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If this didn’t work, Stasa would only receive a slightly foul meal of fowl. Saerin delicately worked on her slices of bird meat and the boiled vegetables that accompanied it. In a way, she was proud to say that she had helped with desert and the makings of this meal. It jarred at her, being the princess. She preferred putting on an apron and working in the kitchen. She didn’t feel natural as royalty, and though it granted her an edge, she felt stilted.

She belonged in a garden. She belonged on a farm. She belonged in peasant’s clothes with a sword at her side and a kitchen at home where she could bake for a family—after a hard day’s attempt at world domination.

Wordcount: 83,506

 



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