THE CAMERA AND THE CROWN

THE UNPLUGGED GENERATION

The great "Forever Flake" craze had finally settled, leaving the world’s mantelpieces cluttered with glowing, golden bricks and Grayson’s ego sufficiently inflated to the size of a small moon. But as the palace prepared for the Grand Vernissage of the Golden Spoons, something unprecedented happened. A solar flare, or perhaps just Rihanna’s “inter-dimensional interference,” caused a total, kingdom-wide blackout.

The ring lights flickered and died. The servers groaned and went silent. The "Royal Feed" was, for the first time in history, a blank screen.

Grayson stood in the middle of the Grand Ballroom, his mouth agape. He was wearing a suit made entirely of reflective mirrors, designed specifically to catch the flash of a thousand cameras. Now, in the sudden, heavy dimness of a late autumn afternoon, he just looked like a very expensive disco ball that had run out of batteries.

"Father Thomas?" Grayson whispered into the gloom. "The light... It’s gone. Am I still visible? If a Prince poses in a ballroom and no one is there to 'like' it, does he even exist?"

"I'm right here, Your Radiance," a weary voice called out. Father Thomas was fumbling with a manual candle lighter. "But the livestream is down. We’re... we’re off the air."

Grayson felt a cold shiver of terror. He reached for his pocket, but his phone was a cold, dead weight. He looked at his reflection in his sleeve, but without the artificial glow, he could see a small smudge of chocolate on his cheek. He looked—dare he say it—human.

The Sound of Silence

Just as Grayson was about to let out a scream that would surely be trending if anyone could hear it, he heard a sound he usually ignored: rhythmic, heavy breathing.

"WOOF. BARK-BARK." ("Finally. Some peace. You look like you’re having a mid-life crisis, kid, and you haven't even hit double digits yet.")

Grayson turned. Barnaby was sitting on the velvet dais, his tail thumping against the wood. In the soft, natural twilight filtering through the high stained-glass windows, the dog didn't look like a "Living Drone" or a "Marketing Consultant." He just looked like a friend.

"He called me a kid," Grayson muttered, but for the first time, he didn't snap back. He walked over and sat down on the steps of the throne, his mirrored suit clinking softly. "Barnaby... what do people do when they aren't being watched? Is there a manual for this?"

"WOOF." ("They breathe. They sit. They notice that the palace smells like old wax and floor polish instead of hairspray. And if they’re lucky, they share a snack that isn't gold-plated.")

The Wisdom of the Weird

From the shadows of the heavy velvet curtains, Rihanna emerged. She wasn't wearing a potato sack or a moss wig today. She was wearing a simple, oversized sweater and holding a plate of very normal, very unbranded peanut butter sandwiches.

"The digital spirits have gone to sleep, Grayson," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "The clouds told me they needed a break from your constant pouting. They were getting a headache."

She sat down on the other side of Grayson, handing him a sandwich. Grayson looked at it with suspicion. "Is this... artisanal? Is it locally sourced?"

"It’s bread and nuts, Grayson. It’s a hug you can eat," Rihanna replied.

Grayson took a bite. It wasn't "luxury." It didn't have a signature scent. It was just salty, sweet, and sticky. He chewed slowly, noticing the way the light hit the dust motes dancing in the air. For once, he didn't care about the "best angle." He just cared about the crunch.

A Different Kind of Following

For the next hour, the trio sat in the darkening ballroom. There were no priests, no celebrities, and no "Forever Flakes."

Grayson found himself telling Rihanna about the time he actually enjoyed a finger-painting class before he decided it was "bad for his brand." Rihanna told him about the secret language of the palace mice (apparently, they think the King has a very nice singing voice in the shower). And Barnaby... Barnaby just listened, his head resting on Grayson’s knee.

"WOOF." ("You know, when you aren't trying to sell me as an accessory, you’re almost tolerable. You’ve got a good heart, kid. It’s just buried under six layers of silk and a very expensive hair routine.")

"I know," Grayson whispered, patting the dog’s head. "It’s exhausting being this fabulous, Barnaby. Sometimes I just want to be... seven."

"Then be seven," Rihanna said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "The universe won't stop spinning just because you aren't posting about it."

The New Kingdom

When the power finally surged back on, and the palace erupted in a symphony of "pings," "dings," and "beeps," Grayson didn't jump up. He didn't reach for his phone.

Father Thomas rushed in, his ring light held high like a torch. "Your Radiance! We’re back! The servers are live! We’ve missed three sponsored posts! We need to film the 'Survival' vlog immediately!"

Grayson looked at the bright, artificial white light. He looked at the camera lens, cold and unblinking. Then he looked at Rihanna, who was making a "peace sign" with a crust of bread, and at Barnaby, who was yawning.

"Not today, Father Thomas," Grayson said, his voice calm and—for once—completely devoid of drama. "Tell the followers that the Prince is... 'Out of the Office.' Permanently. Or at least until tomorrow."

"But the metrics!" Thomas cried.

"The metrics can eat a 'Forever Flake,'" Grayson said with a wink.

He stood up, took off his mirrored jacket, and tossed it onto the throne. He grabbed a tennis ball from a nearby side table and looked at Barnaby.

"Hey, Barnaby. You want to go to the garden? And this time... no cameras. Just the squirrel."

"WOOF! BARK-BARK-WOOF!" ("Now you’re talking! I’ll give you a head start, but don't cry when I tackle you into the mud. Mud is the ultimate filter, kid!")

As the three of them ran out into the cool evening air, leaving the glowing screens and the ritual media behind, Grayson realised something important. He might be a Prince, and he might always be a bit of a diva, but the most important "like" he ever needed wasn't from a stranger on the internet—it was the wag of a tail and the quiet company of a sister who knew exactly how weird the world really was.

For the first time in his life, Grayson wasn't trending. He was just happy.

THE END.