The air in the castle suddenly felt thicker—like it had secrets to tell and no one polite enough to whisper them. Abigail and I practically *flew* down the staircase, her hand gripping my sleeve, my boots skipping every third step as if that made us sneakier. It didn’t.

By the time we reached the corridor, we saw them. My father, King Lurchester, walking beside General White like they were old war buddies—gruff voices echoing against stone walls. The priest trailed behind them, his white robes fluttering, sandals slapping dramatically against the marble like punctuation marks.

“—the girl’s bravery speaks volumes, but she needs *discipline,*” General White was saying. His voice was dry, deep, and just arrogant enough to make me itch. “Which is why—”

“Excuse me,” I cut in, sliding in front of both of them like a very stubborn roadblock in a dress with combat boots. “Why are you here?”

King Lurchester blinked. “Destiny, this doesn’t concern you. You and Abigail should go back upstairs and find something… frilly to do.”

Behind me, Abigail muttered, “I’m going to poison him.”

“It’s alright, Your Majesty,” General White said smoothly. “We were merely speaking about your daughter... and the future of the kingdom.”

“Which *is* my business,” I said, folding my arms tightly.

And that’s when the priest gasped.

It wasn’t a dramatic, clutch-the-pearls gasp—it was more of a whispered, breathy "*oh heavens*," like someone just saw their ex and realized they were *still* hot.

The priest stepped forward, eyes wide with something between awe and mild existential crisis. “You… you’re a sight to behold. Your beauty… it’s like the Queen’s. The late Queen.” He almost bowed.

“Um… thank you?” I said, trying not to wince. That compliment had the emotional subtlety of a shovel to the face.

Abigail, ever my emotional support goblin, moved closer and whispered, “The General is *staring*. Like full-blown predator mode.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

General White was looking at me like I was some kind of prize turkey at a kingdom-wide feast. Then he *smirked*—a slow, smug curve of his mouth—and took my hand in his. My entire body tensed like a rabbit who’d just realized the carrot was attached to a bear trap.

He lifted my hand. Softly. Like it was made of spun sugar. And kissed the back of it. I *wanted* to recoil, to smack him with the hilt of my sword, to *bite* him maybe—but my brain short-circuited somewhere between "what the hell" and "do we stab him now or later?"

“You truly are your mother’s daughter,” he said, lips still ghosting over my hand. “I’ve heard stories of her. Now I see they weren’t exaggerated.”

Abigail promptly slapped my hand *out* of his grasp. “Why are you here, *really*?”

The General turned to her with all the warmth of a statue. “Dinner,” he said. “With the family. I only wish to have a small… *chat* with the King. And with Destiny.”

And with that cryptic little horror, the men turned and strode off toward the dining hall like this was just a regular Tuesday and not the start of my villain origin story.

As soon as they rounded the corner, Abigail leaned in. “So… stab or poison?”

“Neither,” I muttered, rubbing my hand furiously on my dress. “We don’t know his motive yet.”

“Fine. *Then* I’m putting laxatives in his wine.”

We marched off toward Ivy’s wing of the castle, dodging a few nosy guards and one snoring nobleman on a bench. Typical castle things.

When we burst into Ivy’s room, we were hit with the smell of lavender, perfume, and way too much hairspray. She stood in front of her mirror, twirling in a sky-blue gown that sparkled like she’d bribed a fairy.

She turned with a flourish. “Well? How do I look?”

Abigail didn’t miss a beat. “Like the ghost of a pageant queen who haunts department stores.”

I choked on my laugh.

Ivy just rolled her eyes like a well-practiced teenager. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you. I’m dressing up for *General White*.”

I blinked. “Wait. *Why?*”

“Because *if* my little sister gets a man,” she said, picking imaginary lint off her dress, “why shouldn’t *I* have one too?”

“I don’t *have* a man, Ivy.”

“Well, what about your marriage with Prince Kail,” she snapped.

“That means *nothing*.”

“Maybe *you* don’t want him,” she sniffed, “but I think he’s very *distinguished.*”

“You think any man with a jawline and a title is distinguished.”

“True,” Abigail added. “You’d probably flirt with a lamppost if it wore a sash.”

Ivy ignored us completely. “Maybe *you* should wear something nice for once, Destiny. You can’t keep showing up to royal dinners dressed like a runaway knight.”

I didn’t respond. I just turned and walked out.

Abigail scampered after me. “Wait, are you actually going to wear a *gown*?”

I snorted. “Absolutely not.”

We reached my bedroom and I flung open the wardrobe like a woman on a mission. No gowns. No lace. I wasn’t giving General Creeps-a-Lot *anything.*

“Then what *are* you wearing?”

I yanked out the winner: a vintage 1960s mod-style mini dress—rich crimson with gold buttons, long sleeves, high neck, and a belt that cinched at the waist. Paired with leather boots and a dagger tucked into my thigh strap.

Abigail whistled. “Damn. You look like a Bond girl who just stabbed Bond.”

I smiled at her in the mirror. “Good. That’s the vibe.”

“Dinner’s going to be *fun.*”

“Fun,” I echoed, grabbing my dagger and sliding it into place. “Or a complete disaster.”

She smirked. “Both is good.”

We headed for the dining hall.

And whatever the hell *this night* was about to become.