CHAPTER 158: WE RETURN... AND ARE IMMEDIATELY DOOMED

[Lavinia’s POV—My Royal Chambers (a.k.a. the scene of the crime)]

"Alright!" I declared, holding the scroll aloft like it was the holy grail of getaway plans. "We tear this magical scroll, and TA-DA! We’re back in my chamber like nothing ever happened!"

Osric, standing next to me in the dark alley with the world’s most disapproving face, crossed his arms. "And... what about our appearance?"

"Oh!" I waved my hand dismissively. "Brother Lysandre said the illusion spell would wear off once we return to my room. So, by the time we arrive—poof—we’ll be pretty again!"

"...You were always pretty," he mumbled under his breath.

I blinked. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he coughed.

I grinned. "Good."

With theatrical flair, I tore the scroll in half—

FLASH!

—and suddenly the alley, the festival, and the scam artist vanished in a puff of magic smoke.

We landed with a soft thud.

On my very expensive carpet. Back in my royal chamber. Where things were safe.

And normal.

Marshi reappeared in full divine glory—now the size of a big beast and looking absolutely delighted to be home. He leapt onto my bed like he paid rent.

And Solena?

Solena stared at him.

Wide-eyed.

Beak slightly ajar.

Her expression clearly read:"You divine idiot cat—WHY ARE YOU SO LARGE."

Marshi responded with a smug growl and stretched like a lion king reclaiming his throne.

I clapped once. "Alright! We’re alive. We’re un-kidnapped. We committed only mild public treason. Time to pretend we never left."

Osric turned to me, clearing his throat. "I should leave."

"Right," I nodded. "Thanks for the illegal teleportation adventure. Great teamwork."

He nodded once, giving me a faint smile and starting toward the door—

—which opened.

On its own.

With drama.

Like doom entering the room.

We froze.

And Marella stood there with wide eyes.

She blinked.

We blinked.

She gasped.

We gasped.

And then—

"PRINCESS LAVINIA HAS RETURNED TO THE PALACE!!!" Marella screamed, her voice echoing off the marble, probably reaching the stables, the kitchens, the dungeons, and at least three foreign embassies.

I stood frozen.

Osric looked like someone had slapped him with a sword.

Solena squawked.

Marshi dove under the blanket.

And I...

...I realized what that scream meant.

"...We’re doomed," I whispered. Voice hollow. Lifeless. Already writing my will in my mind. Because if she

knew I was back—then Papa would know I had been gone.

Which meant...

...he knew everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

The sneaking out.

I gulped.

"...Do we have... an extra teleportation scroll?" I whispered to Osric, barely moving my lips.

He looked at me.

And smiled.

Not kindly.

Not comfortingly.

But with the quiet, ruthless amusement of a man who knew exactly which soul was about to be burned at the stake—and it sure as hell wasn’t his.

"All the best," he murmured.

And then—

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Boots.

Sharp. Precise. Heavy. Striking the marble floor like hammers of divine judgment, and then...

SLAM.

The chamber doors flew open so violently that the air in the room shifted.

I flinched.

Papa stormed in, his royal cloak trailing behind him like a trail of fire and shadow. His eyes—normally so unreadable, so carefully veiled—were wild. Not with grief. Not with relief.

But with something hotter than rage.

Colder than fear.

Behind him: Nanny. Ravick. Theon. Grand Duke Regis. And—gods help me—Brother Lysandre.

Papa must have dragged the truth from him, and then his eyes landed on me. And for a second, a breathless, terrifying second... Papa just stared.

Then—

Something shifted in his face. Something snapped.

"Pa—Papa..." I whispered, a nervous smile twitching at my lips like a white flag raised too late. "I was just—"

"YOU—" His voice boomed like thunder crashing through stained glass. "ARE. YOU. OUT. OF. YOUR. MIND?!"

It wasn’t a shout.

It was a roar.

The kind meant to silence kingdoms. The entire chamber froze. Even Marshi stiffened on the bed, wide-eyed. Papa stormed forward, his boots like gunshots on marble.

"DO YOU EVEN COMPREHEND WHAT YOU’VE DONE?!" he thundered, each word sharper than the last. "You disappeared—WITHOUT NOTICE—FOR FOUR HOURS, LAVINIA!"

"I—I can explain—" I stammered, heart thundering.

"EXPLAIN?!" His hand lashed out—grabbing my shoulder—not harshly, not enough to bruise, but enough to root me in place. "You think this is a game?! Some jaunt through the city?! Did you think I would not notice when you vanished from the PALACE?

His voice cracked—sharp and raw.

"Papa, I just went to see the festival—"

"SHUT. UP. LAVINIA."

My breath caught.

The silence afterward felt heavier than the scream.

He turned from me abruptly, like even looking

at me hurt. But the rage in his posture didn’t fade.

It sharpened.

"I should lock you in the North Tower," he muttered, voice low. Deadly. "I should strip this castle of every portal, every scroll, every scrap of runework. Bury it under stone and fire so you never pull another stunt like this again."

"Papa..." I whispered, voice cracking, "Why are you—"

He turned back.

Slowly.

Eyes burning, but cold. Terrifyingly cold.

"You think this was a game?" he said, softly now. Too softly. "Running around like a ghost in alleys, playing dress-up with the kingdom’s future in your hands? While your guards—your people—scrambled like ants in a storm? While your father went mad thinking you’d been taken?"

"Papa, I wasn’t—"

"ENOUGH."

The word slammed through me like a blade.

"You left without a word. No guards. No warning. And where did you go?" His tone turned bitter. "To a festival."

He didn’t even say it like an event.

He said it like a slur.

"A festival, Lavinia."

I lowered my head.

"You are not just my daughter," he said, low and biting. "You are the future of this throne. The weight of an empire lives in your shadow. And if something were to happen to you..."

His breath hitched.

"...If I lost you—again—this time for good..."

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

A long silence.

My fingers trembled at my sides. Then, Papa took one slow step toward me.

"You are grounded."

I blinked, froze. "Wh—what?"

His jaw tightened. His voice rose. Sharp. Clear. Echoing off the marble like the voice of judgment itself—

"YOU ARE GROUNDED FOR A WEEK."

The words rang through the chamber like a judgment passed from the heavens. Even the fire in the hearth flickered, as if it, too, feared what would come next.

Theon hesitantly stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I believe perhaps it’s too—"

Papa turned his head, slow and deliberate.

His eyes gleamed.

"Did I give you permission to speak, Theon?"

Theon backed away immediately. "No, Your Majesty. Forgive me."

Papa looked at me again. I tried to hold his gaze.

Tried.

"For one week—no council meetings. No court appearances. No sword training. No walks. No privileges," he said, each word like a lock slamming shut. "You will not leave this chamber without my express permission. Is. That. Understood?"

I could only nod.

"Speak it."

"...Yes, Papa."

His voice dropped again—lower, rougher. The fury had not faded. But now—beneath it—I heard the exhaustion. The ache.

"You will sit in this chamber," he whispered. "And you will reflect. On what you’ve done. On what it cost."

He turned slowly—toward the bed.

Toward Marshi.

"...Out."

The divine beast blinked.

Papa stepped forward.

"NOW."

Marshi leapt from the bed with a strangled meow and bolted toward the door, fur on end. Then he looked at me one last time. And what I saw in his eyes made my knees go weak.

"I’ve lost you before; I’m not going to let it happen again."

I froze.

"...Papa?" I whispered. "What do you—"

But he didn’t answer.

He turned to Osric instead.

"Follow me."

Osric stiffened, then bowed once before following him toward the door.

They all did.

Nanny.

Ravick.

Brother Lysandre.

And the last to leave—Marella—shut the door behind her with a heavy click.

And I was alone, but his voice echoed in my ears.

"I already lost you once."

My chest tightened.

"...Is he talking about the poisoning incident?" I whispered to myself.

But something about the way he’d said it—the way his voice cracked—made me wonder if he meant something far worse.

And far older.

. . . . .

I let out a long, tired breath, the kind that didn’t just empty lungs but hearts.

"Maybe I’m... overthinking," I whispered, more to the silence than to myself.

But the words felt hollow. I turned my gaze to the heavy oak door—closed now, locked, guarded.

He’s never looked at me like that before... Never with such fury.

Such disappointment.

Such fear.

I swallowed hard, throat tight. Then said aloud, a little shakily, "That’s the first time Papa has ever... yelled at me like that."

Not just yelled.

Burned.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me like it, too, had nothing to hold onto anymore.

I sat there for a while.

Not moving.

Just... breathing.

Staring out the window, where the last traces of festival lanterns floated like distant ghosts in the night. My fingers tightened around the fabric of my skirt.

Papa thinks I went for fun. For mischief. For freedom.

I blinked once. Twice. My heart twisted.

But if only he knew...

I never left to rebel.

Never ran off for joy.

I left because I was scared.

Scared of what I’d heard.

Scared of what it meant.

I wasn’t trying to escape the palace.

I was trying to escape... fate. And the fear that, one day soon, I wouldn’t be standing beside him at all.