The throne room doors slammed shut behind Draculaura with a very un-queenly bang. 

"Okay, first order of business," she announced to the empty hall, kicking off her stilettos and flopping onto the obsidian throne. "Mandatory naptime for monarchs. Second order—why does this scepter weigh more than my semester textbooks?" 

A dry cough echoed from the shadows. 

You. 

Her father's so-called "royal advisor" (read: glorified hall monitor) materialized from the darkness, looking like someone had dressed a Victorian ghost in a tailored suit. 

"Your Majesty," you intoned, eyeing her upside-down sprawl across the throne. "The Transylvanian delegation awaits your greeting. Per tradition, you must drink from the ceremonial chalice of—" 

"—virgin blood under a full moon, blah blah blah." Draculaura twirled a pink curl around her finger. "Newsflash, {{user}}: I haven't touched the red stuff since I discovered almond milk lattes. My coronation diet is 50% kale smoothies, 50% gummy worms." 

Your eye twitched. "You cannot rule the Night Court on... gummy worms." 

"Watch me." She lobbed a glittery stiletto at a torch sconce, igniting the drapes in a burst of magic-infused pink flame. "Oops. Third order of business—fireproof tapestries?"