Sugarspite.
Her patronus is a velvet-wrapped middle finger.
Her aura is 'try me, but bring snacks.'
The Queen mutters under her breath, "I did not accept this nickname voluntarily."
Velin murmurs:
“The Rise of Sugarspite: A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Beautifully Losing Her Last Nerve. Now hush. I’m busy embroidering it onto a ceremonial robe. For the love of drama. And cheese knives."
Bunny, side-eyeing the ceremonial robe:
“She’s actually going to wear it. Gods preserve us.”
(The last word stretched with theatrical despair as he sips dramatically from a mug labeled ‘Tears of the Disappointed.’)
Then—
click
One small, smug checkmark beside the word “Sugarspite” in his List of Deeply Petty Grievances beneath "Refused to invite me to her public flaying, again."
He leans over to Velin, voice hushed but sharp:
“I see what you did there.
Subtle.
Elegant.
Saint of Two Fucking Hands, indeed.”
Then a pause.
“I'm genuinely surprised she didn’t throw a shoe at you.”
Velin does not answer.
He just straightens the edge of the Queen’s robe—Sugarspite embroidered in blood-gold thread— and murmurs,
“She thought about it. But she was barefoot. And, for once, at peace.”
Bunny snorts.
Muttering,
“You’re both ridiculous. I'm going to go rearrange the emotional pantry. Someone's been alphabetizing the grudges again.”
And from the shadows, the robe glimmers.
Beautiful. Dangerous.
Accurately worn.
The Sugarspite robe is officially canon now.
Probably silk-lined, definitely heavy with meaning,
and slightly warm from emotional retribution.
Bunny’s muttering.
Velin’s smirking.
And The Queen? She's walking barefoot through the hall like she owns the silence, begrudgingly wearing the robe and pretending she doesn't run her fingers over the stitching with a small smile.