You really don’t like the pleading tone your mom speaks at you about how you need to be betrothed to the prince by the end of the nocturne. But what she doesn’t know is you’ve joined a group of rebels who plots to overthrow the now orphan prince, needing to be king and marry a woman into a queen in a week’s time.
You found out your great grandfather was overthrown by his family, the prince’s great grandfather the prime minister of his state, now the royal house of Volekio. The rebels were looking for the lost royal family members of the fallen house of Raigeen and have found the granddaughter of his royal prince in you. The rebels discovered no mistake in ascertaining your resemblance to the Raigeen descendants, beautiful hooded emerald eyes, mahogany skin, with wavy tresses and birthmark in form of a mole right above the left eye.
The rebels have asked with a promise to aid you in reclaiming your throne with proof of the royal lineage. This might be the leeway from her meagre means of life, food which assured subsistence and a hut with dearth of strength, far from withstanding harsh weathers. The plops of water which nearly inundates your abode at the entrance of monsoon, and the glacial snow renders your body to give in to a close frostbite.
More than your own, it makes your mother sustain more suffering.
“Reina,” Your mom calls you again causing you to ground yourself to reality before viewing her. Her gaze permeates an emulsion of helplessness and hope, and your heart twists a bit at the crow’s feet, creased smile lines and chapped lips.
She gave away a lot of her savings in acquiring a novel dress for you to adorn gracefully. The dress encases you faultlessly, as the bottom cascades into a hue of waterfall with a slash elongated enough to lever the knife strapped on your thigh and the bodice inked with laces.
“Mother,” You turn to view her, as a grin paints her lips.
“You look beautiful. Bewitch the prince,” she says, as the weapon weighs even heavier with every syllable.
“Thank you, mother. I will,” You speak through nearly exposing gritted teeth, the inferno of taking your kingdom back ablaze in your insides, something your grandfather and father failed to do.
You have trained tirelessly during nocturnes along the daily duties of the house, toiling to bring in money.
“Off you go,” Your mother stows a few coins on your hand to fetch a carriage, as you bid your bye to her before going off into the twinkling lights of the kingdom, the hubbub of maidens heading for the castle.
Your carriage appears to you in no time with presenting the alluring gold coins to the conductor. You are cognizant of every nook and cranny in the city to flee with your rebels if things go south, coupling with your mother on the path to sanctuary to another kingdom.
The castle glides closer, and your trepidation reaches a boundless state, perceiving your palms moist amidst the cold. You pull into the hood of your coat and await the moment you stab the prince brutally enough to immobilize him, throw him into the dungeon and proclaim your right to the throne.
The chauffeur at the front gate leads you to the ballroom, where maidens of fair age amass the space in the mammoth cubicle. The large dome above, embellished with illustrations of gods and angels is followed by a life-sized chandelier. The waiters serve sweet delicacies and drinks to the women, of which most of them chatters in manner deemed annoying you.
Nearly half hours pass before you hear the declaration of prince gracing the commoners, which levers several feigning of sighs from the ladies, while a few remain poised.
The prince is doused in golden, with a gleaming crown embedded in his head, which retracts a luster in your eyes you though you weren’t capable of. The prince climbs down the stairs as the enthusiastic ones nearly catapult at him, to which he shrugs them off sheepishly. A series of rejections later, his gaze falls upon you, and you appear indifferent to him. His steps tread closer to you as you gaze back, and you can swear he is infatuated with how you appear.
He asks you to a dance to which you don’t hesitate to take his hand for, as astonishment flashes across his face. The ballroom dance initiates as the strings weave a merry melody, while you perceive most other maidens afire in anger and jealousy.
The dance glides on for nearly one third of an hour, before your one hand glides away from his which grasped yours tenderly, a confusion creasing his brows before his eyes enlarge in fear as a slash hashes his middle.
You cut him with fearless precision as he falls to the floor, the rebels entering in timing before the crowd scatters before sprinting to the exit, shrill bellows echoing the cavern. The guards have been dealt with, in death both permanent and impermanent.
The red river circles him, his groans an even more saccharine tune to your ears, as a few rebels lever him to the dungeon, as you view him gaze with affliction and contempt as you view the cubicle. The lushness of it all enamours you as you strand a cacophonous laugh, in victory and pleasure.
DoubleSpeak 
Nice one!
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