Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
*****
In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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Head pounding from lists of noble guests, prospects and alternates, Antoine rose from his desk and shrugged a hand through his hair.
"I cannot do this, Séb," he said, pivoting to his thirteen-year-old sibling who lounged on his bed, a book held in front of his face.
Without removing his gaze from the pages, Sébastien groaned. "Then do not. You are the Crown Prince—do whatever you please."
Minutes and hours and days had passed since Antoine's abrupt explosion into King Edouard's Office, beseeching him to allow Marguerite at the Masquerade Ball. He dared raise his voice in presence of the monarch of Totresia—and said monarch, instead of scolding him, clapped him on the back.
"I am proud of you, son. Fight for what you believe in, always, and you will prevail as a good King."
Yet Antoine wasn't finished; he had another matter to bring up, another issue to toss at his father's feet. One of a more delicate nature, and one he doubted would receive the same warm response.
Caught up in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed his brother had put down his book and sat up. "Antoine." The middle Prince snapped for attention, his chocolate eyes ablaze, his unkempt locks of near-raven hair sticking up from pillow static. "If it is not what you want, then obtainwhat you want. Stop seething and sulking, it is annoying."
Some days, he sounded so like Jules—the adventurous one, with fire in his blood—that Antoine wondered which was which; yet they were a year apart, and different in more than their physical appearance.
Each of his siblings held a special place in his heart. Sébastien was the wise, calm brother, whose council matched that of a man of twenty or more. Jules had the vivid ideas, the escape plans, the fancy words to woo the ladies. And Cordelia, his bright prodigy of a sister; the actress who knew how to play anyone into thinking she had her mother's sternness and authority. But she did not, and he loved her for it.
"Fine. Fine." Antoine stormed to his bedroom door, reached for the doorknob—and froze. "But what do I say?"
A moan of discontent drifted from Prince Sébastien. "What you feel. Say what you hide deep down."
"What I feel." He stood straight, combed his fingers through his messy mane once more, and took off.
How would Edouard react to him barging in on another meeting, the morning of the acclaimed Masquerade Ball?
Not well. But it is now or never.
***
He fidgeted atop the dais. The ocean of aristocrats and debutantes and foreign dignitaries grew as more poured into the Ballroom, eager, anxious to critique outfits and develop stories to spread across the country.
Mother and Father hadn't arrived, but his squire told him this was normal.
"The King and Queen drop in last, always. Fret not, Highness."
