I. The Coronation of Despair
Vael stood like a lifeless mannequin as a team of royal attendants swarmed him. They replaced his mismatched writer's attire with heavy, jewel-encrusted robes befitting a Royal Poet-Advisor and Divine Consort. The silk was hot, the gems were heavy, and the robe dragged like a lead curtain behind him.
What was I thinking? Vael thought, staring blankly at the polished marble floor. I thought I was a strategist, but I chose the single most politically volatile woman in the entire Kingdom. Normal girls were the goal! Now I can't even look at a commoner without fearing they'll turn out to be a foreign queen in disguise.
He was dressed, polished, and ready. His life was not saved; it was simply elevated to a more dangerous, public form of torture. The constant, hushed whispering of the nobles waiting outside only amplified his sense of dread.
II. The Ridiculous Royal Entry
The grand court doors opened, and Vael was ushered into the hall for his official presentation.
The court herald—a tiny, frail man—cleared his throat and boomed:
"BEHOLD! ARRIVING NOW! THE KING'S NEW ROYAL POET-ADVISOR! THE MAN OF DIVINE WORD AND UNSEEN POWER! WHOSE VERY MOUTH HOLDS THE KEY TO DESTINY! THE ONE WHO LOOKS LIKE A MOUSE THAT LOST ITS CHEESE! HE WALKS WITH THE STRENGTH OF A THOUSAND PETALS! PLEASE WELCOME HIS ROYAL CONSORT, VAEL!"
The court erupted in applause. Vael, walking stiffly under the weight of his new title and his elaborate robes, felt his face burn crimson.
"My entry," Vael thought bitterly, "is not an honor. It's an elaborate roast."
He was followed by his six wives, who looked less like a unified force and more like a high-fashion ambush. They marched Vael to his seat next to the King, which was strangely high and slightly wobbly.
III. The Budget Terror
The King, Aerion, beamed at Vael. "My Consort! Welcome! Now, we turn to the serious matters of the Kingdom!"
Vael quickly zoned out, focusing on the rhythmic clatter of the nearby Royal Guard's armor until the topic changed.
"Your Majesty, we now move to the Army Budget." A large, intimidating General stood up, his gaze sweeping the room.
King Aerion turned immediately to Vael, his face full of trusting adoration. "My Divine Poet-Advisor! You are the Sunbeam piercing our storm of policy! Tell us: What should be the Army's budget?"
Vael, panicking, saw the General's face—a death threat etched in every muscle. If I cut his money, he will definitely have me killed tomorrow.
"The Army budget... should be increased! For the Kingdom's protection! Yes! More budget!" Vael stammered.
The General's face relaxed. Astra, sitting behind Vael, let out a tiny, satisfied smirk.
"A decision as wise as the ages!" King Aerion exclaimed. "The Army is the Iron Heart of our Kingdom, and it shall be strengthened! Now, the Health and Welfare Budget."
A timid representative from the Health department looked pleadingly at Vael. "We desperately need more funds, Divine Consort. We must cure the plague on the southern border."
Vael felt immediate conflict.
Vael stammered, "Why don't we... increase both? Just... a little bit for both! We can find the money somewhere!"
Lyra, Vael's pragmatic strategist wife, muttered under her breath: "Statistically, that's fiscal madness."
King Aerion beamed, ignoring Lyra. "A compromise of Divine Beauty! A flowing river of funds for all! Truly a Poet's solution! It shall be done!"
Vael slumped in his seat, his head spinning. I just bankrupted the Kingdom with my fear. I'm a terrible minister!
IV. The Final, Ultimate Nightmare
Just as Vael was mentally calculating the Kingdom's debt, a frantic Royal Messenger burst into the hall.
"Your Majesty! News from the Western Frontier! The city of Stonegate is under siege! We must dispatch a relief force!"
King Aerion's eyes found Vael immediately.
"My Consort!" the King declared, his voice ringing with pride. "You are not just an Advisor; you are a Commander of Destiny! You have the strength of your five mighty Captains, the wisdom of your Princess, and the Divine Aura! You must lead the Poetic Tide to Stonegate!"
Vael's blood ran cold. A war? I'm a writer! I'm the man who looks like a mouse who lost its cheese!
King Aerion leaned close, his expression intense. "Go, my Poet-Warrior! Bring us victory! You will lead the finest, small command unit this Kingdom has ever seen!"
Vael looked at his wives—Astra was gripping her sword handle, thrilled; Serana was already calculating the logistics; and Anaya just sighed in quiet despair.
He realized the absurdity of his fate. He was going to die in a war that he had just inadvertently funded.
"Thus ended the reign of financial wisdom—and, quite possibly, of me.