It's not gonna be fine.

This was the exact opposite of "fine" in fact: the worst case scenario, the ultimate disaster in the making.

But she had it all under control.

Because Sophia Elise the Eighth, Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium, has never once panicked in her twenty-one years of life. Throughout her childhood to even her early teens, this girl was the paragon of calmness and composure—never once feeling a shred of anxiety or fear in the face of even the most terrifying of conversations: from those shadowed political meetings where she'd sit in silence in the corner as an observer, or even the dreaded "so how did your day go" question from mother, father, or all of her siblings. Sophia Else wouldn't even break a sweat for those.

No, we totally did. Her internal monologue corrects her. The moment we got called out at the dinner table we'd give them the 'alright,' or even when we had to present a practice speech in front of our personal maids and tutors we'd practically throw up with anxiety.

And now, we are so dead.

Sophia Elise the Eighth was probably going to die now, in the very halls of the holiest place in all of Ensolia.

No time for an internalized lore dump! She reminds herself, quickly slapping her cheeks in this oversized dressing room. Especially since we have near-zero knowledge of the Palatial Temple, or anything even close to Dominion history.

Because for the silly and mundane return of a Crown Prince and his wife to Landfall, the entire Court was in attendance.

Every single soul in the Lower and Higher had been forced into the grand hall of the Palatial Temple this single evening, forced under the threat of tradition and the mandates by the Lord of the Dominion, to attend the ceremonial return of his son and the demon he was now married to.

This is much more serious than we expected. Some part of Sophia tries to calm this near hyperventilating girl. Every single political figure we will be forced to interact with for the rest of our life here in this foreign country will be here. They'll remember if we'll trip, stutter, or even fart.

Don't mess it up.

Sophia tries to take a breath, tries to recenter her blurring vision, a hand resting at the edge of this beautifully engraved, gold leaf embedded wooden mirror frame.

Some carved depiction of a historical epic; of running deer and flying dragons slain by gunfire pressing into flesh as this foreign princess leans against this article of furniture, trying not to puke her guts out.

Quick, sensory recentering. She wills herself back into noble cohesion. Breathe and look at ourselves. We are Sophia Elise the Eighth, we are the Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium. We are grace, we are perfect, we are wonderful, we are beauty and power incarnate!

So she forces herself to look at that strange being in the mirror, at this peculiarly dressed individual that was staring back at her with an ice cold scowl.

A Tianci styled dress on her slim body, those dark silk threads inlaid with gold fitting her a little too snug for her own comfort. Like a sheet of plastic on her skin, plastered with an extra layer of barely breathable cotton that was starting to sag in all the wrong places.

Her usual mess of blonde hair had been braided near-perfectly by those four servants that were ordered to attend to her, studded with a single abyssal black hairpin that stuck out the side of her head with a bit too much weight.

We'll have to live with it for the next fifteen minutes girl. Her internal monologue scowls alongside her actual face. At least we don't look like we ran into a brick wall full force… three times in a row.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Credit where credit's due: those servants of Zai's had somehow made those dark circles beneath her eyes disappear, that bed-head mess into a densely packed geometric braid that ran down her back, and perhaps most importantly: dressed her into a near perfect representation of a Tiancin noblewoman from a slack faced central Ensolian girlfailure.

Only if we don't count the fact that we're a blonde haired, blue eyed interloper in their court. Some thought process whispers.

Guardsman Mori Fushimi crosses her arms as she watches Sophia observe herself, a snide complement on her lips. "All due respect your highness, you do look pretty good~"

Sophia is so overwhelmed that she can't even muster up a good response, defaulting to that dead tone of death. "It is not up to me to decide."

"Well, Zai'll never say it himself. But if he hesitates after seeing you, that means he agrees with me~" Mori takes a moment to glance at the Impericutta taking the flank of the room, the Ceramic Demon itself there as nothing more than lethal decoration. Still, she does take an opportunity to tease it. "Hey Doll, whatcha you think of your god? Looks good don't it?"

It speaks behind that solid faceplate, inhuman and dead. "I cannot make such judgement."

"Yeah yeah." Mori scoffs, returning to her new master. "Whatever the case Ma'am, tradition states that we guards will have to remain outside of the throne room for this Rite of Arrival. Your security inside will be dictated by the Lord of the Dominion himself and his own personal entourage of Guardsman. They're good, not as good as me of course, but he's got an entire platoon so don't feel like your life is at stake. Well, unless you screw up the prostration. Last time someone did that they literally got their brains blown out right there and then."

Sophia could probably care less about safety at this current moment, but still she quickly nods at that brief security briefing from that Guardsman.

Something raps at the door, with Mori scoffing at that very distinct five knock code behind the mahogany wood. "Guess who it is, Ma'am~"

There's an awkward silence at that, at those words before Sophia realizes that this greeting was on her shoulders now. "C-come in?!"

The room carries with it the scent of sandalwood and the salty sea, and this misshapen brain launches into a full section 1 defense protocol alert.

He's here.

Goddess he's here, be ready.

The Crown Prince of the Tianci Dominion is dressed in something concerningly similar to her own article of clothing, the black silken undershirt hugging his thin frame a little too well alongside the obvious thickness of that cotton robe inlaid with gold trim.

Makeup on his face exemplifies those longing eyes, the boyish curve on his face; every part of him smooth and pale like polished ceramic.

There's a hair piece on his head of well combed hair too, the opposite of Sophia's in some strange yet comparable design of gold and black.

And for a few seconds he simply stands from the doorway, hands folded in front of him in some submissive motion of the Ensolian continent's husband-wife traditionality.

Sophia's brain gives her the options:

Flirt

Serious

Understanding

Flirt: You're beautiful, Zai. Her brain tells her the "correct" line in this series of selectable options, concentrating perhaps a bit too much read smut into a critical mass of decision making. Say it to him, let him react to it.

"A h a." Sophia coughs out with some weird half-flirt, half-ice cold anguish. "N-Nice hair… hair piece."

"T-thanks." Zai bows gently, taking that misshapen compliment as permission to enter further into her domain. He takes a breath, coming close. "Y-you look ready."

Sophia detects that bead of sweat falling from his neck, and the tapered exhale that hides just a little too much panic within his chest.

He's afraid to even meet his father.

"Remember, just keep this simple." Zai begins to assure, making his voice as inhumanly calm as possible. "We approach together, keep an even pace. Around seven meters from the first step we'll stop: just follow my actions. After seven seconds, perform a high-court prostration, and then wait for him to bid us to rise; it shouldn't take more than seven seconds… perhaps longer if he decides to let us sit there."

He's forgotten to take a breath in this hurried briefing, taking a moment to inhale. "Once we stand, he'll bid us leave. He will say 'Go, in peace.' Once he says that; turn around, walk back the thousand steps. Speak nothing, do not stare at anyone. Do you understand?"

Sophia is so overwhelmed she can barely answer, instead formatting it into a question. "Y-yeah? B-but what's a High-Court Prostration?"

There's a long quiet, silence as a hallowed moment crosses the slack, shocked faces of both Guardsman Fushimi and Zai Tianci.

Uh oh.

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