Rushing down the corridor, I shoved past maids carrying mile-high stacks of golden plates and men polishing some old armor.
Mom was going to destroy me if I ended up being late—again. Destroy with a capital D. Scratch that; Mom would call her handy executor, Dane, and have him guillotine me in the royal courtyard like she did that one fellow who called her fat last year.
"Sorry!" I called out to the flustered workers as I stumbled towards the royal staircase. The magnificent piece of architecture usually took my breath away every time I beheld it. However, in my time crunch, the glittering marble stairs and gleaming gold hand rail only poised themselves as obstacles.
Launching myself at the railing, I gripped on tight and swung my leg over. With the grace of an chicken attempting to fly, I slipped down the metal curve, my thick thighs occasionally catching on the surface and causing me to wince.
"Ouch, ouch, ouch-ouch-ouch-ouch-ouch!" I hissed, my legs and palms burning from the friction created by my maneuver.
When I reached the bottom, I flew off the end of the railing and clumsily tried to land on both feet—I do not know why I thought I could pull that move off when I could barely walk in a straight line sober, but I tried. And it's the effort that counts, right?
I toppled to the ground, my feet slipping on the newly waxed floors, causing my bottom to hit the floor with a loud "smack!"
Nevertheless, my mishap didn't derail me. What was worse: a sore ass, or no head? A bruise no one would ever see, or my mother's wrath?
I think we all know the answer to that one.
"Princess!" a passing maid gasped, taking in my battered form, laying in a lump on the ground. "Are you-"
"I'm fantastic, thanks," I cut her off, jumping to my feet and barreling towards the throne room.
Just in time, too, because as I skidded to a stop in front of the huge, mahogany doors, the bell tower struck, signaling it was time.
Time for my sister's coronation to begin.
Two guards weakly smiled at me and gently cracked the doors open enough for me to slip through. Giving them a grateful smile, I squeezed between the wood and into the vast cavern that was the throne room.
Three of my siblings glanced at me, some with disapproving eyes, others with bright grins.
With a sheepish, apologetic look cast in the direction of my mother's glare, I scurried down the aisle and took my place at the end of my sibling line. I was the youngest; therefore, I took the last spot.
My older sister, Gretel, looked over me from head to toe. Even though most of the times she hailed herself to be a Class-A bitch, she quickly tucked a few strands of my hair back into place.
"Fix your dress, Talia," she quietly scolded. Brushing my hands over the traditional white linens, I did my best to look presentable.
Within moments, the big doors on the other end of the room smoothly opened, revealing a crowd of important people invited to the scene of my sister's leveling up.
The guards ushered the horde into the throne room, telling them that their assigned seat would match the number on their invitation.
It took around fifteen minutes for the select people to find their seats.
As the seconds ticked on, I began to fidget more. My fingers tapped on the side of my thigh, a nervous habit of mine. Gretel menacing shot me a nasty look at my bad habit, causing me to halt my actions. My stillness only lasted a few moments before my body picked up another movement; swaying back and forth slightly on my feet.
When all the people had entered the room, the doors closed again. In a few moments, the crowd settled down and took their seats. They all wore various colors of all hues, except for white and black. The royal colors. Our colors.
A small priest stepped out from behind my father's throne and nervously walked to the top of the aisle. Everyone stared at his balding head that shone brightly in the light.
"We are gathered here today..." he began, but as soon as he started speaking, I stopped listening.
It wasn't until the shrill sound of a bell, a special bell, the bell that indicated that our nation was about to crown a new queen, rung that I was yanked back into reality.
Gretel threw me yet another disapproving look.
Everyone stood up as the doors to the throne room dramatically opened. My eldest sibling glided through the open doors.
"Princess Ophelia," my father spoke, his voice trembling with power, rippling throughout the room. People straightened their backs, shifted their feet, and stared at my beautiful sister as she strode towards my father.
And by the gods, was she gorgeous. I mean, in general she was pretty too, a trait she had inherited from my mother. But she glowed like a goddess as she took even steps towards the throne, her long, black gown trailing behind her. The black fabric hugged her curves and flared at her knees, little white lines forming geometric shapes all across the material. A belt looped around her waist with an empty sword sheath. With her chin up, she displayed her painted face for the world to see.
I suppressed a gasp of my own as I saw the marking slashed along her cheek bones. A white and black horizontal line crowded her skin, with white dots marching from her chin all the way up to her forehead—she sported the traditional paint of a warrior.
My father smiled down at her. This was her way of showing the world what kind of queen she planned to be: ruthless, strategical, and strong.
When she reached the priest, she halted her path and bowed her head. Raising his hands over her, he began to chant in the ancient language of our ancestors; something I was supposed to learn in my schooling, but chose to ignore.
He said something in his gibberish that summoned both my parents to his side. My father handed the priest the legendary sword, Arawn.
"Arawn," the priest spoke, his hands hardly touching the surface of the blade as he held it out towards Ophelia. "The sword that secured our nation, pierced our tyrannical king and brought us hope in a time of misery. I present to you this sword, Ophelia, as it has been passed through the generations of Queens and Kings."
Ophelia, with her head still bowed, reached up and allowed the priest to gently lay the weapon in her hands.
"Sheath it," the priest demanded. With a flourish, Ophelia gripped the hilt of the blade and aggressively jammed its glittering blade into the sheath on her belt.
My mother took a step forward at the priest's beckoning and placed a diamond pedant in his hand: the crest of the Royal ruler.
"The crest," the priest explained. "Diamonds are what forged our great nation; they are the cornerstones in our foundation and we exalt them for their strength and for the fortune they bright us."
Leaning forward, the priest dropped the chain holding the diamond around my sister's neck. The gemstone glistened on her chest, catching the sun rays and casting golden shadows around the room.
"In the name of the gods, in front of your nation, I now pronounce you, Queen Ophelia of Vaedale."
