Mischief in the Mountains
The air in the Nordhaven highlands was crisp and wild — the kind that made even royals forget their titles. It was late summer, with hints of autumn creeping in: cool morning light, the first gold-tinged leaves rustling in the breeze, and the scent of pine sharp in the sun-warmed air.
Elias, twenty-four, Veronica, twenty-three, and Magnus, twenty-two, had spent the morning weaving through pine-lined trails on restored motorcycles — Elias’s pride and joy — with Veronica clinging to his back, laughing into the wind, and Magnus trailing behind, singing off-key to whatever was blasting through his earbuds.
They’d stopped at a scenic overlook, helmets off, hair tousled, jackets unzipped against the chill. Veronica was crouched low, angling her phone to make Elias’s bike look like it belonged in a rebel fashion spread — all chrome and defiance against the fjord mist.
Magnus was halfway up a boulder, grinning down at them. “Summit selfie,” he called. “Come on, Elias. And you too, Vero — no hiding behind the camera. Get your royal rears up here!”
Elias was already climbing, holding out a hand to steady Veronica. She slid her phone into her pocket and took it, boots crunching against the rock as he helped her up beside him.
They posed in a loose triangle — Elias in the middle, Veronica leaning into him, Magnus throwing up peace signs and mock-serious expressions. Veronica snapped a few, then Magnus took over, insisting on “one with attitude” and “one for the tabloids.”
The shot that made it onto Magnus’ feed, tagging both his brother and sister-in-law showed him hoisting Veronica in a loose piggyback, her arms around his neck and boots midair, while Elias leaned in from the side with a smirk and two fingers raised behind Mags’ head in classic bunny-ear sabotage. It was chaotic, unfiltered, unroyal and unmistakably them.
The caption read: “Royal summit. No crowns, just motorcycles and chaos. #CrownClimbers #BikeRide #LeatherCladFreedom @Fjordspire”
“Aaaand we are live! Posted,” Magnus said between shots, “do you think the royal press office will combust or just quietly sob?”
Elias smirked. “Depends. Did you tag the location?”
“Obviously. #CrownClimbers. @Fjordspire. Takes no rocket science to know where we are.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “You two are going to get us banned from having socials. Just don’t tag our location, and if you must post, wait until we’re back home. Not like last time — when we went swimming in that lake and security showed up with blankets, acting like we were indecent. We were wearing perfectly appropriate swimwear for a casual dip. Cromwell Palace has a pool, and plenty of Papa’s guests have joined us there. I’m fairly certain royalty around the world is familiar with the concept of a swimsuit.”
Elias snorted. “It might’ve had less to do with the swimwear per se and everything to do with Magnus wearing a Speedo sized for a toddler, leaving little of his royal bits to the imagination while drinking wine straight from the bottle.”
Magnus, unbothered, threw up a peace sign. “Don’t hate on my royally iconic behavior. I like even tans — can’t get them in those knee-length, retirement-home regulation shorts you wear, brother. You look like a camp counselor on probation.” He added, with a pointed look: “And someone forgot to pack more than two glasses. What was I supposed to do — sip from a pinecone?”
Elias grinned. “I offered you my glass. Vero and I could’ve shared. But no — you had to go full Dionysus in a banana hammock, making eye contact with the swans like it was a performance piece.”
Veronica, who had been valiantly trying to stay annoyed, finally burst into laughter. “Oh my god, do you remember the headlines? ‘Prince or Pagan God? Magnus Channels Dionysus in Lakeside Debauchery.’” She wiped her eyes. “And my personal favorite: ‘Royal Bits and Bottle Bliss — Is Nordhaven’s Royal House of Gyllenborg’s Youngest Too Comfortable With Nature?’”
Magnus looked smug. “I was one with the elements.”
Elias snorted. “You were one with fermented grapes and questionable swimwear.”
They were still laughing when the sound of tires crunching gravel made them freeze. A sleek black SUV pulled up on the road below, followed by two more in tight formation.
Veronica’s smile vanished. “Oh no. Here we go again.”
Magnus blinked. “Wow. That was fast. And for the record — this isn’t because of my geotagging. Far as I know, our security hasn’t figured out timewarp speed.”
Elias muttered, already hopping down from the boulder. “Maybe they’ve got a sixth sense for royal idiocy.”
The boys helped Veronica down between them. The mood had shifted — laughter replaced by the quiet dread of being caught mid-mischief.
Out stepped Captain Anne Nyström, head of the royal security detail — tall, composed, and very much not amused.
“Your Highnesses,” she called up, voice clipped. “His Majesty requests your presence at Iverstad Castle. Immediately.”
The trio exchanged glances.
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Did we do something?”
Elias muttered in Nordsk — low, sharp, and unprintable.
Magnus brushed off his jacket. “I think the better question is, what did he find out about us doing?”
Two guards had already mounted the bikes the royals had arrived on, engines rumbling to life. Gravel kicked up as they peeled off down the road, leaving Elias cursing again, louder this time.
“Oh come on,” Veronica groaned, watching her photo op vanish in a cloud of dust. And their way back. Now they had no choice but get into the SUVs.
“You jinxed us,” Elias muttered in the direction of his younger brother.
Magnus threw his hands up, pointing at his brother and Veronica. “You just want them, right? Not me?”
He earned twin shoves from Elias and Veronica. Elias shoved his younger brother again, toward the open door of the SUV.
“Flytta på dig, din lilla fjant,” Elias muttered — Move it, you little twit.
Magnus snorted. “Älskar dig också, storebror,” he shot back — Love you too, big brother.
Elias was ready to climb in after him, but Anne blocked his path with a quiet, firm step.
“Separate vehicles,” she said. “Succession protocol.”
Elias stared at her, jaw tight. “Seriously? Since when?”
“Since now. Royal orders, Your Highness. Please …” Anne didn’t flinch. She simply gestured to the second SUV — one sharp tilt of her head, no words needed.
As they climbed in, she shut the door behind them and said dryly, “Next time, Your Highnesses, perhaps a little less summit, a lot less social posting and a little more discretion.”
The Royal Reprimand
The castle loomed with its signature blend of old stone and modern glass — a symbol of Nordhaven’s balance between tradition and progress. Inside, the corridors were hushed, save for the echo of their boots on polished floors.
They were announced by a steward in formal Swedish:
“Deras Kungliga Högheter, Kronprins Elias, Prins Magnus, och Prinsessan Veronica Annabelle.”
The door to the King’s private study opened. King Sven stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the harbor below. His wife, Queen Ingrid, sat nearby, her expression unreadable but alert.
“Sit,” Sven said, without turning.
They obeyed. Elias took the chair closest to his father, Veronica beside him, Magnus slouched slightly in his seat — until Ingrid gave him a look that straightened his spine.
Sven turned slowly, eyes sharp.
“This has to stop.”
A pause. No one spoke.
“I cannot have the future King and Queen of Nordhaven gallivanting through the mountains on motorcycles, without guards, without protocol, and most certainly without sense.”
His gaze flicked to Magnus.
“And I cannot allow the second in line to the throne to treat his role as a perpetual vacation. Especially not when there is, as yet, no heir.”
Elias and Veronica exchanged a glance — startled, uncertain. Veronica’s fingers twitched in her lap. Elias’s jaw tightened.
“We’re not—” Elias began, but Sven raised a hand.
“I’m not asking for a child, at least not yet. I’m asking for discipline. For awareness. For the understanding that the crown is not a costume you wear when it suits you.”
He stepped closer, voice softening.
“I’ve made my decision. I will abdicate within the month.”
Silence. Veronica’s breath caught. Magnus blinked. Elias leaned forward, stunned.
“Dad … are you sure? So sudden and … umm …”
“I am. My condition is progressing faster than I’d hoped. Don’t worry, I am fine. The treatments help, but they do not reverse. I want to see Nordhaven in your hands while I’m still strong enough to guide you — not when I’m too weak to stand beside you. I would like to enjoy my retirement, with your mother, and not end up too feeble from all the stress this role gives me. It’s your turn now. Time to assume the role you were born to have.”
Queen Ingrid finally spoke, her voice low but firm.
“We’ve discussed this for years. Your father always said you would be a young king, and that he would abdicate the moment you are ready. It’s time.”
Just as the weight of the announcement settled, Sven turned to Magnus.
“And you, my boy. It’s time you found a mate.”
Magnus blinked. “I—what? Dad, I am twenty-two. I just graduated university. Let me catch a breath!”
“I would like to see you engaged before the year is out. There will be no royal wedding in the same year as your brother’s ascension, so you have time to breathe. But not forever. A year, maybe two, of engagement are appropriate. Get to know your chosen bride to make sure she is whom you could see yourself spending your life with. That would place your age at a wedding about the same as your brother was, and he looks happy with his choice, as are we, and judging by how much trouble the three of you get in together, including the things you seem to think I do not know about, you are happy with his choice in mate as well, which goes to show you, it is very well possible to find a bride to satisfy your particular tastes for unusual hobbies. Elias and Veronica found each other, so I have faith you can manage the same — and then take up residency at Silverfjäll House, where you’ll begin your own chapter and journey.
Your mother and I will be at Eldvik Hall by then. It’s quieter there, but not without purpose. We’ll host the winter council and keep the traditions warm while the crown adjusts to new hands.”
Magnus opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “This is so sudden. I’m not exactly… ready. Can’t I just stay here? Iverstad isn’t exactly crammed. I’m sure Eli and Vero won’t mind…”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Sven said, dry as dust. “But I do. So no, you may not. I suggest you get yourself ready for it. You weren’t ready to ride a motorcycle either — but you did it. And survived. Now I expect you to survive a few formal introductions. And take up your own residency. You can visit. I am sure your brother and sister-in-law would welcome your visits. Occasionally, of course, as they will be plenty busy.”
Veronica stifled a confused laugh behind her hand. Elias looked like he wanted to crawl under the carpet.
“You’ll be given a list,” Queen Ingrid added, her voice calm but final. “Not a demand. A suggestion, compiled by me, to help you get started — I understand that finding a mate in your position can be daunting. You may of course choose whomever you like, you are not bound to my list at all, as long as she’s prepared to carry the name with grace, and comes from a family that won’t falter under scrutiny. But you must choose.”
Elias didn’t speak — but his silence carried weight. He knew his brother wasn’t truly free to choose his mate. As Crown Prince and future king, Elias’s approval would be required. Just as their parents held the right to veto, so too did Elias now — and especially once the crown passed to him.
Magnus knew it. Veronica knew it. Everyone in the room did.
And which brother wanted that on his conscience? If Magnus found someone he liked enough to present, and Elias wasn’t thorough, it could reflect badly on all of them. But if he scrutinized too harshly — if he sorted out someone who was the real deal — he could cost his brother the love of his life.
Elias knew how lucky he’d been. Veronica was a royal princess from a respected house, polished and graceful in every public setting. She presented perfectly, behaved impeccably, and carried herself with the kind of poise that made even seasoned diplomats take notice. But beneath all that decorum, Elias had discovered a wild, clever, and wickedly fun spirit — one that made him laugh when no one else could, and challenged him in ways no court ever dared.
His parents hadn’t had that. It had taken years for any affection to grow between them, and even then, Elias doubted either had ever truly loved the other — not the way he loved Veronica, not with passion. Not with the kind of devotion that made long travels feel daunting, but made coming home feel like something sacred.
He wanted that for Magnus. But wanting it didn’t make it easy.
Queen Ingrid paused, then added with quiet satisfaction, “Your brother and Veronica will be occupied with preparations for the announcement and transition. That gives you time. The season begins next month — I’ve already arranged your attendance at several events. Debutante galas, charity balls, diplomatic receptions. You’ll be seen, and you’ll see. That’s how it’s done.”
Magnus blinked. “You signed me up? Mum, what am I — five?”
“Hardly,” Ingrid replied, unbothered. “You’re approaching marrying age. You wouldn’t want to be too old to start a family — not for your sake, and not for theirs, not to mention your father and me. The same goes for your brother, of course, but he and Veronica are rather preoccupied at present, so they shall be given a pass. Temporarily.”
She folded her hands, voice calm and deliberate. “Proper courtship mustn’t be rushed. If all goes according to precedent, you’d be twenty-four or twenty-five at the time of your wedding. A pregnancy should not follow too soon — it leaves an aftertaste of impropriety and does nothing but make people calculate and second-guess motives. You’d be a father no sooner than twenty-six or twenty-seven, which is a good age. Respectable. Stable. It gives the public confidence.”
Magnus stared. “You’ve timed my entire life. Let me guess, you already have lists with royally sanctioned baby names for both, Eli and me?”
King Sven stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.
“Of course, your life has been planned out, son. Same as your brother’s. Anything else would be foolish. Unlike you, Elias seems far more aware of his duties — but that doesn’t exempt you from yours.”
Magnus glanced toward the door, already halfway to escape, when the King officially released them.
“Well then. If no one’s planning a coup this afternoon, I suggest you all go find something less terrifying than matrimony to occupy yourselves. My official statement of abdication is already being drafted.”
Dismissed with a wave and a half-smile, the three young royals filed out of the study in stunned silence. Elias and Veronica walked hand-in-hand, exchanging glances that said everything words couldn’t. Magnus trailed behind, muttering:
“Engaged by New Year’s. What am I, a holiday special?”
Elias didn’t turn around. “You have problems. I’m supposed to be king within a month.”
“Exactly,” Magnus said. “You get a crown. I get a curated wife and a countdown to fatherhood.”
The Night Before the Coronation
The study was dim, lit only by the flickering fire and the soft glow of a desk lamp. Books lined the walls in neat, intimidating rows — histories, treaties, memoirs of monarchs long gone. Veronica sat curled in the leather armchair near the hearth, knees drawn up. Her coronation gown hung upstairs on a mannequin in their royal chambers, like a castle ghost — silent, regal, and haunting her every thought.
She didn’t hear the door open.
“I was looking for a book,” King Sven said gently, stepping inside. “Didn’t expect to find a queen.”
Veronica startled, sitting up straighter. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… I needed quiet.”
Sven nodded, walking slowly toward the shelves. “You chose well. This room has comfort in its silence. I spent many hours here, contemplating, planning, scheduling.”
She watched him for a moment, then spoke — voice low, trembling.
“I don’t know if I can do this. Queen? Me? I’m the youngest princess. I never expected to be anything more than that. My brother was always meant to be king, and William does it so well. I’m surprised Papa hasn’t stepped down yet. My sister Victoria should be a queen, not just a Duchess though in her case, it pretty much is the same as Zeehaven’s queen. But me? I never thought…”
Sven pulled up a fireside stool and sat down facing her, one brow raised. “But you should have. When you married a Crown Prince, my dear. That is what happens to Crown Princes. They become kings.”
“Yes, sure… but… down the line. In many… many… many years from now.” She laughed weakly, then shook her head. “I feel like a ten-year-old girl trying on Mama’s gowns, pretending I’m her. I can’t fool people into believing it’s real.”
Sven smiled — not mockingly, but with something deeper.
“You don’t need to fool anyone. You’ve already proven to me that you have what it takes to be a queen. Oh, I think you’re better at using illusions than you give yourself credit for.”
Her head snapped toward him. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back slightly, folding his hands.
“Let’s just say… whenever one of my sons becomes particularly interested in someone, I do my due diligence. I’ve perused your entire family tree — both sides. Back centuries.
In your case, it revealed some interesting hints on your maternal side — things I chose to ignore for my own peace of mind. But when Elias escaped during his heroic efforts to end the war that raged far too close for comfort, those hints came back to me.
I love my son. Eli is smart and brave, certainly. But he’s not the type to free himself — and entire troops — from a hostile war camp. Yet that’s exactly what seems to have happened. A POW becomes the hero who ends the war, succeeding where seasoned military strategists from several kingdoms failed.
Then my special ops team found odd marks on some of the victims from the explosion — the one Elias supposedly caused. Bite marks. Not human. Not explainable.
I had my men destroy the evidence before anyone else could find it. But I knew. It had to involve something… superhuman.
As terrifying as that realization was, it was soon surpassed by my gratitude. For what you did. For your then-future kingdom. For my son.
You are the true hero of this story, and that isn’t lost on me.
From a father’s perspective, I saw the price you had to pay. However you did it — I don’t even want to know — but I know it must have been harrowing just to get yourself into a position where you could even ask that particularly well-hidden branch of your family tree for help. Especially for something that had little to no bearing on them.
These types of… fanged creatures are not known for their kindness or humanitarian efforts.
I saw the courage. And I knew you could never take credit for any of it. I’m quite certain not even your family knows what you did — I suspect they would have stopped you.
You look unassuming enough. Sweet. Beautiful. A proper princess. And in my experience, those are a dime a dozen — like sand on a beach.
But I’ve been allowed a glimpse into another side of you. And I know not even Elias knows about your involvement.
That’s when I knew you’d be the best queen this kingdom could ask for. And the best wife Elias could ever hope to have.”
Veronica’s eyes filled. Her breath caught in her throat. He knew? She wanted to say it out loud, but her voice failed her.
Sven reached forward and gently took her hands in his — more father than father-in-law now, the weight of his crown momentarily set aside.
“I never could thank you for it,” he said softly. “So this conversation — which never happened, of course — will be my one and only vessel to do so.”
He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, sweet child.”
He stood, smoothing his coat, and walked toward the door. Just before he left, he paused.
“A great leader isn’t always the most eloquent,” he said. “But they know when to speak. What to say. And what not to. Good night, Your Majesty.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Veronica sat in silence, the fire crackling beside her, her heart thudding with something new — not fear, not doubt, but the slow, steady bloom of resolve.
She wasn’t pretending anymore.
She was becoming.
Coronation Morning — Veronica’s Parents Arrive
A knock came at the door — sharp, ceremonial. Veronica turned from the mirror, heart thudding in time with the day’s gravity.
The palace guard stepped in, posture rigid, voice already rising into full formality.
“Your Majesty, may I present Their Majesties King Regent Maximilian Cromwell of Henfordshire and Queen Aria Grace—”
“Oh, move,” AG said, sweeping past him with the force of maternal urgency.
The guard stumbled back, blinking as she crossed the threshold like a storm in silk.
King Maximilian followed behind, chuckling as he steadied the poor man with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “She outranks protocol when it comes to our daughter.”
Veronica didn’t wait. She ran — full tilt, barefoot, arms flung wide — straight into their embrace like she was ten years old again and not moments away from becoming Queen Consort.
AG caught her, laughing through tears. “I can’t believe my baby is a queen.”
“Not yet,” Veronica said, breathless. “The official ceremony isn’t until three.”
Maximilian smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Maybe the announcement is then. But officially, you became Queen the moment King Sven and Queen Ingrid — now Their Majesties the King Emeritus and Queen Dowager — announced their abdication. The ceremony is for the public. The crown’s already yours.”
Veronica swallowed hard, blinking fast. “I don’t feel like a queen.”
“Good,” AG said. “That means you’re still you.”
“And that,” Maximilian added, “is exactly why you’ll be brilliant.”
He cupped her cheek gently, eyes shining with pride.
“The people of Nordhaven have adored you from the moment Elias introduced you as his future bride. And they’ve only grown fonder with time — the more they’ve seen your heart, your humor, your grace.”
Veronica blinked, lips parting slightly.
“They’re ecstatic,” he continued. “About you becoming their queen. Not just because you’re beautiful — though you are — or because you’re fun — which you are. But because you’re relatable, and still ethereal enough to feel like something rare. You stand out, but you never stand apart.”
AG smiled softly. “You’re the kind of queen they’ll feel proud to wave at — and safe to confide in.”
Sankt Havskrona Kirke, Coronation Day
The cathedral bells rang out across Iverstad, their tones solemn and soaring, echoing through the valley like a herald of history. Inside the Grand Hall of the Crown, sunlight streamed through stained glass windows depicting Nordhaven’s royal lineage — kings and queens etched in color and light, watching from above.
Just moments earlier, Elias had stood alone at the altar, the crown of Nordhaven raised high above his bowed head. The Archbishop’s voice had echoed through the hall as Elias took his oath — not just as Crown Prince, but as King. The coronation had been brief by tradition, but heavy with meaning. Applause had filled the cathedral, reverent and proud, as Elias turned to face his people — no longer heir, but sovereign.
Now, Veronica stood at the center of it all, flanked by Elias and Queen Ingrid. Her gown shimmered like frost over moonlight, a custom blend of Henfordshire silk and Nordhaven embroidery — a marriage of nations, of legacies, of love.
The Archbishop of Nordhaven stepped forward, voice reverent.
“Do you, Veronica Annabelle Gyllenborg, born Cromwell, take upon yourself the mantle of Queen Consort of Nordhaven, to serve its people with wisdom, dignity, and unwavering heart?”
Veronica’s voice was steady, though her hands trembled slightly.
“I do.”
The crown was brought forth — not the towering ceremonial one used for monarchs, but the elegant diadem reserved for consorts. Queen Ingrid herself lifted it, her hands sure, her eyes misted.
“With this crown,” she said, “we welcome you not only into our family, but into our history.”
She placed it gently atop Veronica’s head. Applause rose — not thunderous, but warm, respectful, full of admiration.
Elias took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “You’re radiant,” he whispered.
Veronica smiled, eyes shining. “I’m terrified.”
Elias leaned in, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Last time we stood here, you were walking toward me in a white wedding gown. I was terrified too — convinced I’d trip over my vows or say something ridiculous and you’d bolt.”
Her gaze flicked to the altar, then to the vaulted ceiling above — constellations painted in gold, just as they had been on their wedding day.
“Every time I step into this cathedral,” she whispered, “my life changes completely.”
He smiled, solemn now — the weight of memory and promise settling between them.
“Our life,” he said gently. “And so far, the changes have been pretty incredible. So let it change again. This time, we walk forward together.”
The Balcony Moment — Coronation Day, Iverstad Palace
The bells of Iverstad tolled in triumph, their notes cascading across the fjord like a hymn to history. The newly crowned His Majesty King Elias Gyllenborg of Nordhaven stood tall on the palace’s grand balcony, the celeste and silver of House Gyllenborg gleaming against the pale Nordic sky. His crown sat firm atop his unruly blond hair, his ice-blue eyes scanning the jubilant crowd below with quiet awe.
Beside him stood Her Royal Highness Queen Veronica Gyllenborg, radiant in her coronation gown, the Diadem of the Consort nestled into her light blonde hair like frost on silk. Her fair complexion glowed in the winter sun, and her hand rested lightly in Elias’s — not for show, but for grounding.
The crowd below was a sea of flags, petals, and cheers.
“Long live King Elias!” “Long live Queen Veronica!”
Behind them, the royal families gathered in a tableau of legacy and unity.
Their Majesties King Maximilian Cromwell of Henfordshire and the Isles and Queen Aria Grace Cromwell, Duchess of Britchester, stood proudly, hands clasped, eyes misted with emotion. Maximilian’s light blonde hair was streaked with grey, his blue-hazel gaze fixed on his youngest daughter with quiet reverence. Aria Grace, crystalline green eyes shining, wore a gown of champagne silk that matched her beloved mare Athena — a subtle nod to home and heritage.
To their left stood His Royal Highness Crown Prince William Cromwell, Duke of Henford and Earl of Foxbury, and Her Royal Highness Princess Wilhelmina Cromwell (née von Ahrensberg). William’s buttery blond hair was impeccably styled, his green eyes scanning the crowd with practiced poise. Their daughter, Josephine Margaret, heiress apparent, clung to her father’s leg in a miniature version of her mother’s gown, while little James Maximilian was held by a nanny just behind, wide-eyed and waving with both hands.
Next stood Her Royal Highness Princess Royale Victoria DeWinter, Duchess of Zeehaven and the Isles, her medium warm blonde hair swept into a romantic braid. She held Amelia Grace, her daughter, who wore a tiny tiara and clapped enthusiastically at the crowd’s cheers. Beside them, Duke Hendrik DeWinter of Zeehaven cradled their newborn son, Maximilian Hendrik, wrapped in celeste silk and sleeping soundly.
Her Royal Highness Princess Vivienne Hawthorne, Lady of Henford and Baroness of Finchwick, stood slightly apart but no less regal. Her warm brown hair was pinned back with silver combs, and her light green eyes sparkled with pride. Her partner, Liam Hawthorne, stood beside her in formal dress, holding their son Rory Jack “RJ”, who waved with the unfiltered joy of a toddler in velvet boots.
His Royal Highness Prince Magnus Gyllenborg, Duke of Stagholme, lingered near the edge of the balcony, his dark blond hair falling into his eyes as usual. He gave RJ a wink, then turned to Elias with a grin that said you’re the king now, but I’m still the fun one.
Her Majesty Queen Ingrid Gyllenborg, Duchess of Iverstad, and His Majesty King Sven Gyllenborg, Duke of Gammelvik, now Queen Dowager and King Emeritus, stood at the rear — not diminished, but elevated by legacy. Sven’s piercing blue eyes watched his son with quiet pride, while Ingrid’s pale green gaze lingered on Veronica, her expression unreadable but deeply moved.
Elias raised his hand — not with pomp, but with purpose. A wave. A nod. A silent promise.
Veronica followed suit, her wave graceful, her gaze sweeping the crowd with warmth and curiosity.
Elias leaned toward her, voice low.
“We did it.”
Veronica smiled, eyes shining. “You did it. I just held your hand.”
He turned to her, crown and all, and whispered:
“That’s how I’ll rule. With you beside me, holding my hand, reminding me I can do it. Because one thing your father told me — and he said he learned it the hard way — was this: ‘Listen to your wife.’”
And as the sun dipped behind the fjords, the people of Nordhaven looked up at their new monarchs — not just with admiration, but with hope. The House of Gyllenborg had passed its crown, and the House of Cromwell had given it a queen.
The cheers began to settle into a rhythmic chant — not fading, but waiting. Expectant.
Elias stepped forward, the wind catching the edge of his ceremonial coat. He raised a hand, not to wave, but to speak.
“People of Nordhaven,” he began, voice clear and steady. “Today, I accept the crown not as a symbol of power, but as a promise. A promise to serve you, to protect our traditions, and to guide us toward a future worthy of our past.”
He glanced at Veronica, then back at the crowd.
“I stand here not alone, but with the strength of my family, the wisdom of those who came before me, and the love of the woman who has walked beside me every step of the way.”
The crowd erupted again — cheers, applause, a few tears.
Veronica stepped forward, hesitating for just a breath.
Elias leaned in, voice low but firm. “Say something. Let them know you’re not just beside me — you’re with me.”
She met his gaze, then turned to the crowd. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried — warm, steady, sure.
“Thank you,” she said. “For welcoming me into your hearts, your homes, and your kingdom. I may not have been born here, but I promise to love Nordhaven as fiercely as I love its king.”
The cheers swelled again, louder this time — not just for Elias, but for her.
Elias reached for her hand, lifting it gently.
“Long live Nordhaven,” he said.
“Long live its people,” she added.
And together, they bowed — not just as monarchs, but as partners.
The Coronation Banquet — That Evening
The grand hall of Nordhaven Palace glowed with candlelight and polished silver. The coronation had been a triumph — solemn, stirring, unforgettable. Now, the mood had softened. Laughter floated between tables, wine flowed freely, and the young king looked far more like a newlywed than a monarch.
Elias leaned toward Veronica, his voice low and teasing, eyes dancing, eyebrows wiggling.
“You’ve smiled at every diplomat in the hemisphere. I think that earns us a break.”
Veronica giggled, cheeks flushed from champagne and affection. She swatted his arm gently. “You’re incorrigible.”
He grinned, then stood with theatrical flair, tossing his napkin beside his plate. The room quieted, sensing something was about to happen.
“If everyone would excuse us,” Elias said, voice smooth and just a touch wicked, “Her Majesty and I are rather… tired now.”
He winked at Veronica, who turned scarlet, her hand flying to her mouth in a mix of horror and delight.
She rose, trying to maintain composure, smoothing the soft folds of her evening gown — no longer the full coronation regalia, but still elegant, still royal. Her hair had loosened slightly, a few tendrils escaping the pins, and her heels clicked gently against the marble floor.
As she turned toward the door, Elias caught her around the waist and — to the gasps and delighted laughter of the remaining family members — swept her into his arms.
Elias’s voice rang out as he disappeared down the corridor, Veronica laughing breathlessly in his arms:
“Kom, älskling! Vi måste öva på de andra aspekterna av att vara kung och drottning!”
The Henfordshire delegation blinked, clearly baffled.
King Maximilian leaned slightly toward Queen Ingrid, his tone polite but curious.
“I’m sorry, but my Norsk is rather rusty. What did he say?”
Before Ingrid could respond, twenty-two-year-old Prince Magnus didn’t miss a beat.
“He said they’re going to rehearse making heirs.”
Queen Ingrid turned sharply, giving her son a pointed nudge with her elbow. Her lips twitched despite herself.
“Magnus,” she murmured, “you are not helping.”
Magnus shrugged, utterly unbothered, eyes still on the door where Elias had vanished with his freshly baked queen.
“I’m just translating, Mum. His Majesty asked, and I responded.”
King Maximilian blinked, then chuckled — a low, amused sound that rippled through the Henfordshire table, while the Henfordian Crown Prince William and Princess Wilhelmina whispered to each other giggling and Queen Aria Grace tried her best to hide her smirk.
Ingrid sighed, lifting her wine glass with regal restraint.
“Well. At least they’re enthusiastic about that aspect of their duties.”
The room erupted in laughter, some scandalized, some delighted. But beneath it all was a sense of joy — of a monarchy not just renewed, but deeply human.
EchoesOfLegacy 
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