Mamihlapinatapai
Roin has finally ascended to the throne as queen. After holding a grand funeral for her father, she has officially taken her place as ruler.
A lavish red carpet. A throne forged from gold. Ministers standing rigidly at her sides. In the distance beyond the palace terrace, vast expanses of national territory. All of it belongs to the queen now. All of it is hers to govern from this day forward.
The one who dons the crown must bear its weight, they say. Her neck already aches faintly. The cold metal of the crown against her forehead feels like an eternal needle piercing her skull.
"...This doesn't feel real."
Roin mutters blankly from her seat on the throne. Beside her, Cliche chews on a grape and replies.
"But it is real."
Cliche points a finger straight above Roin's head.
"...?"
Roin follows his finger upward with her gaze. Above the throne hangs a single rope dangling from the ceiling. At its end, a razor-sharp longsword sways gently, tied and poised to drop at any moment—aimed directly at the crown of her head.
This is the late king's decree: A king must never relax under the blade that could fall without warning. For a small nation to survive, the ruler must always be as sharp as that blade, prepared for everything. Betrayal from trusted ministers, counterattacks from allied nations, rebellions by traitors, monster hordes, countless diplomatic maneuvers striking from the shadows. From now on, true tension begins.
This is the moment she truly realizes that the throne is no easy seat.
Roin smiles at Cliche. A fallen royal with no power. A mere mountain village girl. She sits here now because of him. Once the coronation ends and she receives the royal seal, she will be a true queen.
Meanwhile, below the throne, the coronation ceremony is in full swing.
"Ahem, ahem! It is an indescribable honor to stand in this glorious place."
Int, the candidate for prime minister, has volunteered to read the congratulatory address.
"My younger sister, now ascended as queen—Roin, who has become queen—proves that the energies of the entire universe have aided her. To reaffirm this celebration once more, I pray earnestly for the well-being of all gathered here, knowing full well that this is the heartfelt desire of our esteemed citizens whom I so respect."
As Int's address concludes, sobs of profound and overwhelming emotion erupt here and there. Thunderous applause and cheers fill the entire hall, echoing the deep impact of his words.
"Prince Int's speeches are always so refined—there's just this aura about them!"
"Blessings on that magnificent address!"
A few intellectuals dab at their tears with handkerchiefs. Truly a moving speech.
Meanwhile, Estial—in uniform with sword at his side—tilts his head. He asks the caffeine-addicted colonel beside him.
"...Is that really supposed to be a great speech?"
"I'm just a dumb chicken head, so I wouldn't know. Maybe it clicks between the educated types?"
"Hm. I read the draft 503 times and still have no clue what it means."
"Well, it's gotta be well-written. Hey! Shouldn't you be prepping to become defense minister now, Your Highness?"
"Yeah. Good point."
Soon, Roin ascends the throne—the seat to inherit the late king's will. All bow solemnly. Amid everyone's blessings, Roin is crowned queen. A truly peaceful coronation.
Following that, Estial is appointed defense minister. Then Int takes the role of prime minister. The new princes' appointments demote everyone from ministers to military officers by one rank, but salaries and benefits stay the same, so no one complains.
Right beside the throne, the rising star guest singer performs a celebratory song. Despite being a rookie, his handsome looks and slick dance moves have made him hugely popular. A dance bard extraordinaire.
"That bard looks kinda familiar..."
"You don't know Aferuns? He's the hottest thing right now. Does rock, ballads, trot, death metal, dance—everything!"
"No, I know that... but he seems really familiar. Doesn't he look just like Prince Jal?"
"Why would Prince Jal be up there? Look—there's even a mole next to his nose. Totally different guy."
As the ministers murmur, Roin winks at the guest singer Aferuns. Once the third prince of this palace, he smiles back with a wink.
Congrats.
Thanks.
A brief exchange of glances conveys everything without words.
Soon, the candidate for First Knight Order—the Pink Dragon Knights—enters.
"Yow, Pink Dragons! As ya can see right now, the candidates for First Knight Order, Pink Dragon Knights, are marchin' in! Look at 'em—so mighty and proud, ain't they? I salute 'em like this! If we bring knights this proud into our army, we gotta give 'em the best stage!"
As the announcer emcees in booming dialect, the Pink Dragon Knights approach Roin. She takes Captain Cliche's hand and beams. Cliche beams back.
"Thank you."
"No problem."
A short exchange between the two. Then Cliche kisses the back of Roin's white hand. With a solemn gaze down at him, Roin declares.
"From this moment, the Pink Dragon Knights are appointed as the First Knight Order of our Rok Kingdom and shall be honored eternally!"
The crowd erupts in cheers. Even Estial, Int, and the other knight order captains join in.
A modest banquet unfolds in the hall. Normally, the queen's coronation would be a national holiday celebrated forever with festivities across the land, but with the late king's funeral fresh, it's just a half-day party.
"Lady, may I request a dance?"
"Oh, of course. I'd be delighted."
Young men and women pair off everywhere, enjoying the music. The now-Second Knight Order Red Bulls, Third Black Yacks, Fourth Gold Lions—all their young knights escort noble ladies for the revelry.
Except... the Pink Dragon Knights are a bit of an exception.
After their amazing(?) exploits at the athletics meet, no one dares approach the ladies. Out of knightly etiquette—leaving a debutante lady alone at a ball—a few young knights approach out of duty, but...
"Ma! You bald-headed, pimply, scrawny lil' punk—where d'you get off askin' me to dance?!"
"Ho ho ho. I'm only for Lord Cliche. Sorry!"
"Heh. You, asking me to dance? A mere human?"
"Beep! Dance. [Noun] Rhythmic movements of limbs and body to a beat or in excitement..."
All are rejected and slink away in humiliation. Soon, the men steer clear entirely.
Meanwhile.
"Kyaa! So cute! Your skin's so fair it's practically pink-tinged!"
"Did you dye your hair? It's gorgeous!"
"Those eyes are perfect—total strike! Too cute!"
Noble ladies swarm one person, fawning wildly. Cliche, of course.
"...?"
Cliche downs a glass of champagne. The ladies clutch their hearts and swoon.
"Kyaa, what do we do?! Too cute!"
"How can anyone be that pretty and adorable?!"
"Waaah, Captain Cliche! Take me!"
On his formal society debut, Cliche gains a massive fanbase in a single day.
"Ahem! Captain of the First Knight Order, may I have this dance?"
A diehard fan colonel who wept supporting Third Prince Jal's entertainment career debut. Her usual dour face now sparkles with new life.
"No way, Lord Cliche! Dance with me!"
"With me!"
"Get a number ticket! I'm reserve number one!"
Chaos erupts everywhere.
Meanwhile.
"...?"
Cliche scans the entire palace with his eyes.
Something smells familiar.
Somewhere in this palace lingers a scent he knows. The first he ever smelled at birth. The scent of kin.
A dragon's smell is faint, so pinpointing it is impossible. But something draconic—or related—is definitely here. With Roin now queen, he'll investigate every warehouse in the palace depths. Including those secret ones forgotten in memory.
This'll be fun.
Cliche grins.
No one hates treasure hunts.
At last, the coronation ends. Held modestly right after the late king's funeral, the banquet is brief. Only a small afterparty in the central training grounds of the palace depths—the Pink Dragon Knights' new barracks.
Hatse benefits most. She downs every liquor in the palace like she'll empty them all. Her nose is crooked from the booze—like staring at abstract art.
"Kuh~~~ha! Livin' the good life—this taste calls for round two...!"
Unicef's face is quite flushed too. Sipping 70-proof whiskey, she laughs ho ho ho about how demon booze starts at 130% alcohol.
"Ho ho ho. Human world's liquor hits hard after all this."
Diablo—hair swept back with her left hand—leans on the terrace railing, gazing at the moon with non-alcoholic beer.
"Heh. After all the crap we've been through, booze just tastes like sweet juice."
AlphaGo sips something fishy-smelling—not booze.
"Beep! Refueling in progress. Do not turn off power."
In the rowdy vibe, they drink and chat freely. They've melted into Rok Palace life. Everyone seems to like it here.
Then—
BAM!
A loud thud as a hand slams the table.
"Shh—hic. Everyone... quiet... down. Listen up!"
A thick slur draws all eyes. Hatse? No—Roin, face beet-red, glares at the whole Pink Dragon Knights.
"Today... on this... great... occasion... gathered... here... thank you... so much... so I... wanna say... a few words... Can't decree... so I'll... raise 'em? Kyahat!"
Seeing this new side of Roin, they all whisper.
"Roin's a proper boss lady now~"
"Ho ho ho. They say power changes people—her speech is already different."
"Heh. Stance changes, jokes change..."
"Beep! Boomer alert."
Hatse, Unicef, Diablo, AlphaGo murmur among themselves. Roin ignores them, plowing on in her own world.
Let me start before I became queen... Can't skip my mountain village days...
How much I cherish and love you all in Pink Dragon Knights, how we're like family...
How Pink Dragon Knights and this nation should develop together...
My visionary plans as queen...
One last thing!
That's the gist. Even Hatse can't interrupt—Roin's speech is long and rambling.
"...Damn... she's... full... boomer..."
"Ho ho ho. Devilishly verbose."
"Heh... hey... slow... finishing... slow..."
"Beep! Battery... low..."
As minds fog, Roin speaks her finale.
"As queen... now... there's one thing... I wanna... do! See how... my commoners... live... tour the land."
She means an undercover inspection. The Pink Dragon Knights all look annoyed as hell.
A queen's outing needs guards. As First Knight Order, someone has to escort her.
Mamihlapinatapai
The world's longest-defined word. Describes the wordless, yet urgent, subtle glance exchanged between two people who both desire the other to initiate something they both need—but neither wants to do.
Exactly this situation.
"...Shh...ibal..."
"...Ho ho ho."
"...Heh!"
"...Beep!"
Gazes fly: You go, it's a pain.
"I'm busy raiding the palace secret vaults," Cliche cuts in first, scanning the others. "No need for all of us. Who's up?"
With their current lineup, one is plenty for safety. But.
"...Shh...ibal..."
"......Ho ho ho."
"......Heh!"
"......Beep!"
Mamihlapinatapai again. No volunteers.
"Then draws it is."
Cliche pulls tissues, marks them with pen, folds into lots, and offers to the Pink Dragon Knights.
Everyone takes theirs.
One face sours instantly.
"Shh...ibal..."