The death of King Alaric of Lunaria should have been a solemn affair. The council wore black, nobles wept performatively, and peasants lit candles in his honor.

Aurelia Esmeray, however, was busy shoving her best friend’s elbow out of her ribs.

“Enora, why are you grinning like a cat with cream? The man just died.”

Enora Vinette’s smile only widened. “Because history is happening. And because I may have… slightly signed you up for something.”

Aurelia narrowed her eyes. “…Enora. What. Did. You. Do.”

Enora clasped her hands behind her back in the way that always meant trouble. “Well, since the king died with no heir, the council thought it would be cute to hold an election. So I put your name on the ballot.”

Aurelia blinked. Once. Twice. Then she laughed. “Ha. Hilarious. Me? A queen? I can barely keep a houseplant alive. No one’s going to vote for me.”

Enora tilted her head. “Mm… about that.”

---

Three weeks later, Aurelia found herself standing in the grand hall of Lunaria’s palace, a heavy crown sliding off-center on her head while the High Chancellor droned through her coronation vows.

The crowd roared. Confetti rained down. Trumpets blasted.

Aurelia’s inner monologue?

What the hell just happened.

---

Court life, she quickly discovered, was nothing like the stories. There were no dazzling adventures or heroic quests. Instead, there were meetings. Long meetings. Endless meetings. She had barely sat on the throne for an hour before she was informed about harvest taxes, border disputes, and the royal seal apparently being “too smudged” on a decree.

Aurelia wanted to bang her head against the gilded throne.

“Your Majesty,” droned Chancellor Odran Mire, a man whose entire personality was beige, “the Unity Accord also requires us to host the monarchs of the three neighboring kingdoms—”

“Wait. Host?” Aurelia sat up. “As in, like, they live here?”

The Chancellor looked mildly offended by her tone. “Naturally. For the sake of peace and cooperation, they will reside in Lunaria until further notice.”

As if summoned by fate itself, the doors swung open.

In strode three men, each with the kind of presence that sucked the air out of the room.

The first—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes like storm clouds—carried himself with the sharp precision of a soldier. Rayden Arzhel, King of Varkhalon. His armor gleamed, his expression didn’t.

The second glided in with quiet grace, silver-threaded robes catching the light. His gaze was calm, unreadable, and almost too pretty for a man who probably dabbled in war councils. Kai Rayne, King of Elarindor.

And the third? He sauntered, lips curled in a smirk, rings glittering on his fingers as though he’d already bought the palace. Zaiden Dimitri, King of Theryndor.

Aurelia stared at them for a long, silent moment, then leaned forward on the throne and asked flatly,

“So, how long are you going to be here?”

The silence was immediate. The councilmen shifted uncomfortably. Enora, standing near a marble pillar, slapped both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing.

Rayden’s jaw ticked. “We are not guests, Your Majesty. We are here as part of the Unity Accord. Until the council deems our alliance complete, we remain.”

“So… indefinitely,” Aurelia said, nodding with all the enthusiasm of someone being told they had jury duty.

Kai’s lips twitched, just enough to suggest amusement. His voice was soft, almost melodic. “If it troubles you, we can discuss boundaries. Elarindor does not wish to intrude.”

“Boundaries,” Aurelia repeated. “Like… no one knocks on my door past midnight, and if you use the royal kitchens, you clean your own dishes?”

A faint laugh escaped Enora, and several council members looked like they might faint.

Zaiden, of course, leaned lazily on the nearest column, smirk firmly in place. “Oh, don’t worry, Queen Esmeray. I plan to be the kind of housemate you can’t ignore. I’ve always been told I liven up the place.”

Aurelia squinted at him. “You sound like the kind of housemate who eats other people’s snacks and never pays rent.”

Enora choked. The council gasped.

Zaiden only grinned wider. “Perhaps. But I make up for it in charm.”

Rayden made a low, irritated noise in his throat, like he’d already had enough of this circus. “This is supposed to be a diplomatic endeavor, not a tavern argument.”

“Oh, trust me,” Aurelia said, slumping back against the throne. “If this is what diplomacy looks like, I’m starting to see why my predecessor signed that treaty. He was probably tired of babysitting.”

The kings exchanged glances—Rayden frowning, Kai quietly unreadable, Zaiden clearly enjoying himself.

And just like that, Aurelia knew:

This wasn’t court life. This was survival with extra paperwork.