Lenka ripped the note from Pipin’s fence, the rusty nail screeching a protest. Her fingers trembled, tracing the crude, spidery script. “The Great Pig is mine.”
“Mine?” Matyas stammered, his face a canvas of disbelief, his usual golden-retriever cheer utterly absent. “Who… who would claim Pipin? He’s Lenka’s, he’s always been hers!”
Laszlo, usually quick with a quip, stood frozen, his roguish charm deflated. “This isn’t one of your pranks, is it, Lenka? Tell me it’s a prank.” His voice was thin, reedy. He glanced wildly around the empty pen, as if Pipin might materialize from behind a stray turnip.
Stefan, his brooding intensity stripped down to sudden alarm, knelt, examining the overturned trough. “There’s no sign of a struggle. No blood. No tracks besides those of a light, swift cart, recently departed.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Lenka’s, filled with an unsettling clarity. “This wasn’t Valeriu. He promised a slaughterman. This… this is something else entirely.”
Casimir drew his sword, the glint of steel cutting against the quiet mud around them. He scanned the perimeter of the farm, his jaw set. “The note is deliberately vague. No signature. Just a declaration of ownership.” His gaze landed on the abandoned wagon, then back to the note. “This suggests a person of… authority. A party who tracked Valeriu, and intervened with precision.”
Csilla recovered first, though her skin showed pale. “The cart is a decoy. A distraction. Someone anticipated us with ample coin.” Her sharp gaze swept over the men, then settled on Lenka with grudging respect. “Who knew about Pipin beyond Valeriu and… us?”
“No one!” Lenka yelled, her throat raw. “Nobody! Just us, and Valeriu, and… and the Royal Archivist, Stefan. And the… the Matron.” She stopped, the title catching like dry gristle. “The Royal Matron. She saw Pipin’s drawing. She heard me talk about him during my etiquette lessons.”
A low, resonant cough broke the silence. From the shadow of the ancient oak that marked the edge of Lenka’s property, a figure emerged. Her posture was ramrod straight, her silver hair pulled back into a severe, elegant bun. Her eyes, like polished obsidian, met Lenka’s without a hint of apology. It was the elder woman, dressed in a practical, impeccably tailored riding habit. And beside her, munching contentedly on a handful of freshly picked clover, was Pipin the Great.
Lenka gasped. “Pipin!” she shouted, running toward him, oblivious to the woman. Pipin, seeing her, let out a delighted series of snorts, his tail wagging like a metronome gone wild. He nudged her hand, demanding scratches behind his ears. Lenka knelt, burying her face in his bristly hide, tears of relief and outrage mingling.
“So, Lenka Varga, the swineherd,” the Matron stated, her voice crisp as starched linen, “You thought you could deceive the Royal Court indefinitely? I confess, your turn as Lady Ilona Koszta was… captivating. Especially for a woman whose prior social grace was, I assume, convincing a sow to quit the mire.”
Lenka rose, her temper flaring, Pipin’s safety now assured. “You! You took him! You wrote that note? What kind of twisted game is this? Give him back!”
The Matron raised an arched brow. “Pipin is unhurt, as you can plainly see. He will remain so, under my ward. A clairvoyant pig, one whose grunts broke a centuries-old hex, is not something one leaves to the whims of slaughterhouses or indebted lords.” She gestured around the modest farm, a hint of disdain in her gaze. “Nor to this… rustic establishment.”
“Rustic establishment? This is my home!” Lenka retorted, gesturing wildly. The suitors and Csilla formed a tight semicircle, wide-eyed at the woman's sudden appearance and brazen confession.
“Indeed,” the Matron conceded, tilting her chin. “And you, Miss Varga, are a remarkable woman. Crude, yes. Uncouth, undeniably. But also loyal, cunning when cornered, and possessed of rare nerve. To confess your deception, to risk everything for livestock… that is a bond I have not seen in generations.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over the four heirs, who now stood tall, unclouded by the enchantment. “The ‘Curse of Shared Devotion’ is broken. The Sunstone Amulet glowed brightly in my chambers, confirming it. Its magic, it seems, has anchored their souls, but not to a lie. To *you*.”
She turned back to Lenka, her expression softening, almost imperceptibly. “I have spent my entire life safeguarding this Dominion, guiding its heirs. For too long, our royal line has been diluted, stagnant, obsessed with ancient bloodlines and meaningless etiquette. What we need is strength. Resolve. A true partner who can steer these heirs, not simply decorate their coats.”
“What are you saying?” Lenka asked, a knot forming in her stomach.
“I am saying, Lenka Varga, that the Somesvar Dominion needs you. I am offering a new pact. A true marriage. To one of these princes.” She swept her hand towards the four men. “A marriage that will secure Pipin’s safety, grant you a title befitting your unique qualities, and, most importantly, forge a powerful new dynasty, revitalized by your spirit. The choice, Miss Varga, is yours.”
The air tightened. Matyas, shedding his simple hound-dog eagerness, stepped closer, his jaw steady. “Lenka,” he began with sudden firmness, “my memories of you were gentle. But the real you… you’re a force of nature. You make me want to build something lasting. Please, choose me. I promise to shelter your heart, your farm, and Pipin, always.”
Next, Laszlo, his usual theatricality replaced by a quiet sincerity, moved beside Matyas. “I thought I wanted mischief, a partner in chaos. But watching you scale that tower, watching you fight for Pipin… you embody a kind of fierce joy that’s more real than any prank. I want to build a life with that joy, Lenka. Choose me. Let’s create our own glory days, together.”
Casimir, rigid as ever, but with a gravelly tremor in his throat, approached. He didn’t draw his sword this time, but clasped his hands before him. “My 'memories' of you were of a delicate flower. But you are a fortress, Lenka. Unyielding, honest. You showed me what true strength is. I don’t want to guard a phantom; I want to defend *you*. Your true self. My duty, I realize, is to you. Please, choose me. I will stand by your side, always.”
Finally, Stefan stepped closer, a slight, honest smile touching his lips. “I saw the future of our curse, the loss of our identities. You, Lenka, ripped us from that fate with your truth. You understand the darkness, but you also bring light. My morbid poetry now feels… incomplete without you. Choose me. Let’s explore the depths of this world, and each other, with open hearts.”
Lenka looked from one prince to the next, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Each offered a distinct future, a different kind of love. Each had seen her, truly seen her, for the first time. The curse was broken, but their affection, surprisingly, was not a fabrication. It was real. Profound. Overwhelming.
She looked down at Pipin, who had finished his clover and was now nudging her hand expectantly. “Alright, you old fraud,” she muttered, a shaky laugh escaping her. “You got me into this. What do you say, then? Who’s it going to be?”
Pipin looked at each prince in turn, his intelligent eyes seeming to weigh their merits. Then, he let out a series of definitive snorts: a sharp, decisive *huff* towards Matyas, a playful, nudging *oink* towards Laszlo, a deep, rumbling *snort-snort* in Casimir’s direction, and finally, a contented, almost purring *grrr-snort* that lingered on Stefan.
Lenka blinked. “Well, that’s… surprisingly clear, for you, you conniving pork chop.” She took a deep breath, her gaze lingering on each prince one last time. Her pragmatic heart, tempered by a newfound tenderness, knew what it wanted. It wasn’t about a grand romantic gesture or a dramatic declaration. It was about shared understanding, quiet strength, and a future where her blunt honesty wouldn’t just be tolerated, but valued.
She looked at Stefan, who met her gaze with a calm, knowing expression. “Stefan,” she said, her voice clear and steady, “You saw me as I was, not as I pretended to be. You understood the stakes from the start. You saw the hex, and you saw the truth. And frankly,” she added, a grin breaking through, “I think you’re the only one who wouldn’t faint if I tracked manure into the royal library.”
Stefan’s smile widened, reshaping his brooding features. He nodded, stepping in to take her rough fingers.
Months later, the Gilded Menagerie buzzed with a different kind of life. Princess Lenka, now Lady Lenka Varga-Stefan, stood by the newly constructed Royal Pigsty. It was a marvel of rococo engineering, complete with gilded troughs and velvet cushions, Pipin the Great currently luxuriating on the largest one, letting out a series of satisfied grunts. Her husband, Prince Stefan, sat beside her on a carved bench, quietly reading from a worn tome, occasionally looking up to offer her a tender smile.
“The budget for pig feed is outrageous, Your Highness!” Csilla Fekete, now the formidable Minister of Finance, huffed, waving a scroll of figures. “We could fund a small army with what Pipin consumes in truffles alone!”
Lenka grinned, leaning back against Stefan's shoulder. “A small army can’t predict the next harvest, Csilla. Pipin’s worth every last ducat. Besides,” she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Stefan says his latest prophetic snorts are foretelling a significant discovery in the old Somesvar mines. Something about… a lot of gold. We’ll make it back, and then some.”
Csilla narrowed her eyes, then sighed, a flicker of a smile playing on her lips. “Fine. But if I find a single speck of mud in the Royal Archives, Lenka, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Lenka simply laughed, a free, unburdened sound. Pipin, sensing the peace, let out a final, happy *oink*, sealing their bizarre, noisy, and secure new life.