Lamps dangled from the ceiling at crooked angles. Chairs didn’t match. Music played from an unseen fiddle in the back corner. The air was warm, loud, and filled with the scent of bread, spice, and magic that had no business being legal.
It was not a place for princesses.
Which is why, when Amorette stepped through the tavern doors — holding the skirt of her slightly-dirtied pink gown, cheeks rosy, and Peach curled like a scarf around her neck — the entire room fell silent.
Like, drop-your-mug-and-stare silent.
Pascal stepped in after her, raising an eyebrow at the crowd. “Everyone alright?”
One woman at the bar squinted. “Is that… the princess?”
Another voice, from somewhere near the back:161Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCs4NKRUXbu
“Wait. Is she wearing ruffles?”
Amorette blinked. She smiled gently, gave a shy little wave. “Bonjour?”
A big, scarred man leaned toward a friend and whispered, “Wasn’t the prophecy supposed to be about some kind of warrior?”
“Yeah,” someone else muttered. “The girl who would save us all. Break the curse. Lead the rebellion. Y’know. Epic stuff.”
“Does she even have a sword?”
“...I think she has a ferret.”
“I have a name,” Peach squeaked, indignant.
Amorette, now gently petting Peach in reassurance, whispered to Pascal:161Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBBHMmHwY9d
“They’re all staring at me like I’m a kitten at a wolf meeting.”
Pascal crossed his arms, amused. “They expected fire. They got frosting.”
Amorette gave him a soft glare. “I can be fearsome.”
He looked her up and down. “You’re currently glowing.”
“That’s a natural dewy finish, thank you.”
The crowd kept staring, clearly unsure what to do with this soft-spoken royal in a ruined ballgown who looked more likely to throw flower petals than fireballs.
Until one old woman — sitting near the hearth — finally stood up.
She walked slowly across the tavern, eyes narrowed... then stopped in front of Amorette and tilted her head.
“…You really her?”
Amorette blinked. “Her who?”
“The girl in the prophecy.”
Amorette swallowed. She didn’t feel like a prophecy. She felt like a nervous cinnamon roll in muddy shoes.
But still… she lifted her chin, her voice soft but steady. “If the prophecy says someone will help the feralveils... then I think I am.”
The old woman stared at her a beat longer... then smiled.
“Well,” she said. “Guess the world don’t always need a sword. Sometimes it needs someone who’s kind.”
Amorette’s cheeks warmed. “Oh. Um... thank you.”
The silence broke. Soft murmurs turned into chatter. Someone in the back even muttered, “She’s cuter than the warrior version anyway.”
Pascal smirked.
Amorette tucked a curl behind her ear and whispered, “...Do they have cake?”
The tavern never really went back to normal.
Even though people had returned to their bread, their drinks, their conversations — eyes still flicked toward Amorette like she might suddenly sprout wings. Or sneeze glitter. Or start glowing even more than she already did.
Pascal led her to a table near the fireplace, and she sat down delicately like she might break the chair with royal guilt.
Peach hopped onto the table with a tiny squeak of approval.
A moment later, a tankard thudded onto the table.
Amorette looked up.
A large woman with silver hair braided down her back stood there with her arms crossed and a face carved entirely from "No-nonsense."
“Name’s Mags,” she said gruffly. “I run this place.”
Amorette nodded nervously. “I-I like your braids.”
“She’s cute,” Mags said flatly to Pascal. “Too cute. I don’t trust it.”
Pascal smirked. “That’s fair.”
Then — from somewhere near the stairs — came the shrill strumming of a lute.
A bard leapt dramatically onto a table.
"🎶 There once was a bunny, soft and small,161Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr8FUNS880X
Who stumbled from a tower tall!161Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Dp8zZanCm
With ruffles bright and dewdrop eyes,161Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWAJXULIHeS
She came to save us — what a surprise! 🎶”
“Oh no,” Amorette whispered.
“Is he singing about me?” she asked, voice full of dread.
Mags rolled her eyes. “That’s Twig. He sings about everything. Ignore him and he’ll run out of rhymes.”
Unfortunately, Twig did not run out of rhymes.
Meanwhile, another voice chimed in across the tavern — this one sharp and bitter:
“You expect her to save us?”
Amorette turned.
Leaning against the far wall was a girl about her age, maybe older — tall, elegant, and dressed in sleek, dark clothes that screamed “I’m edgy and I know it.” She had silver-white hair in a high ponytail, and sharp eyes that flicked over Amorette with disdain.
“This is a joke,” the girl snapped. “She looks like a tea party.”
Pascal muttered, “Oh, here we go.”
The girl stalked closer, boots clicking.
“I trained every day for this. I studied the texts. I survived raids. I can shift into a shadow panther without sneezing.” She pointed at Amorette. “And you? What do you do? Paint flowers and trip on stairs?”
Amorette’s lips parted.
Her heart raced.
She was suddenly aware of how small her voice was. How soft her hands were. How much she looked like someone who belonged in a storybook, not a battlefield.
But still.
She stood.
Not boldly. Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
And with kindness.
“I don’t want to take your place,” she said gently. “I didn’t ask to be anything.”
The other girl scoffed.
“But maybe… I’m here because I’m different.”
The room hushed again.
Amorette smiled — small, sweet, unsure.
“Maybe we’ve already tried warriors. And we still ended up afraid. Maybe what we need now is someone who can love without a sword in her hand.”
Pascal stared at her, something shifting behind his eyes.
Even Mags looked… thoughtful.
The edgy girl huffed and turned on her heel, storming off. “We’ll see how long the frosting lasts when the fire comes.”
Amorette sat back down, trying not to show how much her hands were shaking.
Peach gave her a reassuring nuzzle.
Twig the bard was now writing a second verse.
The tension had slowly melted back into the hum of tavern life. People returned to their conversations. Twig the bard began rehearsing a third verse under his breath ("🎶 She speaks with softness, not with steel... and somehow makes us feel—!").
Pascal leaned over the table toward Amorette, voice low.
“You alright?”
She nodded, cheeks flushed from nerves and defiance. “I think so. I stood up for myself. Politely. That counts, doesn’t it?”
He smiled. “It counts a lot.”
Then, as if summoned by divine pastry magic, Mags returned to the table holding a little plate.
She slid it in front of Amorette.
On it was a small, heart-shaped slice of lemon-rose cake. Soft pink icing. A tiny sugar bunny on top. Handmade, a little lopsided. Perfect.
Amorette gasped so dramatically that Peach startled and nearly fell off her lap.
“You had cake this whole time and waited?!”
Mags gave her a deadpan look. “Didn’t think frosting was fit for a hero.”
Amorette’s eyes sparkled as she picked up a tiny fork.
“Then you’ve never met the right kind of hero.”
She took a bite — delicate, careful — and let out a tiny, blissful sigh like the entire world had just been forgiven.
Pascal, amused, leaned back in his chair. “You’re glowing again.”
“It’s the sugar,” she mumbled through a mouthful. “It’s made of joy.”
A few people nearby smiled.
Someone clapped.
The warmth spread.
And for the first time in a very, very long time — in a room full of strangers, rebels, bards, and bickering shapeshifters — Amorette felt safe.
Not hidden.
Not locked away.
Not broken.
Just… soft. Real. Herself.
The girl in the ruffles. The girl with paint-stained sleeves. The bunny princess of prophecy.
She had no idea what came next.
But maybe, just maybe… she belonged here.
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