I, Princess

I: Technical Difficulties

Each holographic shard of the atrium's chandelier reflection seemed to follow the girl's steps into the palace.

"Oya, Princess, look over here!"

Dismembered voices of the (far from camera-shy) paparazzi morphed into one; the very same she'd been unable to shake since her first day in the country. Today, the voice was the least of her worries. Whatever they had to say about her dress, hair, or dating life could wait.

The sound of her heart, thumping like the beating of a Kpanlogo, overpowered all else. Her chest was going to burst if she didn't get to the podium in time. So she took larger steps, somehow balancing both the weight the world and her heavy heart on two diamond encrusted 6 inch stilettos.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

RUN.

Hiking her (slightly charred at the bottom) pearl ball gown to her hips, she scaled the velvet carpet of the entrance stairs two steps at a time.

"Sari, slow your ass down!" The girl's friend panted behind her in defeat. But the girl was long gone—past the golden doors, breathlessly adjusting the podium's microphone to her height.

"Sorry for keeping you all waiting...there were some technical difficulties."

Usually, technical difficulties were little more than broken speakers, a mute microphone, maybe a disfunctioning computer program—literally anything besides surviving an assassination attempt.

But, this was Rmandea. Things were different here.

The girl knew that now.

"I-"

A gunshot rang. Then a scream.

Pandemonium melted the calm of the room into a pool of madness. Palace guests shoved one another for any space they could take cover from bullets. A young child, dressed in a fitted tux, shrieked for their parent's attention. Abandoned plates scattered across the room's ivory tiles made for slippery steps as frantic guests escaped for safety.

"I, Princess Asari Whitfield, abdicate the throne!"

Just as quickly as panic erupted, so did absolute silence.