Location: Royal Planning Chamber, Darneth

  Mood: Equal parts royal panic, fashion-induced chaos, and unmedicated caffeine... seasoned with a heavy dose of 'we're all going to regret this in the morning.'

  “Okay,” Peter said, slapping a fresh scroll onto the planning table with the weary finality of a man facing his third existential crisis of the week. “Let’s recap what we have so far.”

  Everyone leaned forward, a motley collection of exhausted rulers, pragmatic advisors, and one cheerfully homicidal weapons expert.

  He flipped the scroll open.

  It was blank.

  Silence. The kind of silence that descends when a room collectively realizes the abyss is staring back at them, and it's wearing a particularly unflattering shade of beige.

  Peter sighed deeply, a sound that spoke of eons of bureaucratic suffering, tossed the scroll out the window, and summoned another. Also blank.

  “We have six hundred napkin sketches of outfits, a magical fireworks display that could accidentally summon a volcano, and a welcome speech written entirely in rhyming couplets by one of the maids—but we still do not have a finalized schedule or wardrobe plan.”

  “Correction,” Aman said brightly, pulling out a folder thick enough to bludgeon a troll into submission. His voice, ever the beacon of naive optimism, grated on the already frayed nerves of his companions. “I have suggestions. For both. In color-coded glory.”

  Michael groaned, a low, guttural sound that promised swift and brutal retribution for any mention of pie charts. “If this involves pie charts again, I swear I’m invoking my right as Royal Executioner to declare this meeting a lost cause.”

  “Gentlemen,” Siralyn interrupted, sipping her tea with the practiced calm of a noblewoman who was most definitely panicking internally, but years of courtly decorum had honed her ability to project serene indifference in the face of impending doom. “Let us not descend into madness. At least not until after the welcome party. There's a certain... theatricality to unraveling in full regalia.”

  Anis, seated at the head of the table like a ruler with a migraine and a rapidly dwindling supply of patience, exhaled loudly. The sound was the auditory equivalent of a kingdom collapsing under the weight of its own absurdities.

  “We need order. We need elegance. We need the illusion that we know what the hell we’re doing. Because right now, we resemble a group of drunken goblins trying to plan a wedding.”

  Aman cleared his throat, his smile faltering slightly under the combined weight of their withering stares. “I propose we fill three of the days with events the nobles love: sword duels, horse combat, and cooking competitions that end in passive-aggressive poisoning.”

  Siralyn’s eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “Poisoning is so on theme. It’s practically a Darnethian tradition.”

  Peter tapped his tablet with deadly calm, his voice a low monotone that suggested he was already composing their collective eulogy. “Alright. Let’s break this into seven days. Anis, decree it. Before I start speaking in legal Latin.”

  Anis stood, pushing himself to his full height, and dramatically waved his hand like he was conjuring divine structure from chaos. Or perhaps just trying to ward off the encroaching madness. “Fine. I name the following: The Darneth Expo of Seven Days and Probably Seven Lawsuits.”

  THE DARNETH SEVEN-DAY SCHEDULE

  Day 1: The Welcome Party

  Attire: Flashy Gold Royal Attire

  “Glittering enough to blind a diplomat and bankrupt a small nation. Capes. Shoulder tassels. Entirely too many rings. The kind of ostentation that screams, ‘Yes, we’re compensating for something, but you’ll never know what!’”

  Siralyn: “I want a collar so dramatic it needs its own throne. And possibly its own security detail.”

  Peter: “Mine lights up. And projects holographic insults at anyone who dares to under-dress.”

  Michael: “Mine has daggers in it. For... emphasis.”

  Aman: “Mine has snacks in the lining. Because a growing boy needs his sustenance, even during a diplomatic crisis.”

  Anis: whispers “Mine has all of the above. And a self-stirring martini dispenser.”

  Day 2: Food Festival

  Attire: Modest Suits and Dresses

  “Clean, classy, and expandable. Because we all know how nobles get when presented with free, potentially enchanted, food.”

  Peter: “Also stain-resistant. Because last time, someone dropped basil soup on the royal envoy from the Kingdom of Lower Pompousness. It sparked an international incident.”

  Michael: “That was me. He was eyeing my plate.”

  Anis: “Let’s avoid a repeat of The Great Garlic Standoff. I still have nightmares about the lingering aroma.”

  Day 3: Military Parade & Demonstration

  Attire: Military Uniforms

  “Functional, formal, and mildly threatening. Think less ‘parade ground pomp’ and more ‘we could conquer your kingdom before teatime if we felt like it.’”

  Michael: “My cape will have kill-count embroidery. In glow-in-the-dark thread.”

  Anis: “Your cape cannot legally hold that many skulls. We’ve been over this, Michael.”

  Michael: “Then I’ll make a second cape. A smaller, more... intimate kill-count cape.”

  Siralyn: “Can I have mine tailored like a general who just committed a political coup? Extra points for epaulettes that double as taser rods.”

  Anis: “Approved. With enthusiasm.”

  Day 4: Facility Tour of Darneth

  Attire: Everyday Casual Wear

  Aman: “I vote for enchanted jeans. The kind that never get dirty and subtly enhance your posterior.”

  Peter: “Cardigans with runes. For the discerning intellectual who also wants to subtly intimidate people with ancient magic.”

  Michael: “Tank tops that bite. Literally. They have tiny, retractable fangs.”

  Siralyn: “Chic, but make it bourgeoisie. Think ‘I own several countries, but I’m also incredibly down-to-earth and approachable, provided you don’t breathe too loudly in my presence.’”

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  Anis: “I’m wearing slippers. Fight me. It’s a power move.”

  Day 5: Sword-Fighting Tournament

  Attire: Silver Royal Attire (Combat-Ready)

  “Elegant. Shiny. Slit for leg movement. And reinforced in strategic locations, because, you know, swords.”

  Peter: “Do we have to match?”

  Siralyn: “We either slay in sartorial unity, or we die in shame. Choose wisely, Peter.”

  Michael: “Mine’s already blood-resistant.”

  Anis: “Mine’s also fireproof. For reasons that will become horrifyingly clear later.”

  Day 6: Horse Combat Exhibition

  Attire: Silver Royal Attire Again, But With Horse-Themed Accessories

  Peter: “What does that mean?”

  Anis: “I want everyone to look like the horse chose them. Think less ‘noble on horseback’ and more ‘the horse and rider are a single, majestic, slightly unhinged entity.’”

  Siralyn: “So... bridal crests? Silk reins as belts? Saddlebags as handbags? And maybe a subtle scent of hay and horse sweat?”

  Michael: “I’m getting a warhorse with piercings. And possibly a mohawk. It’s going to be glorious.”

  Aman: “The horses have wardrobes now? Are we sure we haven’t crossed some kind of line here?”

  Day 7: Farewell Celebration

  Attire: Gold Attire Again, But Make It Sadder

  Peter: “We sparkle... but mournfully. Like fallen angels who just realized they left their halos at home.”

  Michael: “Like gods weeping for the last wine bottle. A tragedy of epic proportions.”

  Siralyn: “My dress will say ‘thank you for coming’ and also ‘I’m richer than you, and you’re leaving.’ In elegant, flowing script, of course.”

  Anis: “Mine will say ‘please leave but remember who looked the best.’ And it will probably have lasers.”

  Scene: The Fashion Panic

  Peter stared at the outfit list like it had personally betrayed him. Like it had seduced his favorite algorithm and eloped to a distant server farm.

  “We don’t have any of this. Do you know how long it takes to craft tailored military tuxedos with magical embroidery? And where does one even acquire self-repairing, size-adjusting, flying gowns?”

  Anis smiled, the expression of a man who had long ago abandoned the constraints of conventional logic. “We cheat.”

  He raised a hand, and with a pulse of Item Creation and Parallel Knowledge, conjured six dress mannequins—each wearing a different masterpiece of the expo attire.

  1900s-inspired. Tailored to within an inch of their lives. Dramatic enough to make a Shakespearean tragedy blush. Dripping with nobility and weaponized flair.

  “I made them all. And they self-repair. And adjust to size. And one of them can fly. Because why not?”

  A beat. The room hung in stunned silence, the air thick with awe and a dawning realization of the sheer, unadulterated power they were in the presence of.

  Peter muttered, his voice a hollow whisper, “You’ve transcended tailoring. You’ve achieved... textile tyranny. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or terrified.”

  Michael picked up a silver coat, the fabric shimmering with an almost sentient malevolence, and twirled a dagger with a newfound appreciation for its aesthetic potential. “This jacket just asked me to start a revolution. And I’m strangely okay with that.”

  Siralyn traced the intricate embroidery on a gold cape, her eyes gleaming with avarice and a hint of something dangerously close to lust. “This will drive the elves insane with envy. I love it. I want ten.”

  Scene: Peace Before the Parade

  The wardrobe crisis averted, the seven-day plan finally confirmed, the gang slumped around the war table like victorious goblins after a particularly successful raid. The adrenaline of near-catastrophic planning slowly ebbed away, leaving behind a profound sense of exhaustion and the lingering question of whether they had just saved a kingdom or doomed it to a week of increasingly bizarre pageantry.

  Aman: “I’ll start prepping the fireworks. And maybe invest in some extra fire extinguishers. Just in case.”

  Peter: “I’ll reprogram the drones for dramatic flyovers. And ensure they don’t accidentally target the visiting dignitaries. Again.”

  Michael: “I’ll sharpen the cutlery. For symbolism. And also because one can never be too prepared for a sudden outbreak of... vigorous diplomacy.”

  Anis sighed, leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself a small, weary smile. The kind of smile that comes after staring into the abyss and realizing it’s actually quite well-dressed. “We might actually pull this off. Against all odds, logic, and the collective sanity of everyone involved.”

  Siralyn raised her wineglass, still in her war-planning slippers and with a smudge of ink on her cheek, a testament to the chaotic brilliance of their endeavor. “To style. To spectacle. To surviving seven days of nobility without anyone being assassinated. Or worse, bored.”

  Peter raised his glass with a shaky hand. “Yet.”

  Narrator: “And so the calendar was set. The outfits? Approved, albeit with a healthy dose of existential dread. The chaos? Scheduled with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker... if that watchmaker was also a pyromaniac with a penchant for the dramatic.

  The kingdom of Darneth had never looked this polished, this organized, or this dangerously fabulous. But beneath the veneer of royal composure and meticulously planned events lay the unsettling truth: they were one misplaced sequin, one ill-timed explosion, away from plunging the entire continent into a diplomatic meltdown of epic proportions. And they wouldn't have it any other way.”

  Ending Scene – “Operation: Oops They’re Here”

  Anis stood at the window of the royal command balcony, gazing over his capital with the air of a ruler who thought he had one more week to finish everything.

  “Aman,” he said, voice low and filled with the kind of calm that precedes volcanic eruption, “make room for all the guests. Every noble. Every envoy. Prepare everything you can. Just... treat this like a small war. A war with hors d'oeuvres.”

  Aman saluted and practically sprinted out of the room, barking orders to the castle staff like a man possessed. Somewhere in the distance, a maid screamed because the banquet forks were one short.

  Anis exhaled, turned away from the window—then froze.

  His left eye twitched.

  His right followed.

  A cold dread spread across his face like a slow-dripping curse.

  “Peter,” Anis said sharply, “do you have anyone on the surveillance drones right now?”

  Peter blinked, eyes flicking to his datapad. “No, sir. No reports of unusual—”

  ALERT. ALERT.

  A mechanical voice blared overhead from the HiveNet speakers.

  “TERRITORY BREACH DETECTED.”

  Peter's datapad lit up like a festival lantern.

  “Two military formations detected. Estimated arrival: fifteen minutes.”

  “Flag recognition in progress… 98% match: Kingdom of Twaggel and Vuldar Dominion.”

  “Classification: High-Royal Convoy. No hostile movement. Estimated purpose: diplomatic envoy.”

  Anis blinked. Then blinked harder.

  “They’re already here?!”

  Peter’s eyes widened in horror.

  “They came early—without sending notice!”

  Michael, now entering with three swords and a muffin, paused mid-chew. “Wait, we’re being invaded by the in-laws?”

  Anis spun toward the map table, eyes wild.

  “That’s not just any envoy. That’s the royal families. We just scheduled wardrobe yesterday. The red carpet isn’t even woven yet! The welcome spell isn’t calibrated! The roast is still defrosting! I HAVEN’T EVEN PICKED A HAIRCUT!”

  Peter was frantically tapping on his datapad. “Emergency protocol? Panic mode? Send a distraction spell? Deploy decoy Anis?”

  Michael cracked his knuckles. “We could stall them with an elaborate horse parade. I have one trained to bow on command.”

  “WE HAVEN’T EVEN DRESSED FOR DAY ONE!” Siralyn screeched, bursting into the room already halfway into her gold gown, hair curlers still glowing. “I haven’t judged my wardrobe rotation! The glitter enchantment is still unstable—it exploded a valet this morning!”

  The war room spiraled into chaos. Commands were shouted. Tables flipped. Someone was screaming about napkin origami not being finished.

  Anis, standing in the center of the maelstrom, inhaled deeply.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “This is fine. This is salvageable. We’ve handled worse. We once fought a battle with a broken projector and a goat council.”

  A beat.

  Then Peter raised one eyebrow. “Should I teleport a formal apology scroll to both kingdoms?”

  Anis straightened his coat, took a deep breath, and declared:

  “No. We march down there with confidence, charisma, and clothing hot off the conjuration spell. We pretend we expected this. We lie so well the gods themselves believe we sent the invitation early.”

  Everyone paused.

  Peter blinked. Michael nodded slowly. Siralyn narrowed her eyes, already shimmering in magic mascara.

  “Then let the lies begin,” she whispered.

  Outside, the royal drums of Twaggel and the Dwarven goldhorns echoed over the hills.

  And inside the palace, the Kingdom of Darneth prepared…

  To fake preparedness. Hard.

  Anis said, “We stall them and say they're 3 days early for the expo. We'll stall them by giving all of them citizen cards so they can pass the time, and we can work on the expo.”

  Everyone got it.