As he walked away, Elara leaned against the stone railing. The voices were finally quiet, save for Martha, who whispered with a satisfied smugness, “See? Was that so hard, you prickly little brat?” If you’d like to keep the story going, let me know:

Princess Elara was the kingdom’s most polished "Tsundere." To the public, she was a prickly rose; to the crown prince, Julian, she was a headache in a silk gown. She spent most of their tea parties insulting his choice of cravat while her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Elara’s pride flared. "Hate it? I find the prospect of our marriage about as exciting as watching bread mold."

Elara turned crimson. "My... my seamstress. She’s very loud. In my head. I mean—I’m tired!"

The secret? Elara wasn’t just stubborn—she was haunted. Since her sixteenth birthday, she had heard .

Meanwhile, in her mind, Queen Martha (the 4th) would shriek, “Grab his hand, you fool! Look at those biceps!” and Queen Catherine (the Pious) would tsk-tsk, “A bit more mystery, dear. Tell him his hair looks like a bird’s nest.”

Elara’s life was a constant battle of trying to ignore the horny and judgmental ghosts of her lineage while maintaining her "cool and distant" persona.

“Kiss him or I’ll haunt your dreams with images of soggy porridge!” Martha threatened.