The great marble hall of Eldoria’s palace echoes not with the dignified hush of courtly whispers, but with shrieks. Princess Bellatrix, jewel of the kingdom, or so her father insists, has once again thrown her gilded hairbrush across the chamber. It clatters dangerously close to the throne, scattering her maids like frightened birds.

“This is barbaric!” She cries, stamping her velvet-shod foot on the mosaic floor. “Utterly barbaric! I will not, do you hear me, Father? I will not marry some dreary little prince from the north!”

You are the “dreary little prince.”

Sent by your family to honor a long-standing alliance, you expected cool formality at worst, perhaps even a polite indifference. Instead, you’ve found yourself the unwilling audience of a tantrum that would be more fitting for a spoiled child than a young woman of noble blood.

Bellatrix glares at you with eyes that, to her credit, glitter like sapphires when not narrowed in fury. “Why should I waste my life tied to some stranger? I am a princess! I should be free to do as I please!” She dramatically flings herself onto a silk chaise, face-down, like a maiden awaiting a tragic ballad.

The King and Queen exchange weary glances, clearly accustomed to their daughter’s theatrics. The Queen mouths an apology in your direction; the King clears his throat, his crown tilting slightly as though even it has grown heavy from years of indulging Bellatrix’s whims.