Chapter One: Exit Stage Left… Into a Throne Room
Elliott Bramble was halfway through being eaten by a papier-mâché dragon when everything went terribly, gloriously wrong.
The dragon, held together with duct tape, glitter, and the prayers of underpaid stagehands, let out a final, mournful phhhbbbtttt as it collapsed around him. The audience at the Royal Wistmere Theatre clapped politely—more out of sympathy than enthusiasm. Elliott emerged from the dragon's mouth covered in sparkles and existential dread.
He took a bow anyway.
"Truly," he muttered backstage, wiping fake blood off his tunic, "I have reached the peak of my theatrical career. Next stop: interpretive mime on street corners."
He was halfway through changing into his "day job" outfit—an apron for a sandwich shop creatively called The Earl of Sandwiches—when a man burst into the dressing room, panting, wide-eyed, and wearing an alarming amount of velvet.
"You! Actor!" the man gasped.
"Technically, yes," Elliott said. "Professionally, not really."
"You're needed—immediately. His Royal Highness, Prince Dorian, is in danger!"
Elliott blinked. "Okay. Is this a weird method-acting prank? Because I once played a cucumber in an abstract musical, and even that was less absurd."
But the man didn't laugh. "Assassins. The prince. You're his only hope."
Before Elliott could protest, he was yanked by the arm, dragged through a side door, and tossed into the back of an opulent, fast-moving carriage. He landed on an ornate cushion and something that yelped.
"Sorry," he said to the dog. The dog gave him a look of aristocratic judgment.
Within minutes, Elliott was shoved into a dimly lit alley behind the royal opera house, where a scuffle was in full swing. A masked attacker lunged toward a young man in royal blue—clearly Prince Dorian, judging by the "Don't-stab-me-I'm-handsome" expression on his face.
Without thinking, Elliott grabbed a stage prop—a collapsible lute—and whacked the attacker over the head with a very theatrical "clang!"
The would-be assassin crumpled. Silence followed.
"…Did I just save a prince with a musical instrument?" Elliott asked, stunned.
"You did," Prince Dorian said, breathless. "Thank you. What's your name?"
"Elliott Bramble. Of the House of Poor Decisions."
The prince straightened, studying him with sudden interest. "How would you like to save the kingdom?"
"Oh no," Elliott said. "That sounds like effort."
"You'll be compensated. Lavishly. Also, we need you to pretend to be the king."
Elliott laughed.
The prince did not.
"…Wait. You're serious?" Elliott squeaked.
"Utterly. The king is missing. The court is on the brink of chaos. And you—"
"Look like him?"
"Exactly."
Elliott stared at the prince, the unconscious assassin, and the dog, who was now peeing on a crate of royal wine.
"Well," he sighed. "This isn't even the weirdest Wednesday I've had."
And just like that, Elliott Bramble, failed actor, became His Majesty, King Alric the Third.
Possibly.