Chloelle sinks into a warm bath, exhaling sharply. She closes her eyes, content to relax her tense and aching muscles.
"Your Highness, what should I do with the dress?" Her nearby maid asks quietly, raising the dress she had worn to the celebrations that had been so cruelly cut short by nothing less than the death of the king. It had been a beautiful dress - but now it is stained heavily by the blood of her father. Chloelle eyes the dress over and heaves a great and saddened sigh.
"Dispose of it. I never wish to wear it again,"
she answers in a quiet voice.
"I wish to be left alone. I'll call you once I am done with my bath."
With sympathy, the maid nods and curtseys, before making her departure - ushering the other maids out of the room for the time being.
Chloelle listens to the sound of departing footsteps. The shutting click of a door. Then silence. She stares into the bubbles that cover the surface of the water.
Then she allows herself a small chuckle.
"A pity it was not done by my hands, father,"
she murmurs to herself.
"But do not worry. I will make sure to enjoy the coming fight over your throne. The destruction of your legacy will be a show to remember."
She exhales sharply, looking up to the ceiling. She contemplates the words of her uncle, the offer he had made.
"Are you watching, mother? Perhaps it will yet be a Diranni that sits on the throne, instead of an Arenar,"
she muses, closing her eyes as the warmth of the bath heats through her entire form.
Everyone has the potential to be an asshat in a flower crown.