The morning sun crept into the Prince's chambers, illuminating the floating dust motes and the true extent of the filth. Bastian was asleep—or pretending to be—his breathing heavy and rhythmic. I didn't care which it was. I had a kingdom to fix, and I was starting with this room.
In my past life, the first thing I did when taking over a failing company was an audit. You have to know what you're losing before you can start winning.
I began with the wardrobe. It was filled with silk tunics and velvet capes, half of them stained with wine, but as I ran my fingers over the fabric, I noticed something. Several of the heavy gold buttons on his ceremonial coat had been crudely cut off. The high-quality lace on his formal shirts had been unpicked and replaced with cheap linen.
"Theft," I whispered to myself. "Systemic, blatant theft."
The servants weren't just neglecting him; they were stripping him like a carcass in the desert. They figured the 'Trash Prince' was too drunk to notice his own clothes falling apart.
Wrong move, I thought. You don't steal from a company I'm managing.
I marched to the door and flung it open. Two young maids were gossiping in the hallway, leaning against the stone wall. They jumped when they saw me, their eyes wide with shock that I was still alive and un-beaten by the Prince.
"You two," I snapped, my voice ringing with the authority of a woman who had fired fifty people in a single afternoon. "Go to the laundry and fetch the Head Maid. Now. And tell the Palace Steward I require an audience in the Prince's receiving room in ten minutes."
"Who do you think you are?" one of them sneered, her hands on her hips. "You're just the new girl who got the death-sentence duty. We don't take orders from—"
I stepped into her personal space, my eyes cold and unblinking. "I am the Prince's Personal Aide. If you aren't moving in three seconds, I will personally report to the Empress that you were seen stealing silver spoons from the royal dining set. I wonder how many lashes that's worth these days?"
I didn't know if they had stolen spoons, but in a palace like this, everyone was stealing something. Her face went pale, and she scrambled away, dragging her friend with her.
Ten minutes later, the Head Maid—the one who had given me the bucket—walked into the room. She looked annoyed, her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her was a thin, balding man in a sharp black suit: the Palace Steward, Silas.
"What is the meaning of this interruption?" Silas asked, looking at me like I was a smudge on his shoe. "I have a palace to run."
"You have a palace to rob, apparently," I replied, holding up the Prince's coat with the missing gold buttons. "I've been in this room for twelve hours, and I've already found a twenty percent loss in royal assets. This coat is missing its buttons. The silk sheets have been swapped for cotton. Even the wine in those bottles is watered down, despite the palace being charged for the premium vintage."
The Head Maid scoffed. "The Prince is a drunk! He loses things. He breaks things. It's not our fault he's useless."
I walked toward her, my footsteps echoing on the stone. "It is your fault that you are incompetent at your job. Or worse, you are complicit. As of this moment, the Prince's chambers are under my direct management. No one enters or leaves without my signature. Every item that has 'gone missing' over the last six months will be returned by sunset, or I will involve the Palace Guard."
"You have no authority!" Silas shouted, his face turning a dark shade of red. "I am the Steward! You are a nobody!"
"She has my authority."
The voice came from the doorway. Bastian was standing there, leaning heavily against the frame. He looked a mess—his hair was wild, his eyes were bloodshot, and he held a half-empty bottle of wine. He looked every bit the 'Trash Prince' the world expected.
But as he looked at me, he gave a tiny, almost invisible nod.
"Elara is... my favorite," he slurred, taking a messy swing of the bottle. "She makes the room... bright. Whatever she says... is law. Now get out. My head hurts."
The Head Maid and Silas stared at him in horror. They had spent years treating him like a piece of furniture, and now that furniture was talking back.
"But Your Highness—" Silas started.
"Out!" Bastian roared, throwing the wine bottle. It shattered against the doorframe, inches from Silas's head.
They scrambled out of the room, tripping over each other in their haste to escape. The moment the door shut, Bastian straightened his back. The drunken haze vanished from his eyes.
"That was a bold move, Elara," he said, walking over to a chair and sitting down with a sigh. "Silas has been the Steward for twenty years. He has friends in high places. You've just made a very powerful enemy."
"I don't mind enemies," I said, picking up a broom and starting to sweep the glass shards. "Enemies are predictable. It's the 'friends' who stab you in the back that you have to worry about."
I looked at him, my gaze narrowing. "By the way, that was a terrible throw. You almost hit the wall instead of the door."
Bastian chuckled—a real, low sound that sent a strange shiver down my spine. "I'll practice. So, what's next on your 'Fixer' agenda?"
"Next," I said, pointing to his messy hair. "We're going to get you a haircut and a bath. If you're going to be a secret genius, you might as well look like one. We have a banquet to attend in three days, and that's where we're going to start your real comeback."
Bastian's smile faded. "The Empress's birthday banquet? That's a suicide mission. My brothers will be looking for any reason to humiliate me."
"Then we'll give them a reason to fear you instead," I said. "Now, get in the tub. We have work to do."