Chapter 32: Apparently, I’m Queen Now

They had me seated at a long polished table in the elven palace, like I was supposed to actually give a damn about furniture carved out of thousand-year-old trees. Across from me sat Elyndor, fiddling with his wood scraps like a bored toddler, and Aelith—radiant, reverent, and clearly ready to recite some mystical bullshit at the drop of a hat. A couple of other pointy-eared extras filled the seats, probably here just to stare at me like I was a particularly exotic animal in a zoo.

“Here, Lady Rissa,” an elf maiden cooed as she set a goblet in front of me. She gave me a smile so dazzling it should’ve been illegal and drifted away, leaving behind a whiff of perfume and adoration.

I took the goblet, downed a sip, and groaned. “Don’t get me wrong—I love beautiful elves serving me drinks. That part I could get used to. But what I can’t stomach is all this groveling. It’s suffocating. I mean, seriously, when did I become the messiah of tree-huggers?”

Aelith, naturally, jumped in first, her tone honeyed as ever. “Oh, Lady Rissa… elves are very sensitive to our leaders. You must understand—our kings are not elected, nor merely crowned by lineage. Yes, of course, we suffer fools like my cousin Elyndor here when bloodlines demand it—” She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through oak. “—but true elven rulers must embody more. Something ethereal, spiritual. We descend from the fae, from spirits. A leader must reflect that.”

I leaned back, swirling my wine, smirking. “That’s a lovely bedtime story, my porcelain doll. Truly. But what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

Her smile widened, eyes bright with worship that made me want to crawl out of my own skin. “Because, Lady Rissa, yesterday you showed us. You radiated it. We felt it. Simply put, you are what we elves call a queen. We know it instinctively, as bees know their queen by scent. Any elf would swear loyalty to you without hesitation.”

“Tschhh.” Elyndor’s sulky noise broke in as he snapped together another pointless little wooden figurine, then broke it apart again like he was five years old.

Aelith ignored him, still glowing like she’d just found religion. “Of course, half-elves like my cousin are… less receptive. They are simpler, closer to mortals. But even he will follow your command without doubt.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “Okay, let’s stop the elf propaganda right there. I don’t want to be your queen. No crowns, no thrones, no ethereal whatever-the-fuck. Forget it. I’m human.”

One of the extra elves at the table, who apparently thought it was his big moment to shine, leaned forward with reverence spilling off him. “That is not so, Lady Rissa. We can sense it. Your soul resonates from another plane entirely. It marks you as more than human. Forgive me—I should introduce myself. I am Counselor Thalorien Vaerynthiel. And I pledge myself to your service, for all eternity, Your Highness.”

I sat there, staring at him, goblet frozen halfway to my mouth. Internally, I screamed. Because of course. Of fucking course.

This had Grimmy McDrama-Cape written all over it. My delightful, ridiculous avatar of death—who I was sure was laughing his bony ass off in some void right now—had apparently branded me with “otherworldly soul energy.” Great. Just great.

I muttered a curse so foul it would’ve made sailors blush and took another long drink, wishing wine could kill me faster.

“Fine,” I snapped, slamming the goblet down. “You want to serve me? You feel some magical bug-up-your-ass instinct to call me Queen Ethereal Badass? Fine. Whatever. Let’s skip the worship and go straight to business. If you’re going to insist on following me, here’s how it’s going to work…”

Aelith bowed her head with that soft little smile of hers. “Yes, Lady Rissa. At your command.”

I leaned back in my chair, wine in hand, and smirked. “Good. Let’s start with some context, shall we? Because otherwise you lot will keep spinning fairy tales until we’re all drunk again.”

I swirled the wine, watching the red catch the candlelight. “The lovely but dangerous-as-hell Princess Lyra wants me. And not just for my winning personality—though gods know she wouldn’t say no to that. No, she wants me as her war toy. Her living, breathing weapon. And—bonus points—her little bedmate too. And honestly?” I shrugged. “I don’t mind the second part. The princess is a bad bitch like me—we get each other. But the first part? Being her pet nuke with no freedom? Yeah, no thanks.”

I caught Elyndor’s eye just to watch him squirm. “I’m guessing Lyra fed you some nonsense about me being undead or cursed or whatever. Don’t believe it. Not true. And Elyndor, let’s be real—I couldn’t care less that you tried to sell me to her. Honestly, you can keep your crown, keep your little kingdom, keep your sad collection of wooden toys. Play king, play carpenter, whatever makes your pathetic heart sing. And if one day the elves of Xytherra try to boot you off your shiny chair? I’ll back you. Because, surprise, I don’t give a single flying fuck about elven politics.”

Elyndor’s face lit up like a kid at Winterfest who’d just unwrapped his first toy hammer. Finally paying attention, the idiot.

“But.” I raised a finger. “I want two things in return.”

He froze, wood scrap slipping from his hand.

“One: Aelith comes with me. She’ll be my personal handmaiden. Don’t pout—it’s not like you were going to touch her anyway, unless it was with one of your pointy sticks. At least with me she’ll be useful.”

Aelith’s cheeks flushed faintly, but she didn’t protest. That smug little smile she gave me? Yeah, she didn’t hate the idea.

“And two: I want you to build me something. You like being the kingdom’s discount carpenter? Great. You’re going to get the commission of your pathetic lifetime.”

Elyndor nearly leapt across the table, his voice cracking with excitement. “A commission?! Truly?! Lady Rissa, what is it? A floating throne to terrify your enemies? A palace of living wood that sings when you enter? Please—tell me!” For the first time since I’d met him, he actually sounded like the same eager little craftsman I’d bumped into back in Cinabar.

I rolled my eyes. “Gods, you really are a freak. No. I don’t want any of your magical furniture fetish crap.” I drained the last of my wine, savoring the burn, and slammed the goblet down. Another elf maiden was already at my side, refilling it like I was some holy goddess of alcoholism. Perfect.

“I want a box,” I said. “Three or four meters. Strong enough to withstand extreme heat inside. So strong nothing inside can escape, no matter what it is. And it only opens when I say so. Think you can manage that?”

The words hung heavy in the air, heavier than wine, heavier than all of Elyndor’s wood carvings combined. I stared him down over the rim of my goblet, eyes sharp. “How long would it take?”

Elyndor was practically bouncing in his seat, eyes gleaming like a child handed a bag of candy, though it was clear he didn’t fully grasp the request.

“I don’t know, Lady Rissa,” he said, scratching his head with one of his stupid little wooden toys. “It’s not as if I’ve ever built anything like that before. I’m not a mage, after all. But I could craft the object itself—absolutely. With the right enchantments layered in afterward, it could be made into a magical container. For me… two, maybe three weeks at most. The hard part would be the magic, of course.”

I gave him a dry look. “No shit, carpenter-boy. That’s why we have other elves, remember?”

I swiveled toward extra elf number one, Thalorien—Thal-something, whatever. “You. Counselor. Advisor. Whatever the hell you called yourself. Advise me, then. Any elven mages around here actually capable of pulling this off, or am I stuck with your arts-and-crafts prince?”

Thalorien straightened like a man who’d just been handed the role of a lifetime. “Yes, Lady Rissa. Elves take great pride in our mastery of magic. An undertaking such as this would indeed be arduous, but not impossible. I will need to consult with the sages and magi of the court.”

“Good,” I snapped, downing the rest of my goblet. Another servant glided in before I’d even set it down, refilling it like they were competing for the title of Best Wine Pimp. I raised the fresh cup in mock salute. “Consult all you want, Counselor. But I want an answer by tonight. Aelith and I leave at dawn. Prepare a carriage and provisions for two months.”

Aelith’s delicate voice cut through, soft as honey. “Two months?” Her cheeks pinkened as she lowered her eyes. “I do not mind following you to the ends of the world, Lady Rissa, but… may I ask where we are going?” She sounded almost shy, like she was secretly thrilled at the thought of a private journey together.

I smirked into my wine. “Of course. We’re heading to my birthplace—south of Virelia. I’d tell you the name, but it’s so small it doesn’t even have one. Just a cluster of huts in the dirt. Real glamorous.”

One of the other extras—Elf Number Two—shot to his feet, scandalized. “Virelia? Lady Rissa, that would mean crossing into enemy territory! We cannot allow it!”

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Oh, relax, background decoration number two. You never even gave me your name, so from now on I’m calling you ‘Suffering.’ Because that’s exactly what you’re causing me right now.” I leaned back and grinned, sharp and feral. “Nobody’s going to hunt me down. And if they do, they’ll know better than to try. Besides, there’s something I need to check before I face Lyra. Something I need to collect for Elyndor’s big, beautiful box project.”

I laughed—long, loud, and utterly unhinged. The kind of laugh that makes priests cross themselves and children cry. “Oh, gods, it’s perfect. The best joke in the world, and only I get it.”

The elves around me shifted uncomfortably, their perfect posture stiffening, eyes darting as if silently regretting every choice that had led them to this exact moment.

Too late, darlings.

Because like it or not, I was Rissa: priestess of death, sarcastic bitch extraordinaire… and now, apparently, Queen of the Elves of Liraen.