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Greetings, everyone. I am the Grand Master of Imperial Protocol for the Obelian Empire.
Royal betrothals, weddings, promotions, demotions, ennoblements—even down to which side a certain Highness should sit on today, or how the palace attendants ought to address a certain Lord tomorrow—theoretically fall entirely under my jurisdiction.
Theoretically...
Because lately, I have been truly, deeply yearning to hand in my resignation.
Whoever wants this wretched job can have it! Is the official form of address for Lord Lucas—the Magician of the Black Tower, Her Imperial Highness’s suspected-prospective-partner, quasi-fiancé, and unofficial intimate associate—something a mere Master of Protocol like me should be deciding?! This isn’t a career choice; it’s a death sentence!
If I style Lord Lucas as “His Imperial Highness the Prince Consort,” His Majesty Claude will slaughter me on the spot the absolute second he lays eyes on the parchment.
If I persist in calling him “Lord Magician of the Black Tower,” Lord Lucas will instantly impale me to the gates of the Protocol Hall with his gaze, rendering me the department's very first cautionary specimen.
And if I dare split the difference with “His Prospective Highness,” the two of them will form an unholy alliance to murder me together.
Is this job! Truly! Absolutely! Mandatory?!
…
Yes, it is. I still have a wife and children to feed, and the mortgage on my capital estate isn't going to pay itself.
“Your Imperial Highness, you must extend your justice to this humble official!”
Clutching a staggeringly thick stack of proposed title amendments, I prostrated myself upon the floorboards with unprecedented sincerity.
“This truly is not a matter this humble servant can decide. I beg Your Highness to grant me clear instructions.”
I couldn't afford to cross either of those terrifying lords, but Her Highness had always been reasonable. Your Highness, the peace and prosperity of my remaining years rest entirely in your hands, I beg of you—
…
Why have you lapsed into silence?
I watched as Her Highness darted a look at me, then cast her gaze toward Lord Lucas, who was casually sipping tea beside her. Lord Lucas, naturally, possessed zero self-awareness. No—worse. He was just sitting there, nonchalantly munching on pastries.
Her Highness hesitated before inquiring softly, “Is a change strictly necessary?”
“…”
A profound sorrow washed over my soul. It wasn't that I insisted on changing it!
“Your Highness, Lord Lucas has already presumed to occupy the royal seats three times, forcefully 'escorted' foreign suitors out of the reception chambers twice, and reduced the Ministry of Rites’ entire list of eligible bachelors to ash precisely once.”
I dabbed at a nonexistent tear at the corner of my eye.
“If this persists, visiting diplomats won't even know whom they are supposed to bow to!”
“Mm…” Her Highness cast her gaze downward, looking utterly torn. “The primary obstacle is Father. When it comes to this particular subject, I don't hold much leverage either…”
“Which means…” Darkness encroached upon my vision. “Even Your Highness cannot salvage this humble servant?”
“Mm… let us leave it unaltered for the time being. Otherwise, it will be impossible to offer a satisfactory explanation to either party.” As Her Highness spoke, she turned her eyes toward Lord Lucas. “Right, Lucas? You wouldn't mind, would you?”
“Mm…”
I watched as Lord Lucas spared a brief glance for Her Highness before sliding a thoroughly disdainful look in my direction. He narrowed his eyes, curling his lips into a smile that turned my spine to ice.
“Since it is Athanasia's wish... then of course, I wouldn't mind at all~”
I trembled violently, pressing my forehead even closer to the floorboards. What did I do to deserve this?!
“Why must you threaten him? The Master of Protocol has a difficult enough time as it is!” Her Highness's voice rang out. I was so deeply moved I nearly wept. Exactly! My life is incredibly difficult!
“When did I threaten him? My tone was perfectly amicable. I am exercising immense restraint,” Lord Lucas drawled lazily, his voice laced with a faint, petulant whine.
Ugh.
Do you see? Do you see why I call this a death sentence? To my left is the incandescent fury of His Majesty Claude; to my right is the chilling smile of the Grand Magician of the Black Tower; and caught dead in the center is a weak, innocent, mortgage-paying family man. Had I been twenty years younger, I would have packed my bags, fled to the countryside to till the soil, and stayed as far away from palace politics as humanly possible, content with a few acres of land and a quiet cottage where I never had to legally audit anyone’s romantic relationship again.
Unfortunately, I am no longer young.
So I could only tremble as I pulled out the most conservative, most tactful, least likely-to-get-anyone-killed-on-the-spot version from that stack of revisions.
“If all else fails... this humble servant does happen to possess a compromise style.”
“What style?” Her Highness asked, as Lord Lucas peered over with a hint of curiosity.
I closed my eyes, steeled my resolve, and raised the document high above my head. Stamped dead center was a line of pristine calligraphy, radiating a tragic, heroic solemnity:
The Intimate Associate Specially Permitted by Her Imperial Highness.
Naturally, that was the sanitized, official version intended for Her Highness’s eyes. Tucked within my personal desk ledger, however, was a far more accurate addendum:
Less Than Lovers, Worse Than a Disaster.
…
Wait. Why on earth was my sticky note from my personal ledger still attached to the official page?!
“Worse than a disaster?”
“Less than lovers?”
Their voices harmonized perfectly, though Lord Lucas's tone carried a localized glacial drop. It slithered past my collar like a demon's whisper, causing me to shudder violently.
“I have no objections to 'worse than a disaster,'” Lord Lucas remarked smoothly. “But what exactly do you mean by 'less than lovers'?”
“While you certainly qualify as a walking cataclysm, that phrase is obviously the more egregious of the two! Why is your priority even there?” Her Highness demanded.
Nobody cared about the silent screaming tearing through my soul. How could this happen?! Why did I forget to peel it off?! Why did my cursed hands have to ink those words onto the margin?! I could have easily waited until I got back to my office!
“Where else would my priority be?” I heard Lord Lucas counter, shifting his weight noticeably closer to Her Highness. “Of course that is what I care about. It is the only thing I care about.”
…Ahem. Excuse me, your Graces, could you please exercise some decorum? I am still present. Please afford me the basic courtesy of treating me like a sentient being.
“Fine! Stop making a scene! We are in a public setting!” Her Highness chided, checking his advance.
Yes, yes! A public setting! I nodded frantically in my mind.
Lord Lucas appeared entirely displeased, his brow furrowing into a pout that oscillated between 'I am incredibly vexed' and 'why aren't you taking my side?' Her Highness looked at him, then cast a look of deep, profound pity upon me. After a lengthy silence, she addressed me:
“Let us record it as this for the time being: The Individual Acknowledged by Her Imperial Highness.”
Your Highness! You are quite literally the savior of my bloodline!
“Acknowledged as what?” Lord Lucas pressed.
Her Highness’s face flushed a brilliant crimson as she gave him a sharp push. “…Figure it out yourself!”
While I was overjoyed to have been granted a reprieve from execution... I beg of you. Could the two of you please refrain from blatant flirtation during a formal executive document review?
On that fateful day, the Imperial Protocol Hall’s finalized registry was amended as follows:
Lord Lucas, Magician of the Black Tower: The Individual Acknowledged by Her Imperial Highness.
As for my personal journal...
I ripped that sticky note bearing “Less Than Lovers, Worse Than a Disaster” into shreds, incinerated it completely, buried the ashes deep within a flowerpot, and packed the soil down tight. I swore a blood oath that I would never again record my true feelings anywhere near an official document.
Of course, oaths are made to be broken.
The very next morning, Lord Lucas bypassed royal clearance and once again took his seat upon the imperial dais. Looking at the freshly delivered seating rearrangement order, I closed my eyes in perfect, serene resignation.
This job... really is not worth the paycheck.