The Great Hall of Albion Castle looked like a party thrown by a mad sorcerer with a severe caffeine addiction. Crystal chandeliers, enchanted with the power of ten different elements, hung from the high vaulted ceilings, their icicles pulsating in hues ranging from a peaceful lavender to an angry puce that seemed to mock Queen Snow's current mood—one of mild existential dread.
Royal banners of Snow White's face hung slightly askew, as Grumpy had "accidentally" used cursed thumbtacks, and now no one could figure out how to remove them without triggering a self-perpetuating loop of misfortune.
Snow adjusted her borrowed crown—a comically crooked circlet that had been designed for someone with much more regal posture. It wobbled constantly like a drunk unicorn. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?" she muttered, glancing at the crowd below.
Doc, with his velvet doublet barely holding together after an unfortunate incident involving Sneezy's allergies, turned his head and gave her a tired look. "Because, my dear, you're the only royal left who hasn't attempted to poison the populace. And we really need to keep up appearances, y'know?"
A cacophony of off-key trumpets blared as Queen Evilia made her entrance—clad in a gown so stiff with jewels it could have been used as armor. As she descended the staircase, her steps were as graceful as a drunken giraffe on a tightrope, and she tripped, crashing into a pudding cart with a squelchy plop. Custard splattered in every direction, including directly into the lap of an unsuspecting noble who yelped in surprise.
"Classic," the Magic Mirror remarked from its new position, perched delicately like an ornamental chandelier, now half-embedded in the castle's ceiling. It seemed to take pleasure in the chaos.
Snow, clutching the wobbly scepter that seemed to have an ongoing argument with gravity, cleared her throat awkwardly at the podium. "So... uh, I guess I'm queen now?" She glanced at the royal scroll she was supposed to read from, but the parchment had inexplicably been eaten by a passing raven mid-ceremony.
The crowd was dead silent, staring at her expectantly.
"...That's it?" shouted a peasant from the back. He was munching on a hunk of bread, his face incredulous.
"Uh... taxes are bad?" Snow offered, her voice trailing off. "Let's eat?"
To her surprise, the crowd erupted into applause, apparently interpreting her vague statement as revolutionary. Snow gave a nervous smile and raised her hand in a salute that was more "What am I doing?" than anything remotely regal.
From the sidelines, the ex-queen, now covered head to toe in custard, hissed through gritted teeth. "You're ruining monarchy! You're not even trying!"
"Thank you!" Snow replied cheerfully, waving the scepter like a flag. She then promptly dropped it onto Prince Florian's foot, who let out a strangled yelp and hopped into a nearby suit of armor for protection. The suit wobbled precariously, and Florian tipped over onto the dessert table, knocking over a towering cake that sent slices flying into the air like confetti.
"And thus," intoned the Magic Mirror, its voice dripping with sarcasm, "the kingdom's GDP increased by 200% thanks to slapstick tourism."
The dwarves, now appointed as "Royal Liaisons," were tasked with welcoming their first foreign delegation—an utterly perplexed group of elves who appeared entirely too well-groomed for this sort of diplomatic event.
"Welcome to Albion!" Doc bellowed in his best "official" voice, thrusting mugs of "peace ale" into the hands of their guests. The drink, however, was 90% moonshine, and Doc had to discreetly mop up some of the more colorful stains on his doublet as he realized what he'd done.
Grumpy, as always, cut straight to the point. He shoved a scroll into the hands of the Elf King. "Sign here, saying we're the best. No revisions, no questions."
Things quickly devolved. Sneezy, overwhelmed by the fresh air, sneezed in the face of the Elf King, who recoiled in horror. Dopey, ever the enthusiast, tried to braid the elves' beards in an attempt to "forge bonds of friendship." Sleepy, meanwhile, was asleep during the entire diplomatic proceedings, snoring so loudly that it nearly caused a diplomatic incident in itself.
The Magic Mirror commented gleefully: "International relations score: 0/10. Comedy score: 11/10."
The evening's "Celebration Gala" had all the makings of an elite affair—if you had no sense of class, decorum, or gravity.
The grand waltz quickly descended into chaos as Prince Florian—whose dancing skills could only be described as "violent"—trod on every single dignitary's toes. He apologized profusely after every misstep, only to accidentally trip over his own feet and send several grandmothers flying into a pile of punchbowl.
The buffet table, a once-proud spectacle of meats and cheeses, suddenly sprouted legs and scampered off into the nearest hallway. Bashful had "improved" the recipes, but in the process had accidentally transformed the food into sentient beings with their own plans. Snow wasn't sure whether to be horrified or impressed.
And then, to top it off, a firework display ignited and spelled out the word "POOP" in fiery letters. This, as it turned out, was the result of a bitter grudge between the castle's pyrotechnics team and the local spelling bee champion, who had apparently swapped some of the letters in retaliation for a previous loss.
Snow, hiding behind a tapestry and chuckling, found the ex-queen sulking with a stolen wine bottle. "Admit it," Snow grinned. "This is the most fun you've had in years."
The ex-queen looked into her bottle mournfully and took another swig. "...The elf's wig was funny when it caught fire."
At midnight, the true festivities began—deep in the kitchens, where the dwarves were teaching the castle cats how to breakdance. The cats, naturally, were not as enthusiastic as their teachers, but they did seem to be enjoying the chaos.
Meanwhile, the stable boys had taken it upon themselves to challenge the mirrors to drinking contests. They lost spectacularly. After all, mirrors don't drink—they reflect, and they reflected back the fact that the stable boys had no idea what they were doing.
Snow and Florian, somewhat tipsy, slow-danced atop a barrel of pickles that had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere. As they swayed, Snow stumbled into Florian's arms, and they both toppled into a nearby hay pile with a loud thud.
"You know," Florian murmured as they lay there amidst the hay, "you're a terrible dancer."
"Takes one to know one," Snow laughed, her voice muffled by the hay. "We should start a club."
Above them, the Magic Mirror gleefully projected a fireworks display in the shape of middle fingers—a fitting, final salute to the old regime.