As a princess, I was no stranger to being chased by the masses.

Whether it was the maids who brushed my hair, the maids who put on my clothes or the maids who picked up the socks which didn’t exist as I walked to the bathroom, unwanted adoration was a fact of life.

It mattered little whether I was in my favoured black dress or masterfully incognito. My regal aura pervaded all.

If it wasn’t the 2nd sons inviting themselves to my designated scowling zone in a soirée, it was the merchants camped outside town gates who incorrectly assumed that because my pouch was bottomless, my generosity was as well.

However, while boundaries were often viewed as guidelines rather than the official laws inscribed in my dreams that they were, few crowds ever breached decorum enough to send me fleeing.

This, though–

“Kekekekekekekekekeke~”

This was very much a low point for common etiquette.

Behind me, the corridor of a highly makeshift castle was shaking.

Horrifying when a single poodle decided to play catch with the fruit bowls masterfully painted in my portraits. But even more so when the cause was a stampede of demented serial killers.

Redcaps.

Like most innocent maidens, my only experience with these diminutive murderers were from tales told by the daughters trespassing upon my mandatory tea table. Between my bouts of wakeful unconsciousness, I would catch excited snatches of conversation as brief as the sightings they claimed to enjoy.

Redcaps, after all, were nothing if not useful as a ready-made source of villainy and bedtime tales.

When the threat of marrying into a lesser house was too grim a punishment for those below the age of 10, these fun-sized lunatics were a useful spectre instead, their sneers and crooked nails ready to steal away any young maiden who didn’t have dragons to fear instead.

Officially the cousins of goblins and even more officially a type of pixie, they were magic shaped into sadism and insanity. Summoned either by a complex blood ritual or by snacking past midnight, redcaps were favoured as both the monster in the closet and the darkness below the bed.

After all, while they surely existed, no princess was likely to encounter one while safe within the confines of her tower.

A problem, then.

The closest thing I had to a tower was a shoddy castle where the inside was officially worse than the outside.

A feat which deserved its own accolade.

As I judged the corridors of falling pebbles and cracked mud, it was to an accompaniment of far too many footsteps behind me. Their boots tested the walls more than any siege could, joined by the frantic swishing of their cleavers and the shrill cry of their laughter managing to shake the very air.

This was unfortunate.

For the redcaps, that is.

Boooooooooomph!

A crudely drawn rune stuck to the ground exploded. As did those around it.

The result was clear even without glancing behind. Manic laughter and giddy delirium fought against the sound of redcaps disintegrating into whatever morbid magic held them together. And then they vanished, replaced by a chorus of thunder as a tinge of blue lit up the infinite crevasses around us.

After all–

The walls might be falling apart. But the traps they hid weren’t.

Within halls already boasting the appearance of well touristed ruins, I was greeted by the sound of ceaseless cranks and snaps as tiles lowered, strings were snapped and gongs were ominously smashed in the distance.

Death and rust were slow to answer, but answer they did.

Multiple pairs of giant hacksaws passed one another like broken scissors.

Volleys of darts from tiny holes peppering the walls whisked through the air while leaving poison trailing in their wake.

A gauntlet of flames swept up from protrusions in the ground, showering their own devices with a carpet of molten shards.

Clouds of violet fumes hungrily lapped at the air, bristling with the floating visages of literal skulls.

“Hup.”

All the while … I used my delicate foot tapping technique to carefully discern the lethal traps before me.

Pwoooooooooooooooooosh.

Yes.

Even if delicate foot tapping meant the traps triggering as I skipped without pause, ignoring the hacksaws, flames, darts and toxic clouds erupting behind me like all the colours of the rainbow.

“Hup … hup … hup.”

I dared to peek behind me.

Within the corridor, carnage abounded.

A gruesome display of goblin engineering. Little of which the pursuing redcaps cared about.

Their joy was in the challenge of leaping off the disembodied backs of their peers as they swung their cleavers towards me. Off went their bright little hats as they were sliced, burned, and smothered, leaving only their echoing laughter behind.

I had not a word of admonishment.

This was the exact sort of effort I expected from my foes. And if all of them committed to brutally murdering me with a cleaver instead of languishing with unworkable plots, perhaps Soap Island wouldn’t soon be needing actual accommodation instead of whatever open sky they indulged in.

“Oooh~”

Beside me, Coppelia briefly paused in her own skipping to glance at the destruction as well.

Her bright eyes lit up further at the literal bonfire of magic and flames–just before she dipped her head beneath a swinging guillotine. Even so, she had enough time to break into applause as a cloud in the shape of a walrus burst forth to a shower of sparkles and floating hats now shorn of their owners.

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“9/10~” she said cheerily. “We get a free zoo trip with our trapped corridor! That’s attention to detail.”

I was aghast.

As I saw the beginnings of a dozen spikes releasing from their crevasse, it was all I could do to shake my head while watching them impale the air where my face had just been.

“C-Coppelia! … We’re being chased by a literal horde of homicidal lunatics whose bloodlust won’t allow them to cease even when literal fire is in front of them. This is hardly the time for idleness!”

“... So the sasquatch was your favourite?”

“The alpaca,” I admitted. “I would give that toxic cloud shape a generous 7/10 … maybe 8/10. But not because I think they’re somewhat endearing. It’s simply that their wool is often of a higher quality than their sheep counterpart. It’s softer and less fibrous.”

“Alpacas are cute, aren’t they?”

I bit my lips.

“They … They just look so silly, Coppelia. And fluffy.”

Coppelia giggled … all the while, a pyre of redcaps melted behind us to a ceaseless trove of goblin traps.

Frankly, I was almost impressed.

Almost.

The boasts of the goblin foreman weren’t quite justified. But few were in the competitive world of trapped corridors. Acknowledgement was due, however, for the fact that a hodgepot castle was able to feature modern designs in anti-intruder mechanisms.

That meant colour coordination.

It was as chaotic as a witch’s favourite concoction, yes … but unlike a paint palette, the colours of flame, magic and alchemy when mixed were wildly unpredictable. Even if unintentional, I was glad for the opportunity to test the effects before knowing which I would suggest to my stewards.

True, I didn’t quite hope to admire this while activating every trap simultaneously … but that’s fine!

When it came to princesses refusing to die to a bloodthirsty horde who didn’t have the courtesy to wipe off the blood from their previous victim, nothing could match my skipping!

Especially when the eager killers themselves were their own worst obstacle.

Any time a redcap threatened to escape the cacophony of destruction, a hand from the horde would purposefully drag them back in.

To the worthy goes the spoils. Or in this case, the one least betrayed by their own.

“You know,” said Coppelia as she watched as a bolt of acid zip past her nose. “I’m pretty sure that somewhere, a goblin is watching this with a glum face. Traps probably shouldn’t be murdering the guys chasing after us.”

“The glum face can be reversed, then. They’re by far the best things about this slapdash castle.”

“Oooh … that sounds like a hidden compliment.”

“It’s simply less of an insult.” I ducked as a twirling orb of ice shattered itself into the opposing wall, leaving a scorch as black as flames behind. “But while they’re not effective in catching princesses, I concede they’ve value elsewhere. I’ve even a mind to consider some of these combinations for the Royal Villa’s own dungeon.”

“Gasp. You wouldn’t.”

“I know. But hear me out. After they trigger, any surviving burglars would be left alone with only horror as their peers are turned into clashing shades of a rainbow. Their cries will reverberate upstairs for all the guests to hear. Our standing would only increase.”

Coppelia nodded as she pretended to listen, focusing instead on avoiding the pouring cauldron of molten acid someone else mysteriously triggered.

I was delighted. Her handmaiden’s training was progressing marvellously.

“Hmm … out of curiosity, do you ever actually keep people in your dungeon?”

“What?” I blinked in shock. “Of course not. That’s barbaric.”

“Oh, okay. What do you do with the constant burglars, then?”

“The same thing we do with our drunken guests. We direct them to a sign mistakenly pointing to Clarise’s test chamber as the wine cellar. We’d never place them in the dungeon. The smell from their vomit would waft upwards.”

Coppelia hummed.

It was barely heard above the sound of arcing lightning striking the wall next to her, rebounding several times before lunging into the carnage behind.

“In that case, why have a dungeon if you can’t toss someone there only to needlessly taunt them before they escape 30 minutes later?”

“Because imprisonment isn’t its purpose. Our dungeon serves as the default location for secret rendezvouses when our guests conspire in our home. Half the treason attempts we discover are due to them sneaking out of their rooms in the dead of night to loudly whisper in the dungeon.”

“Ehhh … why not just conspire in their rooms?”

“That’d be far too sensible. A trait those who indulge in conspiracy are not known to have. And while all dream of treason, so few ever get the chance–especially within the abode of the same royalty they hope to usurp. Of course they’d play the game of cloak and daggers. It’s fine entertainment. There even used to be an acoustic tube leading directly to our dining chamber, just so we could listen while eating gelato. Sadly, it’s gone now.”

“Oh, was it discovered?”

“No, we had to remove it when Father almost died choking from laughter on a pine nut.”

Coppelia only blinked.

That was good. There was a law against laughing at that incident.

Fortunately, there was none against laughing at the failings of a mage whose summoned underlings were now indistinct colours in the backdrop.

As the corridor came to an end, so too did the array of goblin traps. No more spears, saws, darts or haphazard swipes of magic tried to whisk us into the mud.

Sensing a reprieve, I stopped and turned to admire the handiwork behind me.

All I saw was a smouldering wreckage.

Dust, embers and toxic clouds floating like oddly coloured marshmallows were all that remained of the murderous, if relentlessly jolly horde.

Here and there, a few traces of their shining cleavers could be seen sizzling on the ground. The bloodied residues of whatever sadistic magic bound them. They disintegrated a moment later, their memory erased like shortcake crumbs swept by a maid’s broom.

I duly nodded.

Then, I raised a hand to my lips, barely covering my smile.

“Ohohohohohoho!! … I see that hiring is a skill that adventurers have yet to achieve. A shame. If it was a plague of giant badgers that was called upon, I would have conceded defeat on the spot.”

Coppelia stretched upwards as a single piece of red fabric came floating towards her.

The only remnant of the tiny horde, complete with a few splotches of dried blood which most certainly weren’t from the wearer. She caught it, carefully eyed the blood, then stuffed it into her pouch.

“I bet I can trade this with a suspicious forest witch,” she said enthusiastically.

I only smiled in response.

Where she’d find a suspicious forest witch and what sort of things she’d hope to barter in exchange, I had no idea. And as long as I only smiled, I would continue to have no idea.

“Excellent. Because I hope to never flee from redcaps again. Of all the ways to die, being murdered for the sake of it lacks any of the unwarranted resentment I demand. Come, let’s see if our errant adventurer does any better.”

“Alrighty!~”

Satisfied by our entrance, I duly turned towards the corridor’s end.

Here, neither a wonky door nor a crumbling archway awaited our judging.

It was instead something far more practical. A wide gap bordered by jagged rock and patches of grass still clinging onto soil as the castle itself abruptly ended. The hole led into the mountainside. And also the caves beyond.

Goblin caves.

A place less appropriate for me than the common inns I slept in. And not only because of the promise of narrow tunnels, damp earth and ceaseless mud.

“Uuuunnnnnnngghhhhhh.”

Rather … it was because of that.

A pained, guttural groan. An echoing cry so wreathed in agony and despair that ghouls freshly plucked from their graves had less cause for complaint.

I raised my arms in exasperation.

“What manner of horrific undead is that?”

“It might be a zombie with a stomach ache. That happens if you eat the wrong kind of moss cake.”

“Well, I hope they quietly recover in a corner, then! Traversing a goblin cave is quite punishing enough. Let’s be swift about this. And if you see any undead with stomach aches, ignore them. With luck and my angelic aura, they’ll ignore us as well.”

“I don’t think anybody in recorded history has ever tried that.”

Coppelia giggled. I hardly saw why.

Whatever this wayward adventurer hoped to achieve, I would do better.

I was a princess, and I was nothing if not excellent at setting precedents. Willingly, if not quite enthusiastically, entering a goblin cave would be one of them.

But leaving with a gentle and wholly satisfied smile?

… Why, that was quite another.