So, listen.

  I’ve been thinking.

  And by “thinking” I mean: spinning yet another brilliant, flawless, entirely-plausible story about my past. Because why not? My real childhood is a mud?stained mess anyway; might as well upgrade it.

  See, I’m a lost twin of a princess.

  Don’t roll your eyes.

  Let me finish.

  Maybe Delvida. Maybe Liet. Maybe one of those shiny-pink map places where girls are raised on honeyed figs and embroidered pillows instead of stale bread and disappointment. Doesn’t matter. Every kingdom has at least one princess with perfect posture and a massive hereditary nose, and I’m clearly her other half — the one with the personality.

  And here’s how it went — because tragic backstories are all about logistics:

  The royal midwives took one look at the two of us: one pink, angelic, destined-for-the-throne baby…

  …and then me.

  Blue eyes already narrowed like I’d just spotted my first con. A tiny fist clenched like I was ready to punch fate in the crotch. I probably bit someone within the first hour — wouldn’t surprise me.

  Anyway, they panicked. They couldn’t have princesses. Gods forbid. So what do they do?

  They do what any sensible, morally bankrupt palace does with surplus babies:

  They toss one into a basket and send her drifting down the river like a slightly damp problem.

  And of course they picked .

  Because of course they did.

  My luck is absolute trash and consistent.

  My twin sister — the other me — probably still sits on her nacre-inlaid throne right now, combing her silky hair, being all regal and boring, blissfully unaware she’s got a street rat sibling somewhere out there sharpening her stolen dagger on a rock and ruining the dragon’s peace and sanity on a daily basis.

  Meanwhile I floated past reeds and frogs and probably a dead fish or two, straight into whatever sorry cesspit eventually spat me out into Seebulba.

  And the best part?

  The dragon actually humors me when I tell him this. He just looks down at me with that ancient, jaded face of his — scales glittering, eyes judging, centuries of sophistication pulsing out of every pore — and goes:

  “Saya, darling, if you were a princess, the gods would’ve smote the monarchy out of mercy.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  And I tell him:

  “Well maybe they did, scaled gossip.”

  Do I believe any of this?

  Who cares.

  It’s a better story than “I crawled out of the gutter like a feral kitten someone forgot to drown.”

  And honestly… being the lost twin of a princess?

  Feels right.

  carry myself like royalty anyway.

  Barefoot royalty, sure — but still royalty.

  And somewhere out there my prim, perfect sister is probably having tea in a sunlit courtyard while thinking the weirdest, strangest feeling:

  Like the universe is missing someone loud, barefoot, and catastrophically slutty.

  And she’d be right.

  Because that someone is me.

  Saya.

  Princess of Absolutely Nowhere.

  Lost twin of Whoever-Is-Currently-Ruling-Delvida.

  Future claimant to a throne I will absolutely ruin inside a month.

  Of course it’s all part of the plan.

  You think this is random?

  You think fate just tossed me into the lap of a thousand?year?old, arthritic, gay dragon ?

  Please.

  This is destiny with eyeliner.

  See, the moment I started telling people — loudly and frequently — that I’m the lost twin of princess somewhere, the universe nodded, cracked its knuckles, and said:

  “Alright, girl. Prove it.”

  Why else would I, a humble street?urchin?turned?luxury?nuisance, end up paired with a dragon?

  A

  A siege engine with sarcasm.

  A flying war crime with gout.

  A glittery, fussy, hoarding lizard who complains about my sandal choices but also vaporizes anyone who even looks at me funny.

  We were for this.

  Obviously we’re supposed to storm a kingdom together, reclaim my rightful birthright, and traumatize an entire aristocracy. He’ll burn the gates, I’ll strut in barefoot like the scandalous royal miracle I am, and the court will gasp:

  “By the gods! She has returned!”

  And then I’ll be like:

  “Move. I need a bath, a crown, and a treasury audit.”

  The only tiny insignificant problem?

  …I have absolutely no idea which kingdom I’m allegedly heir to.

  Delvida?

  Liet?

  Thalveth?

  One of those tiny marsh princedoms nobody remembers unless they’re drowning in them?

  I don’t know! Any of them could’ve lost a princess. They misplace royal children all the time. They’re like socks.

  So obviously, the next step is Which means traveling to each kingdom until something clicks.

  And by clicks, I mean:

  I see a palace with nice marble floors, good food, fine fabrics, a proper bathhouse, and preferably a treasury that jingles when you look at it.

  Then I’ll turn to the dragon and say:

  “This one. I feel a deep ancestral connection to this one.”

  And he’ll roll his ancient eyes and mutter something dramatic like:

  “For the love of all sacred hoards, Saya, you cannot overthrow every government we pass.”

  And I’ll say:

  “Watch me.”

  Because if you think being a fake princess disqualifies me, think again.

  Half the crowned heads of the continent are fake — I’d fit right in.

  So yes.

  It’s all part of the plan.

  First: identify which kingdom deserves me.

  Second: find my “twin sister” and either hug her, dethrone her, or borrow her wardrobe.

  Third: sit on a throne like I was born on it and immediately misuse royal authority for petty reasons.

  And the dragon?

  He’ll pretend to hate every moment…

  …while secretly polishing his wings at the thought of becoming Royal Consort of Menace.

  It’s going to be glorious.