Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 96

Chapter 96: Thrones, Threats, and Things That Sparkle

[Lavinia’s POV]

The grand ballroom sparkled like someone spilled a basket of diamonds, glitter, and overly enthusiastic fairy dust all over the place. Nobles twirled in silk and velvet, flapping like confused peacocks trying to remember the dance steps.

And where was Papa?

Oh, he was pissed, or should I say...sulking.

Why, you ask?

Because Theon had suggested that maybe, just maybe, I should sit in my rightful seat instead of on Papa’s lap.

Apparently, "She’s the imperial heir; she should sit like one," blah blah, something about posture and royal dignity, blah blah, Don’t cuddle her like a plush toy in front of the entire nobility."

And so now, here I was. On a small golden throne, perched right next to Papa’s enormous, emperor-sized seat. Mine was smaller, shinier, and had better cushions—obviously, because I have taste.

Next to me, Marshi—our so-called Divine Tiger, the legendary beast of the empire, guardian of the royal bloodline, and all that dramatic stuff—was drooling.

Drooling.

His mighty eyes were locked onto the dessert table like he was going to wage war on the macaron tower at any second.

"Stop that," I whispered, nudging him.

He let out a dramatic huff and licked his lips, his ears drooping like I’d just forbidden him from breathing. Honestly, he is more dramatic than me.

And then—

"LAVI~~~~~!!"

A voice cracked through the music like a golden trumpet being strangled.

I looked up just in time to see a blur of red hair, pastel-blue embroidery, and unfiltered chaos barreling toward me.

Second Brother Lysandre.

He was running at me like he’d just spotted a flying unicorn made of gold and sugar.

"Oh, hi," I started, but before I could finish—

THUD.

He hit the ground like a dropped cake.

"AAUGH—!"

Everyone blinked.

Grandpa Thalein stood there, his Elven staff held high like a seasoned warrior, unbothered and unrepentant.

"Approach my grand-daughter with more dignity, idiot," he muttered, as Lysandre lay on the floor groaning like he’d been shot through the heart by a ballroom chandelier.

Soren, my eldest brother, looked down at Lysandre as if he were a discarded napkin. Then promptly ignored him. Like always.

Now, I don’t know exactly why Lysandre always gets hit by Grandpa. But honestly, at this point, I feel like it’s tradition.

"Oh, my precious~~~~~!" Grandpa Thalein suddenly turned toward me, his tone switching from ’strict general’ to ’overly dramatic theater uncle’ in 0.3 seconds.

He scooped me into his arms with the strength of an elven healer and hugged me tight enough to make my ribs complain.

"I missed you, my precious little firecracker!" he cooed. "How are you? Did you miss your adorable grandpa?"

I grinned and hugged him back. "Of course I did!"

"What about me?" Soren asked from the side, arms crossed.

I gave him a sideways glance and replied sweetly, "Yes, yes, you too."

Then from the floor, in a very flat and mildly offended voice came Lysandre:"...What about me?"

I leaned over Grandpa’s shoulder and looked down at him, blinking slowly. He looked so pitiful down there. Like a kicked puppy in royal brocade.

Still, I tilted my head, lifted one royal eyebrow, and said nothing.

I didn’t have to.

My silence said everything.

"Happy birthday, my precious granddaughter." Grandpa Thalein kissed my forehead, his voice turning serious for just a moment.

"Thank you, Grandpa," I replied, smiling.

And then I blinked once—twice—before shifting into Full Princess Mode™.

"But..." I said, voice low and deliberate, "you do realize... words don’t count as real birthday gifts in this palace, right?"

Grandpa paused.

Theon stiffened.

Papa smirked.

Lysandre groaned from the floor, "Even on my knees I can’t compete with that level of greed..."

I tilted my head innocently, patting Marshmallow’s head as he finally rose to pounce on a stray cream puff.

"So?" I asked sweetly. "Where’s the actual gift, Grandpa?"

Grandpa Thalein’s eyes twitched slightly. "...You are truly your father’s daughter."

"Flattery doesn’t count either."

He sighed, then laughed. "Fine. It’s in the vault. Handpicked. Personally enchanted. Guarded by three knights and an angry pigeon. You’ll see it after the cake."

I clapped my hands with delight.

"Wonderful. I love gifts with a dramatic backstory."

Grandpa chuckled, clearly proud of himself—until Papa, still lounging on his oversized throne like a smug cat, finally spoke up.

"Whatever gift you brought..." he drawled lazily, swirling his wine like it owed him money, "they’re nothing compared to mine."

Right... I wondered what he will give me this time and before I could ask him—

"PRESENTING HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, KING AURELIEN VALDORIS OF NIVALE!"

The herald’s voice rang through the hall like a dramatic gong, immediately followed by a collective gasp loud enough to rattle the chandeliers.

Oh. Right.

The Elven King.

I’d totally forgotten the diplomatic highlight of the evening was an actual foreign monarch with sparkly ears.

The massive doors swung open with dramatic flair and probably illegal amounts of glitter, and in walked King Aurelien Valdoris of Nivale—tall, elegant, and glowing like someone had dragged a moon through a soap commercial.

His robes shimmered like starlight. His green hair flowed down his back like a waterfall that charged taxes. His crown sparkled with enough gemstones to bankrupt three duchies. He looked like a walking poetry recital.

I blinked at the living glow stick striding into the ballroom like a runway model.

Theon frowned beside me. "Because he’s Elven royalty. They do that. It’s mostly intentional."

Marshi blinked at the Elven King, then licked frosting off his paw. Papa stood slowly, finally looking mildly interested in the festivities. "Ah, King Valdoris. Took you long enough. I was beginning to think the forest swallowed you whole."

Then finally—finally—Theon sighed, sounding like he aged five years just from existing near so much royalty in one room.

Papa, still smirking like the villain in someone else’s story, didn’t even bother to respond. He just stared at him like it was the episode of "Who Hates Who: Royal Edition."

Like, really stared.

I am a quarter-elf. And criminally beautiful.

Then, in a voice so smooth it could butter toast, he said,"So... you’re Thalein’s granddaughter. The quarter-elf child."

I blinked. My mind scrambled for the right response. Now, should I say, "Yes, you’re right, and greetings, Your Majesty," like a proper royal?

Or go with "Hi, yeah, I sparkle too"?

Before I could decide, the Elven King smirked—and not just any smirk. Oh no. This was the kind of smirk that usually came before a celestial prophecy or a dramatic orchestral theme.

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