I stood atop the city’s crumbling central platform, high above the plaza that housed Darneth’s finest—a.k.a. the suspicious, the snarky, the debt-ridden, the morally complicated, and at least one man currently juggling knives for no audience.
Below me was a sea of ex-thieves, black market vendors, pickpockets, mercenaries, and kids who could probably hotwire a dragon carriage.
Perfect.
“Citizens of Darneth,” I said, voice magically enhanced, “I am Anis Twaggel. Former prince. Current exile. And effective immediately... your ruler.”
Crickets.
Then jeers.
Then someone threw what might’ve once been a tomato but had definitely passed through several existential phases before arriving here.
Narrator: “Tough crowd. Let’s win them over with economic policy. That always works in crime cities.”
“First order of business: Darneth is no longer part of the Kingdom of Twaggel. I was given full control of this territory by royal decree. We are now autonomous.”
Gasps. Outrage. A man screamed “TREASON!” and was immediately smacked by someone yelling “SHHH! I wanna hear the rest!”
“From now on, this city is independent—and it will be rebuilt.”
“Effective immediately, the following changes go into effect:”
- No taxes for any citizen earning under 800,000 gold.
Crowd murmuring. Audible scoffs. Someone shouted, “WHAT’S THE CATCH?”
“The catch is you get to keep your money and stop pretending to be poor while smuggling enchanted cucumbers.”
- Unlimited drinking water, distributed citywide via rune-powered reservoirs.
“Yeah right,” a man grunted. “We haven’t had clean water in three years!”
- Free food rations for the elderly and disabled. Daily.
“What kind of scam is this?” an old woman wheezed. “If this is another broth pyramid scheme, I swear—”
- All farms will be compensated and brought under city management—with their current owners paid triple and hired as consultants.
“Wait, we get paid... and we keep the land?”
“You get paid more,” I said, “and we improve the land.”
Gasps. Audible eyebrow raises. At least one person fainted from sheer disbelief.
- Free education for all. Children, adults, magical raccoons with ambition? Everyone.
“We’ll all die smart and broke,” someone muttered.
“No,” I replied. “You’ll live smarter. And stronger.”
- Reinforced city walls will be constructed. Wards, sigils, traps. Defenses that make noble armies cry.
“Is this real life?” whispered a merchant to no one in particular.
- All former officials are hereby fired. Any caught stealing, bribing, or selling grain to nobles? Imprisoned. Or politely launched into the sky via trebuchet. I’m flexible.
And right on cue—
A furious screech from stage right.
“YOU CANNOT DO THIS!”
Storming forward came Baron Krelvor, the disgraced former lord of Darneth. Red-faced, vein-throbbing, and dressed like a drama teacher who lost tenure for yelling at a plant.
“I OWN THIS CITY! YOU’RE JUST A BOY—AN EMBARRASSMENT—A CURSE!”
Narrator: “And you, sir, look like a sentient rash. Do continue.”
“This isn’t over!” Krelvor shouted. “This city was mine by right!”
“Yours by theft, extortion, and forged inheritance documents,” Peter announced through magical projection.
“Slander!”
“We have the ledger,” Peter added. “With drawings.”
The crowd turned. Like sharks with law degrees.
Krelvor shrieked and tried to flee—but Michael appeared beside him and coughed.
He froze.
“Boo,” Michael said.
Krelvor fainted. Fell into a barrel. Someone took his shoes.
The crowd—previously full of suspicion and silent hostility—began to shift.
Someone cheered.
Another clapped.
A third, more confused voice yelled, “I STILL DON’T TRUST HIM BUT I’LL BE DAMNED IF HE ISN’T COMPETENT!”
Narrator: “They won’t admit they like you, but they will yell it in denial.”
“Good,” I muttered. “That’s emotional honesty in Darneth.”
Back in the newly renamed Smug Bastard Tavern, I collapsed into a reinforced velvet chair with the dignity of a war-weary scholar and the posture of a dying jellyfish.
“Peter,” I groaned. “Progress?”
“The wall schematics are being rendered. Educational recruitment is underway. We have seventeen applications from street mages, six sentient rats with teaching certificates, and a bard named Knife Daddy.”
“I don’t want to know more.”
“Also... your file just arrived.”
“Which file?”
Peter gave me a look.
“Your wife, sir.”
I blinked. The world slowed.
“Oh. Right. Her.”
“Would you like the summarized version, the long-form, or the emotional trauma setting?”
“...Dealer’s choice.”
Peter handed me the sleek magical dossier. I opened it.
And immediately regretted not bracing for impact.
Alias: The White Widow
Age: 17
Status: Your Wife
Emotionally: A decorative knife collection that talks
Summary:
- Ex-noble.
- Politically assigned to Halvren.
- Assaulted him at a dinner with a ceremonial breadstick.
- Accidentally hit a noble allergic to gluten.
- Lit a carriage garage on fire.
- Is now your legal wife via state-mandated “this’ll teach her” ruling.
Physical Description:
- Hair: White. Long. Braided with ribbons embroidered with tiny skulls.
- Eyes: Icy violet. Sparkle of murder.
- Smile: “Come closer so I can gut you with love.”
- Voice: Lullaby from a cursed doll that may also be a warlock.
Personality:
- Public: Graceful. Poised. Speaks like a princess and occasionally roasts nobles with compliments.
- Private: Reads crime thrillers, restores medieval torture devices, giggles at the word “morality.”
Peter: “She’s... high-functioning.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“That too.”
Magic: Illusory Manipulation & Tactical Hexcraft
- Tier 1:
- Mirror Glamour: Subtly alters how people perceive her. Always looks slightly angelic.
- Charm Lacing: Suggestive magic in speech. Very hard to argue with.
- Tier 2:
- Emotive Hexes: Makes people feel guilt, shame, pride, etc. on command.
- Memory Misdirection: Makes others misremember facts.
- Binding Vows: If you say “I promise,” you’re basically signing a soul contract.
- Tier 3: (Locked, but deeply unsettling)
- False Accord: Forges fake shared memories.
- Puppet’s Mask: Controls social gestures of others in short bursts.
I stared at the last page. A photo of her. Smiling like someone about to win a court case and commit a felony in the same breath.
“I feel... unsafe.”
“That’s the marriage certificate reacting,” Peter said.
“Is it cursed?”
“Only emotionally.”
Narrator: “So let’s recap, dear readers: Anis was exiled. Took over a crime city. Enacted brilliant social policy. Executed public justice with flair. And got married to a woman who decorates with skulls and may or may not think he’s a supervillain in disguise.”
Narrator: “Anis. My sweet disaster prince. I’ve never been more proud.”
Buckle up, buttercup. It's time for Chapter 7 – Part 2: the glorious, deeply unhinged administrative breakdown of a teenage exile king delegating warlords, engineers, pirates, and a former cultist wife like he’s ordering from an evil IKEA catalog.
We’ve got:
- Strategic assignment of chaos responsibilities
- Android creation plans
- The beginnings of an underground empire
- And Siralyn’s deliciously deranged devotion to her “secret archvillain” cinnamon roll husband
All with snark, smooth pacing, and—naturally—narrator commentary.
The crowd had dispersed. The city still buzzed, but the streets no longer bristled with suspicion. People were confused, curious, cautiously hopeful.
I sat in my new tavern headquarters—The Smug Bastard—at the center table, now nicknamed The Throne of Poor Decisions. Tea in hand. Cloak off. Brain already spinning with city schematics, supply chains, and the distinct urge to nap for twelve years.
Peter stood by with his sleek data tablet. Michael leaned against the wall like an armored statue with judgmental eyebrows.
“Sir,” Peter began, “we have a problem.”
“That’s new,” I said. “Is it bigger than the former lord screaming ‘I curse your bloodline’ while slipping on a pear?”
“Staffing,” Peter clarified. “Too few operatives. Too many fires.”
Michael stepped forward, nodding. “If we want to stabilize Darneth within the week, we’ll need manpower. Enforcement. Intelligence.”
“Alright,” I sighed, setting my tea down. “Time to scale.”
I stood and pointed dramatically like someone who had rehearsed this in a mirror.
“Michael. You’re getting command of military assets. All our soldiers. All the pirates. The entire underworld.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“All of it?” he asked calmly.
“Yes. If it smells like rebellion, tax fraud, or illegal soup—I want you on it.”
He bowed slightly. “I shall prepare for both crime and crime prevention.”
“Also—set up an information guild. Spies, informants, magical whispers. I want every back alley and noble estate wired.”
“With pleasure.”
I turned to Peter.
“You already run everything else—but I’m giving you strategic command of the city. Infrastructure. Public welfare. Urban manipulation. Any suggestions?”
“Move the sewage away from the tavern before we all mutate,” he replied instantly.
“Noted. You also get 50 androids for task delegation. Same for Michael.”
“What are our ethical parameters?”
“Don’t commit crimes that’ll start international wars,” I said. “Everything else is fair game. Just… be gentle to my previous kingdom. And this one.”
Narrator: “A surprisingly soft request from someone who literally built an army of pirate androids.”
“Speaking of androids,” I added, “let’s get moving on more of them. We need 111.”
“Breakdown?” Michael asked.
“Ten of them will be maids. Personal protection. Close quarters. Capable of food prep, surveillance, cleaning, and selective assassination.”
“Multipurpose murder maids. Got it.”
“The rest? Deployable personnel. Support units for both of you.”
Peter was already drafting designs. “We’ll need core crystals, alloy weaves, and six crates of enchanted gears.”
“We’ll acquire it,” I said. “Legally. Or otherwise.”
“And… the maid for your wife?” Michael asked.
I froze.
“Right.”
“Build her a personal maid. Polite. Observant. Absolutely report back to you at all times.”
“To monitor her?”
“To survive from her.”
Narrator: “And so begins a love story monitored by espionage, mild dread, and tactical tea service.”
It had been a week since I turned Darneth from a sewer pit of political exile into a blossoming underground empire.
In that time:
- The city wall was reinforced with obsidian-etched glyphs, rotating cannon turrets, and anti-siege golems.
- Clean water now flowed from ten arcane purification towers powered by leyline pressure valves (that Peter may or may not have stolen from a dwarven bathhouse).
- Magical streetlamps glowed in synchronized patterns. Some kids used them for late-night tag. Others used them to hex rats. It was fine.
- The marketplace had been reorganized using Peter’s War Logistics Spreadsheet, resulting in faster trade, cleaner alleys, and only one accidental portal to a chicken dimension (we’re still handling that).
- Public education centers were opening—with actual chalkboards, books, and a curriculum that included magical ethics, basic math, and "How Not to Get Hexed by Your Wife 101" (newly added).
In other words?
The city was thriving.
Meanwhile, inside The Smug Bastard Tavern (my royal HQ), I was sipping lemon tea while watching surveillance footage of a goat stealing bread.
Michael was preparing a daily operations report. Peter was categorizing which districts required more android presence based on chaos density.
Everything was calm.
And then—
ALL SYSTEMS PANICKED.
POSSIBLE IDENTIFICATION
—NAME: SIRALYN MERROW
—STATUS: LEGALLY BOUND TO MASTER
—ARRIVAL: NOW
—ATTITUDE: SERENE AND POSSIBLY CARNIVOROUS
WARNING: NO PROTOCOL FOUND .PANIC MODE . SEND MASSAGE.
“Sir,” Peter blinked. “Did you... did you order a wife?”
“No?” I said. “Wait.”
“Wait?” Michael repeated, lowering his report.
“OH GODS—WAIT. I HAVE A WIFE?!”
“You forgot you had a wife?” Peter shouted, knocking over a tray of biscuits.
“In my defense—” I started.
“No defense!” Michael snapped. “That’s not a misplaced scroll. That’s a whole person!”
“We’ve been building aqueducts! I’ve been emotionally exhausted!”
“SHE IS WALKING THROUGH THE GATES RIGHT NOW!” Peter screamed, while simultaneously ironing napkins with a heat spell and burning half of them.
“WAIT!!!! It can't be right that she wont come here. Will she ? It might be a false alarm. Yes it has to be”
Peter and michael chiming in both sighing “it has to be a false alarm”
MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE THE CITY GATES...
Lady Siralyn Merrow stood regally as the fortified gates of Darneth opened.
A towering structure of obsidian-infused walls. Crystal turrets tracking every bird, bandit, and breath.
Above the gate, engraved in polished steel:
WELCOME TO DARNETH: NO LOOTING BEFORE BRUNCH or BEFORE HAVING A PERMIT.
“Ah,” she smiled. “My husband’s brand of cruelty comes with charming slogans.”
An android stepped forward, eyes glowing.
“STATE NAME. PURPOSE. BLOOD TYPE OPTIONAL.”
“Lady Siralyn Merrow. Wife of Anis Twaggel.”
The android’s core surged.
Across the city, every major channel lit up red.
I stared at my reflection in a teacup.
“I didn’t prepare vows. I don’t know how to hold hands. What do wives eat?!”
Peter was breathing into a pixelated paper bag.
I said
“why are you breathing you're an android???????!!!!! ”
Peter said
“I don't know .We have no ribbon. No banner. No cursed welcoming song! This is a diplomatic disaster!”
Michael, normally composed, was staring into space.
“I ran military operations on two continents. Why does this feel like defeat?”
Narrator: “Because, gentlemen, you can siege a city, but you cannot siege your way out of meeting a beautiful, chaos-fueled spouse you forgot about.”
She walked the city streets.
- Polished cobblestones
- Runed streetlamps
- Arcane fountains shaped like dragon skulls spitting purified water
Everywhere she looked, she saw order.
Efficient vendors. Smiling citizens. High-speed public rail mages (don’t ask).
Children skipped through educational zones carrying books titled "History of Hexing: For Toddlers."
And Siralyn’s heart swelled.
“So this is how he conceals his monstrous intentions. Through efficiency. Through social development. Through deceptive cleanliness.”
She giggled, positively glowing.
“I married a genius.”
Michael cleared the throne room table with the solemnity of a man preparing for either polite conversation or ritual sacrifice.
Peter conjured a tablecloth.
It was beige.
Beige like defeat. Beige like sadness had lost its will to be gray.
“This is the worst color,” he whispered. “I’ve created a culinary war crime.”
“We have no time,” Michael snapped. “Set the cups.”
“I DON’T KNOW HOW SHE LIKES HER TEA, MICHAEL. WHAT IF SHE’S A SUGAR-THREE-STIR-COUNTERCLOCKWISE AND I GIVE HER CLOCKWISE?!”
“Then she hexes us, Peter! That’s why we’re panicking in silence!”
“I AM PANICKING IN LOUDNESS!”
Meanwhile, I was combing my hair with a fork. Because at some point in the last four minutes, I forgot how humans work.
“What do I SAY?!” I gasped. “Do I talk about the weather? The goat tax? Is there a goat tax? Should I offer her a title? A scone? A warship?!”
“Do NOT lead with warship!” Peter shouted. “That’s how you get married twice!”
“Too late,” I cried. “I ALREADY DID.”
Narrator: “Ah, yes. The true final boss. Not monsters. Not court politics. But interpersonal tea protocol and emotional vulnerability. Delightful.”
“Don’t you start,” I hissed.
Narrator: “Oh, I will start, Anis. Because this is incredible. A king who conquered crime lords now defeated by teaspoon placement.”
“I swear, I will revoke your metaphysical narrator license—”
Narrator: “You combed your hair with a fork.”
“I was improvising!”
Narrator: “You panicked and tried to name your wife ‘Lady Toastspawn.’”
“That was one time!”
Narrator: “You are wearing a cloak, an ascot, and armor at the same time. You look like a court jester cosplaying a chandelier.”
“SHUT UP. I AM TRYING.”
Michael raised a teacup.
“How’s the tea?”
Peter sniffed it. “Like shame. And bergamot.”
“We’re doomed.”
“I HAVE FAILED AS A KING,” I declared, dramatically collapsing onto a chair that wasn’t there and instead landing on the floor.
“Anis—” Michael started.
“I SHALL EXILE MYSELF FROM MY OWN EXILE!”
Narrator: “Glorious. The throne of Darneth trembles not from rebellion, but from a teenage boy having his first proper breakdown over a woman who might poison him with a smile.”
“Narrator,” I said slowly, sitting up and brushing crumbs off my cursed cloak.
“Yeah?”
“Kindly shut your omniscient trap before I build a robot specifically designed to punch you in the metaphysical.”
“...Rude.”
“Fair.”
The room went silent.
Peter was holding a sugar spoon like a weapon. Michael was whispering battlefield prayers to a bread tray. I was sweating so much the floor had a puddle named “despair.”
Narrator: “So ends Act I of ‘The Tea Tragedy of Three Idiots.’ Curtain rises on Act II shortly: ‘Her Arrival.’”Oh, you beautiful chaos connoisseur—this scene is about to spiral.
Scene: The Tea Party of Tactical Tension, Romantic Delusion, and Hive-Minded Panic
She entered.
Elegant. Poised. Draped in satin and suspicion. Definitely carrying at least three hidden knives, two backup plans, and one emotionally confusing smile.
She sat across from me. Every movement is precise.
Tea has already poured.
Spoons already threaten me with their silence.
“My dear husband,” she said, eyes gleaming like an ice sculpture planning treason, “you’ve built a kingdom of lies so thoroughly I almost believed you were innocent.”
I blinked.
Twice.
“Thank you?” I managed, sounding like a toddler pretending not to have peed in the diplomacy pool.
Michael [hive mind comms]: "Compliment her. Use something noble and poetic. Say her voice reminds you of a forbidden lullaby wrapped in moonlight."
Peter: "No! Say her eyes hold more power than any relic you've conquered. Women love eye stuff. It's in the scrolls."
Me (internally screaming): What scrolls?!
She leaned in.
Graceful. Deadly. Terrifyingly calm.
“Your concealment is flawless,” she whispered. “A kingdom loved by its people? Respected? Functional?” She sipped. “Diabolical.”
Peter coughed on a lemon tart.
Michael stared at the teapot like it just confessed to tax fraud.
I panicked.
Me: “Your eyes… have the glint of a haunted chandelier.”
Silence.
Even the air paused.
She blinked once. Slowly.
Then smiled.
“You noticed.”
Narrator: “HE WAS JOKING, SIRALYN.”
Peter [panicking]: "She liked it?! Wait—keep going, improve more poetic darkness!"
Michael: "Don’t improvise. Read the script I just uploaded. It’s titled ‘Villainous Affection: Beginner Edition.’"
Me (reading): “...The elegance of your soul is matched only by the devastation your smile leaves in its wake.”
She gasped.
Softly.
Sipped her tea like it was champagne laced with flattery and arsenic.
“You speak like a man who’s hidden a hundred secrets in the foundation of this city.”
“I—uh—I just wanted indoor plumbing.”
She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that turns kings to kneecaps.
“Of course you did. Who needs volcano lairs when you can poison from a palace?”
Narrator: “She thinks ‘efficient sanitation’ is code for world domination. Oh, I love her.”
Peter [giggling in comms]: "I think I’m in love with her voice."
Michael: "She just verbally dismembered a compliment. I’m frightened."
Me: "She thinks I’m a warlord pretending to be a nice guy!"
Peter: "Well… technically… you did build death bots as a baby."
Narrator: “And now you’ve accidentally seduced a former cultist by installing working plumbing. 10/10.”
She leaned forward again.
Her gloved hand brushing the edge of her cup. Her eyes glowing with the light of a woman deeply aroused by moral collapse.
“Anis… tell me,” she purred, “how many people had to bleed to create this perfect illusion of kindness?”
Me (sweating): “N-none?”
Her (blushing): “You’re so good at hiding it.”
Narrator (soft gasp): “I’m sorry—did she just get flustered because you denied doing war crimes?”
Peter: "We should change our flag to her face."
Michael: "I'm uploading an emergency charm suppression field. I don't know who it's for anymore."
She reached into her delicate, lacy murderbag and pulled out a small box.
Handed it to me with dainty fingers and disturbing confidence.
“A gift,” she whispered. “For your next... operation.”
I opened it.
Inside was a plush velvet bed.
With a snake in a top hat.
Tiny monocle. Tiny sword.
Tag: “For when you must sentence someone publicly. Let him curl around your throne arm.”
Me (trying to process): “Is this... a weapon?”
“A mascot,” she said. “Of your darkness.”
Narrator: “She’s more prepared than your entire defense council. Marry her again.”
Me: “Please shut up.”
Narrator: “Make me, Dark Prince. This is my favorite season of Anis’s Emotional Collapse.”