The Prince of Peculiar Plights

The Nightrose's Prank

Valerian wiped a glob of lukewarm milk chocolate from his eyebrow, staring at the surreal, cocoa-drenched landscape he had just created. The scent was cloying, a sugary reminder of his own lack of composure.

“You know, as far as magical outbursts go, this is actually quite delicious,” a bright, melodic voice chimed in from behind a weeping willow.

Valerian stiffened. He knew that voice. It was polished, sharp, and usually preceded a very expensive headache.

Valeria Nightrose stepped out from the shadows of the dripping trees, her dark hair perfectly coiffed, looking entirely too smug for someone standing in a rain of confectionery. She didn't look like a Morcant, mostly because she chose to go by her mother’s maiden name to avoid the "unstable" stigma, but she had the same piercing eyes.

“Valeria,” Valerian groaned. “Tell me you didn’t see that.”

“The part where you turned the Royal Garden into a dessert tray because you were jealous of a man who wears cream silk? Oh, I saw everything,” his sister said, her eyes flitting to Isolde with a calculating glint. “And I must say, Lady Veyrana, you have a very... interesting effect on my brother. He hasn't made anything edible since he was eight.”

Isolde offered a polite, if slightly strained, nod. “It’s a work in progress, Lady Nightrose.”

“Please, call me Valeria. We’re practically family now that you’re his human lightning rod,” Valeria said, waving a hand dismissively. She then leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen, you two. I didn't just come here to mock the chocolate. The Council is moving. Master Leontius is in the East Wing with the High Inquisitor. They’re talking about ‘containment protocols’ for both of you.”

Valerian felt a chill that had nothing to do with the chocolate. “What do you mean, for both of us?”

“They think Isolde is a catalyst, Val. They think she’s not dampening your power, she’s refining it into something they can’t predict. That scares them,” Valeria said, her expression turning uncharacteristically grave. “Follow me. I’ve found a place where the anti-scrying wards are still active. It’s the old wine cellar under the North Tower. We need to talk before the guards find you.”

“The wine cellar?” Valerian asked, glancing at Isolde. “Is it safe?”

“It’s the safest place in the palace,” Valeria insisted, already moving toward the servant’s entrance. “Hurry. Before the groundskeepers start wondering why the roses taste like fudge.”

*

The descent into the North Tower’s cellar was long and damp. The air grew thick with the smell of fermented grapes and ancient stone. The walls were lined with racks of dust-covered bottles, their labels yellowed by centuries.

“In here,” Valeria said, pushing open a heavy iron-bound oak door. “This is the private reserve. The walls are three feet thick and lined with lead. Not even a whisper gets out.”

Valerian and Isolde stepped into the narrow, dimly lit room. It was cramped, filled with the scent of oak and expensive vintage.

“Wait, where are you going?” Valerian asked as he turned around.

Valeria was already standing in the hallway, a mischievous smirk dancing on her lips. “Sorry, Val. Big sisters know best.”

“Valeria, what are you—”

The heavy door slammed shut with a resounding clack. The sound of a heavy iron bolt sliding home echoed through the small space.

“Valeria! Open the door!” Valerian shouted, slamming his fist against the wood.

“Can’t hear you!” her voice muffled through the oak. “Look, the two of you need to stop dancing around each other. Valerian, you’re a disaster. Isolde, you’re a saint. You won't talk honestly while the world is watching, so I’m giving you an hour of absolute privacy. No magic, no guards, just the two of you and some very expensive Merlot. Enjoy!”

“Valeria, I swear to the gods, I will turn your shoes into hamsters!” Valerian yelled.

“Try it! The room is magic-dampened!” she laughed, her footsteps retreating down the stone corridor.

Silence fell over the cellar.

Valerian leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. “I am going to kill her. I am actually going to commit sororicide.”

“She’s quite thorough,” Isolde said, her voice surprisingly calm. She had already found a small wooden crate and sat down, smoothing her skirts. “And she’s right. The dampening field here is incredible. I can’t feel your static at all.”

Valerian turned around, looking at her in the dim light of a single flickering candle. “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” Isolde asked, tilting her head. “It’s the first time in three days I haven't had to worry about a rosebush trying to eat someone. It’s quiet, Valerian. Sit down. You’re hovering.”

Valerian sank onto a stack of burlap sacks across from her. “I’m sorry. My family is... we’re a lot.”

“Most noble families are a lot. Mine just happens to be a lot of silence and dusty books. Yours is a lot of neon and sibling rivalry,” she said. She looked at him, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “Why did you look like you were going to cry when the trees started dripping chocolate?”

“I didn't look like I was going to cry,” he lied.

“You did. You looked like you’d failed a test you didn't even know you were taking.”

Valerian sighed, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. “Everyone expects me to be a monster or a masterpiece. My father wants a weapon. The Council wants a prisoner. And then there’s you.”

“What about me?”

“You look at me like I’m a person. Not a ‘Lord’ or a ‘Morcant’ or a ‘Glitch.’ Just... Valerian. And when I mess up, like with the roses or the soup, I feel like I’m letting that version of me die. I don't want to be the disaster you have to fix, Isolde.”

Isolde leaned forward, her hand resting on her knee. “Do you think I’m here because I like fixing things? I’m a Veyrana, Valerian. My entire life was mapped out before I was born. I was supposed to marry a scholar, live in a quiet library in the North, and spend my days making sure the local lord’s hearth fire didn't get too high. It was a life of beige. It was boring.”

“Boring sounds amazing right now,” he muttered.

“It isn't,” she countered. “When I saw you at that dinner—when you turned that pheasant into violet dust—everyone else saw a failure. I saw someone who had so much life in him that the world couldn't contain it. I didn't stay because I was hired, Valerian. I stayed because for the first time in my life, I wanted to see what happened next.”

Valerian looked up, his heart doing a strange, fluttering dance. “You actually like the chaos?”

“I like you,” she said simply. “The chaos is just the packaging.”

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward. It was warm. Valerian felt a strange sensation—not the buzzing of the static, but a genuine, glowing heat in the center of his chest. It was the feeling of being understood.

“My father used to lock me in a room like this,” Valerian said softly. “When I was twelve. Right after the Awakening. He thought if he kept me in the dark, the magic wouldn't have anything to react to. I spent weeks staring at the walls, trying to be a mountain.”

“That’s why you’re so afraid of it,” Isolde whispered. “It’s not just the power. It’s the isolation.”

“Yeah. But right now... with you here... I don't feel like I’m in a cage,” he admitted, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. “I actually feel... happy. Like, really happy.”

“That’s a dangerous emotion for a Morcant, isn’t it?” she teased, her eyes sparkling.

“The best kind of dangerous,” he replied.

As the joy settled into his bones, Valerian didn't feel the static. He didn't feel the roar. He felt a harmony he’d never known.

Suddenly, a faint sound echoed from the racks behind them.

“Ooooooooh...”

Isolde jumped. “What was that?”

“Mio babbino caaaaaaroooooo!”

A bottle of 1842 Valenthian Red began to vibrate rhythmically. Then, the bottle next to it joined in, a rich tenor vibrating through the glass.

“Largo al factotum della cittàaaaa!”

Valerian’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“Valerian,” Isolde said, her voice rising in pitch. “Are the wine bottles... singing?”

“It’s the happiness!” Valerian stood up, looking around in horror. “I’m not angry or jealous, I’m just happy! My magic is reacting to the mood!”

Within seconds, the entire wine cellar was a chorus. Hundreds of bottles were belting out high-energy operatic arias. The corks didn't pop; they acted like miniature percussion instruments, tapping against the glass in perfect time with the melody.

“It’s a full production!” Isolde laughed, clutching her stomach as a dusty bottle of Chardonnay began a particularly dramatic soprano solo. “Valerian, this is incredible!”

“It’s loud!” he shouted over the booming baritone of a nearby Magnum. “It’s really, really loud!”

“It’s beautiful! It’s better than the chocolate!”

Valerian looked at her, seeing her laughing in the candlelight, and he couldn't help it. He started laughing too. The absurdity of it—the two of them trapped in a cellar while the vintage wine performed a gala—was too much.

“We are so going to get caught!” he yelled.

“At least we’ll go down with a soundtrack!” she replied, reaching out and grabbing his hands.

As they stood there, spinning in the small space to the rhythm of a thousand singing bottles, the joy reached its peak. The cellar was no longer a damp prison; it was a theater of the impossible.

But outside the door, the music was carrying.

The heavy thud of armored boots began to echo in the corridor, cutting through the operatic swells.

“What in the name of the Seven Suns is that noise?” a sharp, arrogant voice barked from the other side of the oak door.

Valerian froze. The singing didn't stop, but his blood turned to ice.

“That’s Osric,” he whispered.

“Blackthorne?” Isolde asked, her smile fading.

“Open this door!” Osric shouted, the sound of his sword hilt banging against the wood. “I know you’re in there, Morcant! I can hear the... is that a soprano? What kind of freakishness are you practicing now?”

Valerian looked at the door, then at the singing bottles, then back to Isolde.

“The hour is definitely up,” he said.

“Valerian,” she said, her grip on his hands tightening. “Whatever happens when he opens that door... don't let the music stop.”

The bolt slid back. The door began to creak open, and the golden light of Osric’s torch spilled into the room, illuminating a scene of absolute, operatic madness.q