I Reincarnated as a Princess… But Ended Up Selling Fruit

Lara didn't speak for the rest of the day.

Not to Elira, who offered her spiked pear cider.

Not to Seph, who silently slid her a bowl of stew.

Not even to Rime, who parked himself at the end of her bed like a furry depression blanket and refused to leave.

She just sat in her treehouse, curled up under a blanket that smelled like herbs and magic and time, staring out the window.

The orchard was still glowing.

Softly. Like it was waiting.

Like it wanted her to stop pretending it didn't know her anymore.

She hated that.

So she ignored it. Like she always did. And buried herself in cataloging fruit crates like they weren't filled with existential dread.

She didn't even notice the courier until it was too late.

The bell above her stall rang twice—code for "official delivery."

Lara climbed down from the treehouse and opened the front gate to find a gangly teenage runner in a mud-stained uniform holding out a sealed scroll and a small wooden box.

"Delivery for Miss Lira," he said, not looking up from his enchanted clipboard. "Marked urgent. From Fort Siran."

Lara frowned. "I don't know anyone in Fort Siran."

"Doesn't matter," the boy said, already turning to leave. "It's signed by the Duke of Virelion. I was told to deliver it by dawn or risk divine rebuke, whatever that means."

Lara's stomach sank.

She took the package. Shut the gate. Walked inside.

Rime was waiting on the couch, grooming one paw. "Something wrong?"

Lara dropped the box on the table. "Official mail."

"Burn it."

"I haven't opened it yet."

"Preemptively burn it."

She ignored him and untied the seal.

The scroll was short.

Elegant script, far too clean for the panic it caused.

To the esteemed Miss Lira, purveyor of remarkable produce—

Your recent apple was most effective. The subject has shown significant signs of recovery.

We are, of course, eager to acquire more.

In particular, the fruit you mentioned in jest—the "Pico"—has drawn interest at the imperial level.

If such a fruit exists, I trust you'll understand its importance.

A collector from the capital will be arriving within the week.

I trust we'll find your stall stocked.

—Duke Cassir Virelion.

Lara's blood went cold.

"Rime," she said faintly, "we have a problem."

He stretched without looking up. "Which category?"

"Pico."

That got his attention.

He padded over, read the letter, and hissed. "He knows."

"He doesn't know everything," Lara muttered. "Just enough to ruin me."

She opened the wooden box.

Inside, nestled in velvet, was the core of the apple she sold days ago.

Still glowing.

Still warm.

Marked with a sigil no one had dared use in decades."

The Empire didn't just want the fruit.

They knew it came from her.

"Tell me you didn't open it," Elira said, stomping into the living room like she had a warrant and a personal grudge.

"She opened it," Rime said from his perch, licking his paw like he wasn't lowkey furious. "Then she read it. Then she glowed. It was a whole thing."

Seph leaned over the letter. "Wait. The Duke Cassir Virelion? As in—"

"Yes," Lara muttered, rubbing her temples. "As in terrifying, too-handsome, way-too-royal, suspiciously familiar Duke of Virelion."

"Oh good," Elira deadpanned. "Royal attention. My favorite flavor of stress."

Myrr snatched the letter, scanned it once, then held it up like it had personally offended her. "This implies they know about the Pico."

"They think they might know," Lara corrected. "It's different."

Rime yawned pointedly. "The Empire just sent a glowing apple core in a velvet box with your DNA on it and a polite death threat. But sure, let's live in denial a bit longer."

Seph poked the box. "...This feels like a trap."

"It is a trap," Elira said. "It's a very polite, very imperial 'hey we're coming over for dinner and if you lie we'll burn your orchard down' kind of trap."

Myrr crossed her arms. "They're sending someone. Soon."

"Within the week," Lara muttered.

"Do we know who?" Seph asked.

Rime snorted. "Does it matter? They'll sniff around, flirt with death, and try to figure out why your apples taste like spiritual awakening and generational trauma."

Lara sat down hard. "Okay. Okay. Let's not panic."

"You're glowing again," Elira pointed out.

"That's internalized panic. Totally different."

The group stared at her.

The box glowed softly.

Rime finally said, "We need a plan."

Seph raised a hand. "Option one: we run."

"Option two," Myrr said calmly, "we kill the courier and pretend this never happened."

"Elira?" Lara asked, hopefully.

"I'm just here to set something on fire if we pick a direction."

"Great. Very constructive."

"I'm still voting 'run,'" Seph said.

But Lara was already staring at the window.

The orchard wasn't glowing anymore.

It was pulsing.

Rhythmic. Alive. Responding.

To her. To the letter. To everything she kept pretending she could ignore.

She whispered, "They're not just coming for the fruit."

Rime looked up. "What?"

"They're coming for me."

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Elira's voice cracked louder than the jar of pickled wyvern eggs she just dropped.

Lara winced. "I said... the Empire might know about the Pico."

"You said it like you were telling me we're out of salt!"

"We are out of salt," Seph added helpfully.

"Focus!" Myrr snapped.

The crew circled the table like witches in a seance gone terribly bureaucratic. The box still sat in the middle, glowing softly like a smug little time bomb. The Pico core looked harmless enough—until you noticed the ancient imperial sigil burned into the flesh like a divine brand.

"They know," Seph muttered, pacing. "They don't know know, but they know enough to send a collector. That's not a scout. That's a declaration."

"They're sniffing around for spirit fruit," Myrr said darkly. "And they found the one woman stupid enough to sell one to the crown prince."

"Technically, I didn't know he was royalty," Lara said weakly.

"Technically, you never ask questions when you're attracted to someone with trauma eyes and a sword," Elira shot back.

Fair.

Rime leapt onto the table, tail lashing. "Alright, disaster muffins. We have one week before imperial boots stomp their way into our orchard. Options?"

"Kill them," Seph said immediately.

"No," Myrr sighed.

"Sleep with them and spy?" Elira offered.

"No," Myrr sighed harder.

"Sell them fake fruit laced with flatulence powder?"

"...Getting warmer," Rime said thoughtfully.

Lara groaned, rubbing her temples. "We need a decoy. Something that looks like the Pico but doesn't scream 'Hi I'm genetically divine and possibly capable of resurrection.'"

Everyone turned to look at the crate marked "Experimental Citrus."

"No," Lara said. "Not the haunted oranges."

Too late. Seph was already lifting the lid.

Inside: glowing, pulsing fruit that smelled like anxiety and sparkles.

"I hate that they're pretty," Elira muttered.

Rime squinted. "They might pass as Pico-adjacent, if the collector's never seen a real one."

"Or has a head cold," Seph added.

"It's risky," Myrr said. "But it's all we've got."

Lara stared at the core. At the sigil. At the door they couldn't close anymore.

One week.

One chance to stay hidden.

One last time to pretend she was just a fruit seller and not a royal relapse waiting to happen.

"Fine," she said. "Let's play decoy."

"Great," Elira grinned. "Operation 'Fake Your Fruit' is a go."