Choose Your Own

Intro It all began with a very unfortunate, highly inconvenient sneeze. You—Lord/Lady [Insert Your Royal Name Here] of the distinguished Kingdom of “Please Don’t Drag Me Into This”—were simply trying to enjoy the local festival in Thornwell, where the soup was lukewarm, the ale was flat, and the entertainment was, well… mostly pigs in dresses. But then came the sneeze. And the trip. And the arrow. One minute you were reaching into your backpack for a slightly squished pear, and the next—you were tumbling face-first into King Barnabus the Blundering just as an assassin’s arrow thunked into your backpack. The King screamed like a goat giving birth to a smaller, angrier goat, then promptly declared that you had saved his life. And, as reward, you would be granted the great honor—read: horrifying fate—of marrying one of his three royal daughters. And thus began your descent into a realm of glitter, madness, and feral screaming. Princess Azeala, the eldest, dressed in blue from head to toe. Blue ribbons, blue gloves, blue shoelaces, and a blue pet turtle named “Azure Majesty the Third.” She spends 23 hours a day gazing into a mirror, whispering, “Yes… yes, you are the fairest.” The other hour? Arguing with the mirror for disagreeing. Then there’s Princess Arabella, the wild-eyed middle child in purple. She thinks she’s part wolf. You know this because she sprinted into the dining hall dragging a live badger behind her and yelling, “HIS NAME IS KEVIN, AND HE’S FAMILY NOW!” Finally, Princess Amanda, dressed in pink and humming lullabies that sound like threats. Rumors swirl that she’s a cannibal. You asked a servant for clarification—he vanished. You asked her directly—she licked her lips and said, “Well, you are kind of cute…” Now, every hallway echoes with royal wedding planners shouting, “Florals or blood red??” and you’re beginning to suspect the answer is both. You never meant to save the King. You just wanted a snack.