I lay on the royal carpet like a tragic fallen noble—stomach-down, arms stretched forward, legs in the air, dramatically swishing back and forth like I was summoning genius through foot motion alone.
A blank sheet of parchment stared up at me, full of potential. The quill in my hand? It felt like a nervous, twitchy dragon about to sneeze ink on my soul. One wrong move and I’d accidentally sign a declaration of war against grammar.
Across from me, Papa lounged on his oversized, throne-adjacent chair like the Supreme Emperor of Productivity. One leg crossed over the other. Arms folded. Face unreadable.
But oh—those eyes. Those intense, molten-core, laser-beam emperor eyes were locked on me like a sniper locked on a lazy child. I could practically feel their sizzling heat, silently shouting, "I’m watching you. If you run away or slack off, no snacks today, my dear daughter."
At this rate, I was pretty sure he could burn a hole right through my sparkly dress with that glare alone.
Theon—thankfully resurrected from his earlier corpse-like state—was back in his chair, furiously attacking paperwork like a very tired warrior battling an endless scroll of doom.
His glasses were still crooked. His soul? Questionable.
And Marshi... the divine pillow with legs, was roaming around the imperial office, sniffing every corner like he was inspecting it for divine crime.
I sighed. Loudly. The kind of sigh that should echo through ancient catacombs and shatter stained glass windows. Then I screamed—internally, of course:
LET’S GO, LAVINIA DEVEREUX! YOU CAN DO THIS!
You’re a princess. You’re brilliant. You’re a naming MACHINE. Just one name. One glorious, sparkly name worthy of the brightest, blingiest, most ridiculously shiny place on earth.
I sat up. Cross-legged. Dead serious.
"Alright," I mumbled, tapping the feather against my chin like a philosopher with really good fashion sense. "Think like a poet. A grand one. Something strong... something fierce... something that screams royal sparkle but also, Don’t mess with me, or you’ll be erased from existence in five elegant steps."
The quill danced across the paper, but every idea looked less like a royal decree and more like a chicken doing calligraphy with its toes.
I scribbled my first idea.
"The Bling Wing." I paused.
No. That sounded like the private lounge of a fashion-obsessed pigeon.
"The Glimmer Fortress." Mmm... it sounded like a video game for overly dramatic knights with sequined armor. Next.
I gritted my teeth and went full chaos mode.
"The Glittering Palace of Ultimate Majesty and Also Really Shiny Things." I read it aloud. Then imagine poor Ravick having to announce it during an imperial banquet.
He’d pass out by the third syllable and choke on his own dignity.
"Ughhhhhhhhhh," I groaned, flopping backward like a princess being dramatically sacrificed on the velvet altar of indecision. Arms stretched out. Eyes staring at the chandelier like it had the answers to my existential crisis. "Why is naming things harder than raising Marshi?"
Marshi, sensing my royal suffering, trotted over and sat beside me with a majestic plop, instantly becoming a giant, purring, golden-striped paperweight of emotional support. His tail thudded against the floor like a slow drumbeat of sympathy.
I reached up and smooshed his enormous cheek with both hands. "I need inspiration, Marshmallow," I whispered solemnly. "Divine wisdom. Or like... a cool word that sounds expensive."
Nothing. Zero thoughts. Just two beings of fluff and despair.
Then—from the land of the almost-dead—Theon spoke.
"Princess," he croaked from his chair without lifting his head, sounding like a haunted scroll that had learned how to talk. "Perhaps... something more... timeless?"
I spun around like an offended cat.
"Timeless?" I repeated. "Like what? ’The Neverending Hallway of Boredom’?"
Papa, sitting on his chair with his leg elegantly crossed and his glare turned up to full laser intensity, actually nodded thoughtfully.
"I like that," he mused. "But maybe... less boring."
Then, in full emperor-trying-to-be-poetic mode, he muttered, "How about... ’The Dazzling Domain of Destiny’?"
There was a moment of heavy silence.
Then Ravick, who had just walked in carrying a tray of cookies like a divine messenger of hope, snorted.
"Too dramatic," he said, sliding a cookie toward me like he was handing over top-secret royal sustenance.
I grabbed it instantly. Bit down with the determination of someone who had suffered. I chewed like a war general rallying strength before the final battle.
Meanwhile, Ravick knelt to feed a chunk to Marshi, patting his big head like he was rewarding a very fluffy knight.
I looked at the cookie. Looked at Marshi. Looked out the window.
A name struck me. Right in the forehead. With all the force of a royal epiphany.
I twirled the quill again, this time with renewed purpose, and stared out of the grand arched window toward the East Wing 2.0—the one with the gleaming gold corridor, where the sunlight danced across the diamond pillars like liquid stardust. My personal garden lay just beyond, where cherry blossom petals fell in slow, delicate flutters, like the empire itself was sighing in pink.
I dove forward with such force that Marshi flinched and scooted three inches away. My tongue poked out in dramatic concentration as I scribbled on the parchment with the determination of someone inventing fire. Or fashion. Or both.
Papa leaned in, his emperor senses tingling.
"Well?" he asked, voice serious, already preparing to reject whatever weird nonsense I had concocted this time.
I stood up with all the gravity of a royal speech and lifted the parchment like a divine proclamation.
And then, with the authority of a future empress who had been denied tea and naps but conquered anyway, I announced:
"The Dawnspire Wing."
For once... he didn’t say anything.
Silence. Beautiful, stunned, sparkle-soaked silence.
Even Ravick paused feeding Marshi.
"That’s..." Theon blinked, "...not bad."
I placed a hand on my heart. "It represents hope," I said, my voice rising with emotional drama. "Like when the sun rises. Like... new beginnings. And shiny stuff."
Ravick murmured, "It does sound shiny."
And not the scary ’I’m about to assign you math problems’ smile. But the real one. The soft one. The rare ’I am proud of you, small chaos princess’ smile.
"That’s..." he said, voice warm, "a beautiful choice."
Marshi sneezed in approval.
Theon lifted his quill with half a cheer. "Long live the Dawnspire."
And me? I stood proudly. Glorious. Sparkling in the glow of my own victory.
Princess Lavinia Devereux. Bringer of Names. Destroyer of Bored Rooms. Founding Mother of the Dawnspire Wing.
...Also about to eat another cookie. Because naming things is emotionally exhausting.
Papa stood up from his massive emperor chair and walked over to me. With all the solemnity of a royal knighting ceremony, he ruffled my hair.
"You did a great job," he said, voice warm, eyes proud.
I puffed up like a noble pigeon in silk robes, one wing already halfway to knighthood.
"See?" I declared, hands on hips, chin aimed at the chandelier. "Your daughter is not just beautiful—she’s a naming legend. A genius. A sparkly intellectual powerhouse!"
Papa raised an eyebrow and gave me a small, maddeningly smug smile. "Well... you are my daughter. Of course you’re smart."
Wait—hold on—is he actually complimenting himself through me?!
Papa just smiled like a smug old dragon who had won the game of wit and genetics.
Tch. I mean... he wasn’t wrong. BUT STILL.
Then he gave me the greatest gift of all.
"You may go now," he said with a wave. "You’re free to play."
"YAAAAAY! THANK YOU, PAPA!" I squealed like a victorious battle squirrel and launched myself toward Marshi.
He was lounging like a giant, striped beanbag of destiny. I flopped dramatically on his back like a warrior returning from war.
"Marshi!" I declared, throwing a hand to the sky. "Your empress has returned! Let’s ride!"
Marshi gave one majestic roar (which sounded a little like a yawn) and trotted forward, tail swishing like a royal parade flag.
Ravick trailed behind us with a smile, and then, just as we reached the door, Papa’s voice echoed behind me like the thundering doom of authority.
"Lavinia! Don’t you dare play that ridiculous Lazy Game again!"
Damn it! He always catches me.
Then slowly turned my head like a very theatrical owl and called sweetly over my shoulder, "Alright, Papa! I shall now engage in the Incredibly Motivated But Horizontally-Based Relaxation Game!"
A long, painful groan from deep within Papa’s soul.
And so we trotted off into the golden halls — a princess, her tiger, and her personal knight — leaving behind a new name carved into history, a pile of ink-smudged paper, and probably a few cookie crumbs wedged between the rugs of the imperial carpet.
And thus, the Dawnspire Wing was born—not from marble or gold, but from cookies, chaos, and one very determined little princess.