The Lazy Princess

Sometimes the hardest work is learning that effort has its own rewards

Chapter One: A Royal Problem

In the bustling Kingdom of Redania, where golden spires touched cotton-candy clouds and market squares hummed with the cheerful chaos of commerce, there existed a peculiar royal scandal. The king and queen were beloved by their people hardworking, just, and devoted to their duties. But their daughter, Princess Alara, had achieved an entirely different kind of fame.

She had mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing.

On this particular morning, sunlight streamed through the ornate windows of Alara’s chamber, painting golden rectangles across marble floors that gleamed from the servants’ tireless polishing. Birds sang their morning songs. Somewhere below, the kingdom was already bustling with activity.

Princess Alara remained motionless beneath her silk canopy, buried under a mountain of embroidered pillows.

“Your Highness, the sun has been up for hours,” ventured Lady Cordelia, the head lady-in-waiting, in a voice that had long since lost its hope of success.

A muffled groan emerged from the pillow fortress. “Well, someone should have told it I wasn’t ready.”

What followed was a spectacle that had become routine in the palace—though it never ceased to amaze new staff members. Three maids worked in synchronized precision to prop the princess into a sitting position. A fourth held a mirror (Alara’s wrist was “far too delicate” to hold one herself). A fifth managed the actual task of brushing her hair while the princess occasionally sighed about the “exhausting ordeal” of having her head tilted.

“The breakfast bell, Your Highness?” prompted Lady Cordelia.

Alara’s eyes drifted lazily to the ornate golden bell on her bedside table—a mere arm’s length away. “Ring it for me, would you? It’s terribly heavy.”

It was not heavy. It was, in fact, a delicate thing that a child could easily lift. But Lady Cordelia, with the patience of a saint, rang it anyway.

The dining hall lay exactly ten steps from Alara’s chamber. Ten steps that the princess had not walked in over three years.

Instead, two footmen arrived with an embroidered sedan chair—the kind typically reserved for traveling miles across the kingdom. They lifted the princess, carried her the ten steps, and carefully deposited her at the breakfast table as if she were made of spun sugar.

“Is that a new chair?” the queen asked wearily, gesturing to the unusual cushioned throne Alara now occupied.

“Yes,” Alara replied brightly. “The old one hurt my back.”

“You’re sitting for three hours at most during meals.”

“Three hours is a very long time, Mother.”

Breakfast presented its own theatrical production. A servant carefully sliced fruit into impossibly small pieces. Another turned apples into pulp because, as Alara explained with utmost seriousness, “Fighting with food is such an exhausting task.” A third spooned the mush into her mouth while the princess occasionally complained that chewing was “tedious work” and if only her mouth could do it for her.

The king lowered his morning correspondence, watching his daughter with barely concealed despair. “Alara, have you reviewed the trade documents I left for you?”

The princess barely twitched her fingers. Immediately, a maid scurried forward and retrieved a package from beneath Alara’s breakfast pillow—an odd place for official documents, but nothing surprised anyone anymore.

The king unwrapped it. The seal remained unbroken. “This hasn’t been opened.”

“I can’t review something when my eyes are always closed,” Alara said reasonably.

“And why, pray tell, are your eyes closed?”

“I’m resting. Can’t you see?”

The queen set down her teacup with the precise clink that signaled the end of her patience. “This cannot continue.”

But it did continue. It continued through the morning council meeting, which Alara attended while reclined on what she called her “Royal Outdoor Recliner”—essentially a padded bench with wheels. It continued through the afternoon when she was supposed to review petitions but instead had her cat sit on the documents while she napped. (“She’s very capable,” Alara insisted when questioned. “She doesn’t interrupt my rest with trivial questions.”)

It continued until the palace staff began requesting transfers to other kingdoms, until visiting dignitaries whispered about the “Sleeping Beauty who never woke up,” until the queen found three maids crying from exhaustion in the scullery.

That night, behind closed doors, the king and queen faced the uncomfortable truth.

“We’ve tried everything,” the queen said, pacing the royal study. “Reasoning, bribing, threatening, limiting her staff—she just naps through it all.”

“Sometimes I wonder…” the king trailed off.

“Wonder what?”

“If she’s really ours. How did we, who love our work, raise someone so monumentally lazy?”

A long silence followed, broken only by the crackling fire. Finally, the queen spoke the words they’d both been avoiding. “We need help. Professional help.”

The king nodded slowly. “We need Mirabel.”

Chapter Two: The Enchantress Arrives

Mirabel’s cottage sat at the edge of the Whispering Woods, where ancient trees shared secrets and morning mist never quite burned away. She was a legend in seven kingdoms—an enchantress who specialized in impossible cases. Spoiled princes, cursed nobles, villages plagued by unfortunate magic—Mirabel had seen it all.

But when the king and queen of Redania arrived at her door, even she raised an eyebrow.

“The Princess Alara?” Mirabel said, settling into her chair as her crystal cauldron shimmered to life. “I’ve heard tales.”

“They don’t do her justice,” the queen said grimly. “She’s a lovely girl, truly, but—”

“But she treats life like one endless nap?” Mirabel stirred the cauldron, and images swirled in its depths.

There was Alara in the garden, being fanned by servants while lying in the shade. There she was at dinner, having grapes peeled and de-seeded. There she was at a royal ball, dancing by having footmen move her feet for her while she dozed standing up.

“Oh my,” Mirabel murmured. “That’s… impressive, actually. The dedication it takes to avoid all effort is itself a kind of effort.”

“Can you help her?” the king asked desperately. “Before she runs the kingdom into the ground or drives all our staff to retirement?”

Mirabel studied the images for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled—not the gentle smile of a kindly grandmother, but the knowing smile of someone about to turn someone’s world upside down.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I can help. But fair warning—my methods are unconventional.”

“At this point,” the queen said, “we’d accept a dragon intervention.”

“Not quite a dragon,” Mirabel chuckled, reaching for her spell book. “But something with a similar level of stubbornness. After all, to defeat a master of laziness, you need a master of persistence.”

Chapter Three: The Golden Broom

The next morning began like any other in Princess Alara’s world. She had perfected the art of sleeping through dawn, ignoring breakfast bells, and remaining perfectly still until at least three servants had arrived to begin the daily ritual of Getting the Princess Functional.

But this morning, something was different.

Sunlight—bright, cheerful, absolutely unauthorized sunlight—was streaming directly onto her face.

Alara cracked open one eye. The heavy velvet curtains that usually protected her from such rudeness had been pulled wide open. Standing in the middle of her room was something that made her close her eyes and hope she was dreaming.

A broom. A golden, floating, somehow smugly hovering broom.

“Good morning, Princess!” it said in a voice far too chipper for any reasonable hour.

Alara pulled a pillow over her head. “This is a dream. A terrible dream brought on by eating too much custard before bed.”

“Not a dream! I’m the Golden Broom of Change, and I’m here to transform your life!”

“Go away, hallucination.”

“Can’t do that. See, I’m bound by contract to—”

“Lady Cordelia!” Alara called out weakly. “There’s a talking broom. Remove it.”

Silence.

“Lady Cordelia?”

More silence.

Alara finally sat up—by herself, which already felt like an enormous expenditure of energy—and looked around. Her chamber was empty. No maids straightening up. No attendants waiting by the door. No one holding her morning robe or preparing her slippers.

“Where is everyone?” A tiny note of panic crept into her voice.

“Gone!” the broom announced cheerfully. “Temporarily relocated. Won’t be back until you complete three tasks.”

“Tasks?” Alara’s voice rose. “What tasks? Who authorized this?”

“Your parents. Well, technically, they authorized the enchantress Mirabel, who created me. Same difference.” The broom bobbed up and down as if shrugging. “Now, shall we begin? Your first task awaits!”

“Absolutely not. I’m going back to sleep, and when I wake up, everything will be normal.” Alara lay back down and closed her eyes with dramatic finality.

A moment later, her entire mattress tilted forty-five degrees, sending her tumbling onto the floor in a tangle of silk sheets.

“Hey!”

“Oops,” the broom said, sounding entirely unapologetic. “Seems like you’ve fallen out of bed. Such a shame there’s no one to help you up.”

Alara sat on the floor, genuinely shocked. When was the last time she’d even touched the floor? She couldn’t remember. She attempted to call for help again, but the corridor beyond her door remained stubbornly silent.

The reality of her situation began to sink in.

“You’re serious,” she whispered.

“As a curse,” the broom replied. “Now, are you going to lie there all day—well, you probably would—or shall we start your journey to becoming a functional human being?”

For the first time in years, Princess Alara had no choice but to stand up on her own.

It was more exhausting than she’d imagined.

Chapter Four: The Grand Hall

The Grand Hall of Redania was a masterpiece of architecture—soaring ceilings painted with murals of heroic ancestors, chandeliers dripping with crystals that cast rainbow lights across the floor, and windows of stained glass depicting the kingdom’s glorious history.

Or at least, it should have been a masterpiece.

What Alara saw when the Golden Broom led her there was something quite different. Thick dust covered every surface like grey snow. Cobwebs draped from the chandeliers like ghostly curtains. The once-polished floors were so grimy that footprints from the last royal ball—three months ago—were still visible.

“This is your first task,” the broom announced. “Clean the Grand Hall.”

Alara stared. Then she laughed—actually laughed. “You can’t be serious. This room is enormous. It takes the entire cleaning staff a full day to do this properly.”

“Then you’d better start now. You have until sunset.”

“I can’t—I don’t even know how to clean!”

The broom directed her to a supply closet she’d never noticed before, filled with mops, buckets, brushes, and various mysterious cleaning implements. Alara picked up a feather duster as if it might bite her.

“Just… sweep?” she asked uncertainly.

“Brilliant deduction, Princess.”

The first hour was a catastrophe. Alara swept the dirt into piles, then realized she didn’t know what to do with the piles. She tried sweeping them under the carpet—the broom immediately swept them back out. She attempted to blow the dust off a table—and gave herself a coughing fit. She knocked over a bucket of water and stood staring at it, waiting for someone to appear and clean it up, before remembering that no one would.

“This is impossible,” she groaned, collapsing dramatically against a pillar.

“You’ve been working for one hour.”

“Exactly! I’ve never worked for a whole hour in my life!”

“Well,” the broom said with infuriating cheerfulness, “now you have something to build on.”

But as the morning wore on, something strange began to happen. Alara’s sweeps became more efficient. She learned to wring out the mop properly. She discovered that there was a certain satisfaction in seeing a section of floor transform from grimy to gleaming under her efforts.

She uncovered a beautiful mosaic she’d never noticed before—because she’d never looked at the floor. While polishing a mirror, she caught sight of her reflection and barely recognized herself: hair disheveled, a smudge of dust on her cheek, but eyes brighter than she’d seen them in years.

“I did this,” she murmured, looking at the clean section of hall behind her.

“You did,” the broom agreed, and for once, its tone wasn’t mocking.

By sunset, the Grand Hall gleamed. Chandeliers sparkled. Windows shone. The floor was a polished mirror reflecting the painted ceiling above. Alara stood in the center, sweaty, exhausted, and covered in dust.

She’d never felt more proud in her life.

“Here,” the broom said, and a plate of fresh pastries appeared. “Sustenance. You’ve earned it.”

Alara devoured them without waiting to be fed, too hungry to care about propriety. The pastries tasted better than any meal she could remember.

“That’s one task down,” the broom said. “Two to go.”

Alara groaned—but it was a different kind of groan than before. Not the whine of someone avoiding work, but the exhausted sigh of someone who knew they’d worked hard.

Chapter Five: The Garden of Second Chances

The palace gardens had once been the envy of neighboring kingdoms. Roses in seventeen colors, topiaries shaped like mythical creatures, fountains that sang with the wind, and walking paths that led to hidden grottos perfect for reading or contemplation.

Now, it was a jungle of neglect.

Weeds choked the flower beds. The topiaries had grown wild, transforming from elegant griffins into lumpy green monsters. The fountains were silent, clogged with leaves. Vines crept across the paths like reaching fingers.

“This is your second task,” the Golden Broom announced. “Restore the garden.”

Alara’s jaw dropped. “You expect me to fix all this? There are professional gardeners for this!”

“Professional gardeners are currently on vacation. Courtesy of Mirabel’s spell.”

“This isn’t fair! I cleaned the entire hall yesterday. My arms are still sore!”

“Life isn’t fair, Princess. Gardens don’t care about sore arms. They need tending.”

Before Alara could protest further, a cheerful voice piped up: “Hi there! I’m Bucket!”

She looked down to find a wooden water bucket with a painted smiley face, somehow hovering at eye level and radiating enthusiasm.

“The bucket… talks,” Alara said flatly.

“I prefer ‘provides encouraging commentary,'” Bucket replied. “But yes! I’m here to help you discover the wonders of gardening. Isn’t it a beautiful day for nurturing nature?”

“Why is it so loud?” Alara whispered to the broom.

“That’s Bucket’s natural state. Now get to work. Those weeds won’t pull themselves.”

The next several hours tested Alara’s newfound resolve. Every weed seemed to have roots reaching to the center of the earth. Her back ached. Her hands developed blisters. Dirt got under her fingernails—her perfectly manicured nails that had never known such indignity.

“Pull from the base!” Bucket chirped. “Get those roots! No, not the tulips—those are flowers!”

“They’re all wilted anyway,” Alara muttered.

“Because nobody watered them! That’s the next step.”

Whenever Alara slowed down or attempted to rest, Bucket would provide “refreshing encouragement” in the form of splashing water in her direction. After the third soaking, Alara stopped trying to slack off.

But gradually, miraculously, progress emerged. The paths became visible again. Flower beds emerged from weed prisons. When Alara watered the supposedly dead plants, many of them perked up, revealing buds ready to bloom.

A butterfly landed on a flower she’d just uncovered—a delicate yellow bloom she’d never seen before. Then another butterfly came. And another. Birds began singing from branches she’d cleared of choking vines.

Alara sat back on her heels, dirt-smudged and exhausted, watching the garden come alive around her. A week ago, she would have found this scene boring—just plants and insects, nothing interesting. But now, knowing she’d helped create this transformation, it felt like watching magic.

“You did this,” Bucket said, and for once, its voice was gentle. “You brought life back.”

“I did,” Alara whispered.

That night, sleeping in her own bed for the first time without servants helping her undress and tuck her in, Alara dreamed not of pillows and endless rest, but of flowers blooming in fast-forward, painting the world in color.

Chapter Six: The Feast of Chaos

“Your final task,” the Golden Broom announced on the third morning, “is to organize and prepare the Harvest Feast.”

Alara, who had been developing a tiny seed of confidence, felt it wither immediately. “The Harvest Feast? The biggest event of the year? The one that takes dozens of staff members weeks to prepare?”

“That’s the one! You have until evening.”

“That’s impossible!”

“I thought cleaning the Grand Hall was impossible. I thought fixing the garden was impossible. Yet here we are.”

“This is different! I don’t know anything about cooking or decorating or—”

The broom tapped the floor, and suddenly the kitchen came alive. Pots and pans sprouted tiny legs. Ladles waved like flags. Decorative garlands floated in the air. Musical instruments in the corner hummed with potential.

“You have help,” the broom said. “They’re enchanted to follow your orders. But be warned—they’ll do exactly what you tell them. No more, no less. If your instructions are vague, the results will be… interesting.”

Alara looked at the assembled magical objects, and a plan formed in her mind. A shortcut. A brilliant shortcut that would let her finish early and finally rest.

“You, kitchen items!” she commanded. “Make food. Something easy.”

“You, decorations! Make the hall look… shiny. Festive.”

“You, instruments! Play upbeat music.”

The enchanted items sprang into action with enthusiastic chaos. Satisfied with her genius delegation, Alara headed toward her chambers. “I’ll just take a well-deserved nap while they handle everything.”

She slept for three blissful hours.

She woke to screaming.

Alara ran downstairs—actually ran, which three days ago would have been unthinkable—and stopped dead at the threshold of the banquet hall.

Chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.

The kitchen items had indeed made “something easy.” Unfortunately, they’d chosen the easiest possible recipe: boiled cabbage. Mountains of it. The hall reeked of sulfurous cabbage smell that made eyes water. There was nothing else—no bread, no meat, no pastries. Just cabbage.

The decorations had made everything “shiny” by hanging pots and pans from every available surface. The elegant hall looked like the inside of a deranged kitchen. Shiny, yes. Festive, debatable.

The instruments were playing “upbeat music”—which they’d interpreted as the fastest, loudest, most discordant noise imaginable. It sounded like a barn fire being narrated by screaming geese.

Early-arriving guests stood frozen in horror. A visiting duchess had fainted. The royal food taster was crying.

“What…” Alara breathed, “…have I done?”

“You gave vague orders,” the broom said, appearing beside her. “They followed them perfectly.”

For the first time in three days, Alara felt tears prick her eyes. Not tears of frustration or anger, but of genuine remorse. These people—her parents’ guests, her kingdom’s citizens—deserved better than this disaster.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Help me fix this.”

The broom studied her for a moment. “You’re asking for help? Not demanding it?”

“I’m asking. I can’t do this alone. But I want to try—really try—to make this right.”

Something in the broom’s demeanor softened. “Very well. Everyone freeze!”

The enchanted items froze mid-action. The guests slumped gently into chairs, asleep but comfortable.

“You have three hours before they wake,” the broom said. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

This time, Alara didn’t take shortcuts. She directed the kitchen with specific, detailed instructions: roast the meats until golden, bake bread until it smells like sunshine, prepare fruit tarts with latticed crusts. She supervised the decorations personally, placing garlands and autumn flowers with an eye for beauty she didn’t know she possessed. She coached the instruments on a melody—lively but harmonious, celebratory but not chaotic.

Her hands moved with purpose. Her mind worked through problems. When something went wrong—a sauce too thin, a decoration crooked—she fixed it herself instead of waiting for someone else to notice.

The hall transformed. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread replaced the cabbage stench. Warm candlelight glinted off properly placed decorations. The instruments rehearsed a welcoming waltz.

As Alara placed the final centerpiece—an arrangement of flowers from the garden she’d restored—she realized her hands were steady. Not because someone was guiding them, but because she knew what she was doing.

The guests woke as if from a pleasant dream, blinking in confusion.

“Wasn’t there… cabbage?” one murmured.

“Must have been a nap-dream,” another replied.

They looked around the transformed hall with wonder. The feast was magnificent. The music was delightful. The atmosphere was perfect.

The king and queen, who had just arrived, stopped in astonishment.

“Who organized this?” the queen whispered.

Alara stepped forward, still wearing an apron, hair tied back practically, a flour smudge on her nose. “I did. With some help.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, the hall erupted in applause.

Chapter Seven: The Princess Who Woke Up

As the last guest departed and the final notes of music faded, Alara stood in the empty banquet hall. The Golden Broom hovered beside her, glowing softly in the candlelight.

“You’ve completed your three tasks,” it said.

“Does this mean…” Alara couldn’t quite finish the sentence.

“Your staff returns. The spell is lifted. Life goes back to normal.” The broom paused. “If you want it to.”

Before Alara could respond, a shimmer of light filled the room. Lady Cordelia appeared, along with all the maids, footmen, and servants who had vanished three days ago. Behind them, the king and queen entered, and with them, the enchantress Mirabel.

“Your Highness!” Lady Cordelia gasped, taking in Alara’s disheveled appearance. “What happened? We were just… and now… did you organize the feast?”

“I did,” Alara said, and this time her voice didn’t waver. “I cleaned the Grand Hall. I restored the gardens. I prepared the Harvest Feast.” She paused. “Well, I had some magical assistance, but I did the work.”

The staff exchanged glances of disbelief. The princess who wouldn’t walk ten steps had cleaned an entire hall?

Mirabel stepped forward, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “Well done, Princess. You’ve learned the lesson.”

“What lesson exactly?” Alara asked, though she suspected she knew.

Alara looked down at her hands—blistered from the garden, calloused from the broom, stained from cooking. They were hands that had done things. Created things. Fixed things.

They were hands she was proud of.

“I have a confession,” she said quietly. “Yesterday, when I finished the garden and saw the butterflies and flowers… I felt happier than I have in years. More than any nap ever made me feel.”

The queen’s eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, my darling girl.”

“I’m not saying I’ll never rest again,” Alara added quickly, with a flash of her old humor. “A princess does need her beauty sleep. But maybe… maybe I could also have morning walks in the garden? And help review documents? And perhaps only use the sedan chair for distances longer than, say, fifty steps?”

The king laughed—a booming, joyful sound that filled the hall. “That sounds like a reasonable compromise.”

As the reunited household began tidying up from the feast—and Alara, to everyone’s shock, helped carry plates to the kitchen—Mirabel and the Golden Broom prepared to depart.

“Will I ever see you again?” Alara asked the broom.

“Only if you backslide into your old ways,” it replied cheerfully. “No offense, but I hope we never meet again.”

“None taken. I hope the same.”

Mirabel paused at the door. “Remember, Princess: a kingdom is only as bright as the effort its rulers invest in it. You’ve discovered you can shine quite brilliantly when you try.”

“No more talking buckets though, right?”

“I make no promises about future interventions.”

After they left, Alara walked slowly through the palace—really walked, noticing details she’d never seen from her sedan chair. The way moonlight painted silver rectangles on the floor. The sound of night birds in the garden. The satisfaction of tired muscles after a day of purpose.

She climbed the stairs to her chamber. Her bed looked inviting, but for the first time, it wasn’t the only thing that seemed appealing. Tomorrow held possibilities: work to do, people to help, a kingdom to serve.

Lady Cordelia appeared at the door. “Shall I help you prepare for bed, Your Highness?”

Alara smiled. “I can manage the nightgown myself. But… could you stay and tell me about your day? I realized I’ve never actually asked.”

Lady Cordelia’s expression of shock was comical. Then it melted into the warmest smile Alara had ever seen. “I would be honored, Your Highness.”

That night, Princess Alara fell asleep quickly—not from boredom or avoidance, but from honest exhaustion. And her dreams were full of gardens growing, halls gleaming, and a golden broom that, just maybe, she was a little grateful to have met.

Epilogue: A New Dawn

The Kingdom of Redania began noticing changes.

Princess Alara started appearing at morning councils—not just appearing, but participating. She asked questions, offered ideas, and stayed awake through entire meetings. Visiting dignitaries who arrived expecting the famous Lazy Princess found instead a capable young woman who gave thoughtful tours of the palace gardens and could discuss trade routes without yawning.

The servants’ workload decreased dramatically. Alara dressed herself, walked herself to meals, and even—to the kitchen’s astonishment—sometimes made her own tea.

“I wouldn’t call her hardworking yet,” Lady Cordelia confided to the queen one afternoon. “But she’s found a balance. She works in the morning, helps with kingdom business, then enjoys her afternoon rest. Actual rest, not all-day avoidance.”

The queen smiled, watching through the window as Alara walked through the garden, stopping to pull a few weeds without even thinking about it. “Sometimes people need to discover their own strength. They can’t be told—they must learn it themselves.”

Still, old habits occasionally resurfaced. One morning, the king found Alara trying to get a servant to ring the breakfast bell for her.

“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Alara had the grace to look sheepish. She reached over and rang it herself.

Later that day, she received a package. Inside was a small golden bell—much lighter than her breakfast bell—and a note in elegant script:

Alara laughed and placed the bell on her desk where she’d see it every day. A reminder of three exhausting, transformative days that changed her life.

From that day forward, the Kingdom of Redania had a new saying. When someone complained that a task was too difficult, or that they couldn’t possibly manage, old-timers would chuckle and say:

“Even Princess Alara learned to sweep. You can do this.”

And in her chamber, sometimes late at night, Princess Alara would look at that golden bell and smile. Then she’d close her eyes—not to sleep, but to remember the surprising truth she’d learned:

The best rest comes after honest work. And the most magical thing wasn’t a talking broom or enchanted feast.

It was discovering that she had been capable all along.

She just needed the right push to believe it.