If I'm being honest, I just want to sleep. A peaceful sleep. On a bed, with a blanket, and no swords pointed in my direction.
But here I am—sitting cross-legged in the middle of an underground hall that used to be a dining room, with two crown contenders standing before me, each surrounded by fully armed followers. All eyes are on me.
On me. The person who, just this afternoon, was only looking for some salt.
"Lady Aria," said the silver-haired man in a gold-lined robe. His voice was deep, gentle, and dangerous. "You were the only one the late Queen trusted. We humbly ask... that you support me, Leont of Darcan, as the rightful heir."
Beside him, a younger man with sharp eyes and a paranoid glare hissed, "Don't listen to him! I know my mother entrusted the family ring to you, didn't she? That's the symbol that I—Rafael, her direct and legitimate son—am the one who deserves the crown!"
I glanced at Valmor. He was munching on grass in the corner, wearing a thin robe with the royal crest (no idea where he got that). We locked eyes. I blinked. He farted.
Then I turned back to face these two lunatics.
"Sorry, which ring? I found one in the soup earlier today, but I already threw it into the pot for base stock. It made a great broth. Real noble flavor."
The two entourages gasped. Some whispered in panic. Someone fainted.
Leont leaned forward, his expression tightening. "You... threw the ring?"
"I already said I'm just an NPC. My job's sweeping floors. Not succession politics."
Rafael took half a step forward. "Then... are you choosing to stay neutral?"
I sighed.
"Neutrality is a beautiful concept—until someone throws a chair at you. So if I had to choose... I'd pick leaving the room."
Of course, no one let me do that. Because somehow, both sides became even more convinced that I was the 'key to destiny.' When the only destiny I know is that I got dragged into this mess simply because I happened to walk by.
That night, the two factions kept arguing endlessly. About blood rights, ancient oaths, supposedly burned wills, even about who the Queen held first as a baby. And in the middle of it all, I sat with a cup of stale tea, trying not to cry.
Until finally, Valmor, still in his Loyal-Guard-NPC mode, leaned over and whispered,
"If you slap one of them right now, maybe they'll kill each other and we can escape."
I stared at him.
"Valmor. That is the dumbest plan I've ever heard."
"So you're not doing it?"
"...Hold on. Let me think about it."
The night dragged on. The two 'kings' took turns trying to get me to speak, hoping for a sign from the heavens or a revelation from underground. But the only revelation I had that night was: never look too aware in a succession crisis. People might mistake you for someone with power.
And me? I just wanted to sleep. But if this keeps up, I might wake up as a royal advisor, the trigger of a civil war, or... powdered broth with a noble aftertaste.