seen starving officers at training camps with more color in their faces."
She let herself indulge in another bite, savoring the lemony chicken and honeyed bread. "You're too observant."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Comes from years of hiding pastries at state dinners."
She chuckled. "You seem very at home here."
"Do I? I'll admit, your mother's castle is more intimidating than mine. The tapestries have eyes. Actual eyes. Did you know that?"
Sarisa shrugged. "Family tradition. They're enchanted to glare at anyone who sneaks dessert before dinner."
"Terrifying," Vaelen said, mock-serious. "If I disappear, assume I've been devoured by vengeful needlework."
She sipped her tea, feeling the warmth spread."Have you always been this… irreverent?"
"Only on the days ending in 'y'."
Sarisa couldn't help herself—she laughed, a real laugh, and set her pen aside."I needed this."
Vaelen's smile softened. "I know. May I help?"
She blinked. "Help?"
"With the paperwork. Unless you've developed an emotional attachment to it and would prefer I not intrude."
She snorted again. "Emotional attachment? The only feeling I have for this pile is dread."
He gestured toward the desk. "Then allow me to offer my unparalleled penmanship and diplomatic blandness. I have years of experience writing long-winded letters that say nothing."
"Truly? I'm surrounded by masters."
He bowed his head. "Let me demonstrate."
He reached for a petition, scanning it quickly. "Let's see—'Petition for additional funding for ceremonial cow statue, as a symbol of valley fertility…'" He paused.
"I suggest the following reply: 'The Crown applauds the spirit of innovation and commends the valley for its continued agricultural bounty. Funding for commemorative statuary will be considered after careful review and may be contingent upon successful completion of last year's turnip statue.'"
Sarisa nearly choked on her tea.
"That is brilliant."
He grinned, scribbling a draft in neat, looping script. "You learn these things after years of royal pageantry. My personal favorite is to promise 'a thorough investigation at the next lunar council.' Which, as you know, is scheduled for the next blue moon."
Sarisa nodded, laughter in her eyes. "That's not for another twelve years."
"Exactly. Procrastination—elevated to an art form."
They continued working, Vaelen making witty observations and playful jabs about the endless paperwork. He managed to make even the most tedious forms entertaining.
He wrote a reply about candle requisitions that included an elaborate (and entirely fabricated) tradition about ceremonial bees, and drafted a thank-you note for a shipment of bad poetry with just enough sincerity to be diplomatic and just enough sarcasm to amuse Sarisa.
By the time they finished, the pile was significantly smaller—and Sarisa's mood was lighter than it had been all week.
She set down her pen and stretched, rolling her shoulders. "I may hire you as my official scribe."
"I'm honored. My rates are exorbitant. Payment in cake and warm company."
She shook her head, still smiling. "Done."
They sat for a moment in comfortable silence, sharing the last of the fruit.
Then the door swung open again.
Both turned.
In the doorway stood Lara, hair windblown from the walk through the gardens, arms full of a covered tray and her expression awkward, almost sheepish.
She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.
"I… brought lunch," she said, eyes darting from Sarisa to Vaelen and back again.
The room, suddenly, felt very small.