Season 1: Survival of the Fittest
Ch 14: A Queen Chooses Her Battles
Sunday morning arrived gently and, for once, without insult. No arms. No campaigns. No fools cluttering her inbox with "quick follow-ups." The ft was mercifully quiet, save for the faint hum of traffic beyond the window.
Nysera remained where she was — sprawled elegantly across the bed like a despot between wars. Yesterday’s ordeal of cleaning had been humiliating, yes, but it had also restored order. There were no more traitorous crumbs lurking in corners. No more silent accusations of sloth.
She scrolled zily through her cursed phone, watching ViscountessV tribute notifications roll in like steady tithes. Someone had sent her ￡50 just for replying "No." to their desperate plea. Another had composed a sonnet about how unworthy they were. She accepted both offerings with mild amusement, idly flexing her fingers like a goddess bestowing small mercies.
But as she flicked past memes and decrations of devotion, a headline caught her eye.
"Royal Family Attend Annual Garden Party — smiles all around."
Nysera stopped. Narrowed her eyes.
Royal. Family.
She sat up, suddenly alert. Her finger tapped quickly. She read. Then read again. Photographs accompanied the article — immacutely dressed nobles waving serenely from balconies and walking amongst blossoms as peasants looked on with awe and poorly disguised camera phones.
"So," Nysera murmured, lips curling faintly. "There is a monarchy. At st, something I understand."
Relief bloomed. Of course. A kingdom without nobility had been absurd. She had begun to suspect this nd was entirely wless, ruled only by discount supermarkets and those who shouted the loudest on public transport. But no. There was blood. Lineage. The rightful order of things.
Her relief sted precisely thirty seconds.
The article continued — and so too did her horror.
"The Royal Family today maintain only ceremonial roles, supporting charitable causes and national unity. Legistive power remains with Parliament and the elected government."
Nysera blinked. Read it twice. Her thumb scrolled rapidly.
Prime Minister? Elected officials? Commons?
Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "Commons. How vulgar."
Confusion mounted. The royal family smiled and waved, but issued no decrees. They graced gas, yet wielded no swords. Their power was symbolic — beloved, respected, yet utterly toothless.
She stared at the screen, spiralling.
"They do not rule. They exist," she said slowly, as though working through a difficult riddle. "Their power is not in edict or execution... but in image."
Nysera leaned back against the headboard, phone resting lightly on her stomach, expression darkening by degrees.
"So greatness alone does not win titles here. No matter how noble my bearing or ruthless my ambition, I cannot simply take my rightful pce. They do not worship conquest... they revere restraint. Symbolic rule. Obedience by suggestion."
Her lip curled faintly. It was at once cowardly and brilliant. A dynasty without danger. A throne without rivals.
"Fascinating," she muttered. "And infuriating."
For a long moment, she stared at the ceiling, absorbing this new, twisted reality. Then, slowly, her lips curved into something sly and dangerous.
"No matter," she murmured, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the back of her phone. "If this world loves symbols, then I shall become the one they whisper about. Presence, not conquest. Reverence earned through absence. A crown unseen—"
Her plotting was abruptly shattered by a shrill, violent screech.
The phone exploded with noise and light, the screen fshing like a herald mid-riot.
"SUNDAY LOWER BODY BLAST & SPIN — 10:00AM"
Nysera recoiled instinctively, clutching the device like it had personally betrayed her. The bedcovers tangled around her legs as she sat up, immediate arm coursing through her like cold water.
"What—what is this? Am I summoned?"
She stared at the notification, mind racing. The sheer urgency of the sound suggested bloodshed. Was there a battle scheduled she had forgotten? A tribunal? Some compulsory mortal blood rite? Her pulse quickened as she read the words again. Lower Body Bst & Spin. It sounded brutal. Military, even. Surely this was not ordinary.
"I knew it," she muttered darkly, swinging her legs off the bed and pacing barefoot. "The mortal courts demand trials even on days of rest. They call their warriors to sweat and suffer to prove their worth."
She scowled at the phone again. Mira had set this arm, apparently — her name printed casually beneath the notification like a death sentence.
Nysera hesitated. Ignoring summons was dangerous. Still, she knew little of this realm's customs. Was absence punishable? Was attendance mandatory to maintain one’s title in society? Her mind raced through political equivalents. Dueling courts. Mandatory festivals. Religious demonstrations of strength. She could not risk disgrace. Not yet.
With grim resolve, she gathered Mira’s most tolerable bck clothing — activewear, apparently, though the term was misleading as it inspired no joy — and prepared for what she assumed would be a ritual of public suffering.
"Very well," she said aloud, adjusting her ponytail like a queen donning a helm before battle. "If war is demanded of me... I shall face it."
The gym, when she arrived, did not resemble a battlefield. That was her first disappointment.
No banners. No cshing swords. Not even a ceremonial crier. Instead, she was greeted by too-bright lights, an oppressive odour of human effort, and rows upon rows of mortals voluntarily punishing themselves.
Nysera paused just past the entrance, clutching her water bottle — which she had brought only because the app sternly instructed her to — and surveyed the interior with a look of cool revulsion.
Men lifted heavy bars for no visible reason. Women threw themselves at mats and straps with grim determination. The air hummed with grunts, electronic beeps, and the relentless beat of music that sounded as though it was intended to induce insanity.
"This is madness," she muttered aloud, nose wrinkling faintly as a man let out a victorious roar after lifting something rge and unspeakably ugly. "This is not combat. This is... vanity."
Still, she pressed forward, curiosity winning out over disgust. A queen should know how her subjects suffered.
She followed the signs towards Spin Studio 2, each step accompanied by increasingly terrible sounds — thudding bass, whooping cheers, something that sounded suspiciously like a war cry but was followed by the phrase "You’re doing amazing!" which confused her greatly.
Outside the gss-walled room, she stopped. Peered in. And immediately regretted it.
The room was filled with peasants arranged in tight, endless rows, each astride what could only be described as medieval torture devices. Their feet churned furiously, bodies slick with effort. In the corner, perched like a tyrant upon a dais, stood a tiny blonde woman in a headset, screeching commands with cult-like fervour.
"Push harder! Faster! Feel the burn!"
Nysera's eyes widened slightly as she watched them obey, heads bowed, faces contorted in ecstatic misery.
"No," she whispered.
One woman let out a guttural groan as the instructor yelled "This is where you find out what you’re made of!" The room answered with a unified surge of pedalling, faces twisted in agony and devotion.
Nysera took a single step back. Then another. She did not turn her back — never turn your back on a battlefield — but she retreated with regal calm.
"No," she repeated firmly, slipping through the exit as if Spin Studio 2 did not and had never existed. "That is a cult. And I do not join cults. I found them."
Within minutes she was back on the street, the city air cool and forgiving against her face. She exhaled slowly, adjusting her coat as if brushing away the very memory.
"Some wars are beneath me," she decred with quiet finality.
As she walked home, she opened ViscountessV and posted, without preamble:
"A queen chooses her battles. Sweat is for servants."
Tributes poured in almost immediately.
Smiling faintly, Nysera kept walking. Today, at least, sanity prevailed.
