Tetora was a simple person. She disliked politics. She disliked work. She would rise late in the day and would do nothing but laze around. She would eat her three square meals a day, and then bum off to read a book or go sleep. That was the nature of Britannia’s princess. But while she was lazy, she was not spoiled; she was wise enough to keep herself in check and not waste herself away eating pastries. There were responsibilities to uphold as a member of the royal family, but she was the fifth in line to the throne. Therefore, she never asked for this. It was beyond her, annoying, inappropriate. Inaction was the right choice for her when the King disappeared; the fifth in line had no business in the complicated politics of a ceremonial head of state. But her elders squandered their opportunity. They lost the favor of the public with political blunders. The people were outraged. It almost caused a civil war. Without lifting a finger, the people began rallying around her. And Tetora was unable to do anything about it. 

A month later, she found herself on a plane to Copenhagen as a head of state. 

Tetora sighed. The incessant, droning sound of jet engines was starting to get to the young princess. For a person used to being pampered in a large, quiet, and comfortable manor, the cramped quarters and loud noise aboard even a spacious private jet was bothersome. She had been told by the pilot that the plane was a Boeing Business Jet, the most state-of-the-art and accommodating travel arrangements money or influence could buy. It had a range of 12,000 kilometers and could fly at 900 kilometers an hour, more than triple the speed and range of the best airplane in Europa. She agreed that it was kind of cool, but being told fascinating things about her method of travel did little to mitigate her discomfort. 

She rolled around on her bed in her comfortable pink pajamas, hugging her pillow. She could faintly hear her set of advisors arguing about something in the next room, probably regarding the nature of her security detail. Jerome himself had telephoned her directly informing her of the security arrangements; two girls from the 501st, an elite, independent military wing within the UDF, would be accompanying them to the diplomatic proceedings. She had yet to meet them, but they were from Europe and were supposed to be very good at their jobs, more than the so-called Special Forces that the advisers were bickering about. Tetora had already approved of the detail, so she keyed the intercom, telling them to “Please, be quiet.” 

The electronic screen on the desk across from her bed made a soft chiming sound, indicating that they were probably nearing Copenhagen.

She realized she should probably get dressed.