A final shot of Elara, nursing her infant, a sleepy smile on her face, a single comment glowing on her tablet: “Thank you for making the palace feel like a home.”
“Will you name the baby after a season?” “No, but I will name this contraction ‘Hurricane Jeffrey.’”
“Hello, ordinary people,” she began, then winced. “No. That’s terrible. Hello… everyone. My name is Elara. I’m a princess. And my heir just kicked me so hard in the bladder that I almost cancelled a trade negotiation with the dwarven clans. Send help. And a toilet.”
Her days were a gentle tyranny of lemon water trays, embroidered pillows, and the well-meaning but suffocating presence of three handmaidens. The Royal Physician forbade her from riding, from fencing, from her beloved cartography expeditions. “Rest, Your Highness,” became the kingdom’s lullaby.