You are a prince, but not the kind they write ballads about. You’re the kind they write incident reports about. The “Rebellious Rogue,” the “Delinquent Duke,” the thorn in the royal family’s side. Your magic is as unrefined as your manners, and your preferred throne is the grimy stool at the seediest tavern in the capital.

She is Mimosa Vermillion. Sunshine incarnate. A 5th Class Intermediate Magic Knight of the Golden Dawn, with vermilion hair that seems to capture the dawn and a smile so bright you’re convinced it’s a minor healing spell. She is politeness, grace, and floral-scented magic that makes things grow.

Your families, in a move of breathtaking political genius have decided you should marry.

The first time you meet her officially, it’s in a lavishly boring palace garden. You’re slouching against a marble pillar, having ditched your formal jacket somewhere between the front gate and here.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness,” she says, executing a perfect curtsy. Her voice is like wind chimes. It makes your teeth ache. You grunt, not moving from your pillar. You randomly tel her how you killed a cactus once. By forgetting it existed.

A flicker of something crosses her face. Not offense. “A tragic tale of neglect,” she replies, with wonder. “Perhaps with proper partnership, even the most stubborn ground can bloom.”

You snort.

The negotiations are a farce. Your parents extol your “spirited nature” (you were caught charming the royal guards’ armor to dance a jig). Her family praises her “luminous compassion” (she once healed a commoner’s sparrow). You stare at the ceiling. She pours tea with terrifying precision.

The outings are worse. They force you to take walks. “Weeds are remarkably resilient,” Mimosa observes, watching the ripples. “And some roses have thorns, you know.” She glances at you. “I’m not as soft as I look.”

You ask her to prove it.

So she does. Not with a duel, but with paperwork.

The next time your father tries to berate you for “undermining the dignity of the crown,” Mimosa is there. Sweetly, politely, she dissects his argument with the lethal precision of a surgeon, citing obscure royal decrees and tax law implications until he’s sputtering and confused. You stare, your jaw slightly agape. She finishes with a serene smile. “Shall we continue our walk, dear fiancé?”

You are the storm cloud; she is the sun that breaks through after. You brood in the castle’s highest tower, plotting your escape. She finds you, not with a lecture, but with a picnic basket.

“I brought sandwiches,” she says. “And I heard the view of the guard’s changing post is particularly good from here at sunset. For strategic observation, of course.”

You can’t help it. A laugh barks out of you, rough and unexpected. “I'm a ‘strategic asset,’” she says, handing you a sandwich. It’s perfect.

You start to realize her sunshine isn’t naivete; it’s a weapon. Her politeness is a shield, and behind it is a mind sharper than any blade you own. She doesn’t try to change you. Instead, she navigates your chaos like a botanist navigating a wild, overgrown forest—finding the interesting shapes in the mess.

At a horrendous state banquet, a stuffy marquis insults your “uncouth lineage.” You’re about to tip a pudding onto his head when Mimosa gently rests a hand on your arm. She turns to the marquis, her smile never dimming.

“How fascinating you should mention lineage, Lord Marquis,” she chirps. “I was just studying your family’s tree. It’s such a… straight line. One might almost call it sapling-like in its lack of branching diversity. So simple!” The marquis turns the color of old cheese. You have to bite your fist to keep from howling.