The Unwanted Princess

Abdication

Our ill-fated hookup had been the start of an inferno. It was emotionally driven, too much stress built up needed a release and we found that in each other, but this? This was the reckoning.

Quite literally the morning after we were awoken in a fright. News quickly spread about Simon and I's outburst at the ball. Words of reconciliation were needed for the restless folk.

We dressed without a word and rushed down to the throne room where Simon's presence was requested urgently. He stood at the head of the grand hall, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable—but the storm in his eyes was unmistakable. The Queen, his mother, sat stiffly on her throne, her lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. The King, as always, was silent, his gaze shifting uncomfortably as the tension mounted. The court was restless, whispers buzzing through the marble chamber like a swarm of hornets, the weight of what was to come suffocating the air.

The throne had never suited Simon's father. It was too heavy for a man who thrived on posturing rather than ruling. It crushed him beneath the weight of decisions he never wished to make, responsibilities he never had the backbone to uphold. His mother, in contrast, had always seen the crown as an extension of herself, something she wielded rather than bore. She had spent years tightening her grip, only for Simon to rip it from her grasp in a matter of weeks.

He didn't wait for a smooth transition, didn't entertain the farce of gradual change. He forced them out—his father, the weak-willed ghost of a king, and his mother, the venomous queen whose only loyalty was to her own power. They were relics now, shadows cast out of the palace before they could sink their claws any deeper.

Simon had been coronated weeks prior, but his reign truly began today.

He stood before the court, the weight of his presence alone enough to silence even the boldest of nobles. The chandeliers cast an eerie glow upon the marble floors, flickering against the tension in the air. I sat beside him, my hands clasped in my lap, my nails digging into my palms to keep my composure.

"This throne," Simon began, his voice calm, deliberate, but lined with something seething beneath the surface, "has been tainted by secrets and corruption. For too long, this kingdom has suffered under the guise of stability, when in truth, it was rotting from within." His blue eyes cut through the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did.

He turned then, looking directly at his parents, standing at the foot of the dais where they once sat. His mother's expression remained carefully composed, her hands folded in front of her, while his father—spineless, shrinking into himself—looked anywhere but at his son.

"The people deserve the truth," Simon continued. "They deserve justice."

His mother finally met his gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. "And what truth is that, my son?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion, yet laced with something unspoken.

Simon took a measured step forward. "The truth of your betrayal," he said simply. "The truth of the alliances you forged behind closed doors, of the power you hoarded for yourselves, of the kingdom you left to rot so long as your control remained intact."

A ripple of whispers spread through the court. The accusations had long been suspected, but never spoken aloud in the heart of the palace.

His mother remained silent, her gaze unwavering. His father, however, exhaled shakily. "And what do you intend to do?"

Simon tilted his head. "You will abdicate, both of you. Here, before the court, before the people. You will step down, and in return, I will not bring forth the charges of treason that would see you both tried and executed."

Oh

That was kind of hot.

The whole room took a sharp breath, sucking the air from the room, while I tried to ease my hormones that are still out of whack from last night.

His father paled, looking to his wife, but she gave no indication of surprise—only quiet calculation. "A generous offer," she murmured, almost amused. "And if we refuse?"

Simon did not hesitate. "Then history will remember you not as rulers, but as traitors." His voice was even, cold. "The gallows will not discriminate between a former king and queen."

His mother studied him for a long moment, and then, at last, she inclined her head. "Very well," she said. "Let it be done."

I could've shat my chemise right then and there out of pure shock. I was expecting more of a fight from the Queen, but I guess pride rules over her heart.

A herald stepped forward, scroll in hand, his voice ringing through the chamber as he declared the formal abdication. The crowns were lifted from their heads—one gleaming, the other dulled with time—and placed upon the dais.

Simon turned, his eyes finding mine. He extended a hand.

I took it, rising beside him as the crown was set upon my own head. The weight was heavy, yet I bore it without flinching.

There was a cautious applause that erupted. In between the clapping I whispered under my breath, barely moving my lips. "And what of my parents?"

He simply glanced down at me for a millisecond, giving me all the information I needed. They would be safe from scrutiny.

As we left the throne room, the murmurs began again, hushed whispers of a kingdom forever changed. Of a king who had seized his own destiny. Of a queen who, despite their best efforts, stood beside him still.

The old reign had ended.

And ours had just begun.