A World Without Princes

In this section, Soman Chainani uses dramatic and situational irony to build tension, leading to the novel’s climax. Agatha doesn’t know that Sophie was present in the tower with her and Tedros, or that the spell for which she blames Tedros was performed by Sophie. This dramatic irony increases tension because readers know more than Agatha and can assume the truth is likely to come out, devastating her and ruining the girls’ friendship. Further, readers know Tedros is wrong to blame Agatha for Sophie’s actions and, if he learns of Sophie’s treachery, he is unlikely to be forgiving. If he doesn’t learn the truth, then he’ll continue to believe Agatha is deceptive. This irony leads him to include her execution in his Trial proclamation, raising the stakes for her character significantly. This reinforces The Fiction of Traditional Happy Endings, as Tedros’s quick shift from devotion to vengeance reveals the fragility of relationships that seem destined for a perfect conclusion. Even in a fairy-tale world, misunderstandings and betrayal can corrupt love, proving that an idealized happy ending is not necessarily stable.

Later, Dot suggests that “there’s a piece missing” from the story of Agatha and Tedros in the tower (233); Agatha’s fixation on Dot’s suggestion adds to this building intensity, foreshadowing conflict between Agatha and Sophie. Further, Dot’s acuity presents an example of situational irony, as she is generally believed to be unintelligent by her peers. It is Dot who finds the text that proves Yuba and Helga are the same person, and that he was Merlin’s teacher. Dot is far more insightful than anyone believes, and—contrary to her peers’ beliefs—she proves to be a capable ally in the fight against Sader and the boys. This dynamic challenges assumptions about intelligence and competence, reinforcing one of the novel’s key messages: traditional roles and expectations often obscure individuals’ true strengths.

The School Master’s tower and the Storian—both phallic symbols—also foreground the way this magical society has traditionally consolidated power in its male population rather than viewing the sexes as equally capable or authoritative. The Storian is a magical pen with extraordinary power to enshrine “endings,” and—as if to reinforce its power—the male School Master’s tower “follows wherever the pen goes. If [the girls] steal it, the tower will chase [them]” and reveal their treachery (260-61). Thus, the tower, a symbol of male power and agency, is intimately bound up with the pen that possesses the ultimate authority: the ability to author individuals’ stories and futures. “Author” and “authority” share the same Latin root meaning originate, as whoever possesses the pen literally retains the power to create and determine their own and others’ stories. This is what Sader teaches the girls: that “boys have been covering up the truth about fairy tales for ages, just to make girls seem weak and stupid” (240). Now, to access that power, the girls must gain access to the Storian so that they can control their own stories and, thus, lives. This explicit focus on control and narrative manipulation underscores The Confluence of Heroism and Villainy. The Storian, while seemingly neutral, becomes a tool of oppression depending on who wields it, highlighting how those in power can dictate not only their own fates but also those of others, shaping history in their own image.

As the girls and boys fight for possession of these priapic objects—symbols of the social and sexual power often ascribed to men—they draw attention to The Fluidity of Gender. If such power were somehow intrinsically linked to the condition of maleness, then it could be neither lost nor gained; it would simply exist from birth within all males of a group. But because gender categories are social constructs meant to stabilize gender’s natural fluidity, this power can be hoarded, usurped, and reassigned. Further evidence of this can be found in the at-will sexual adaptation of gnomes and Sophie’s successful adoption of a male persona after ingesting Merlin’s potion. Merlin’s spell now changes Sophie into a boy, one Agatha describes as being “Even better looking” than Sophie is as a girl (273). Her increased attractiveness, even as her delicate feminine features are transmuted into a more masculine face, provides further evidence of gender’s mutability. This transformation further complicates the novel’s depiction of gender roles, particularly as Sophie, in her male form, finds a new level of authority and respect that was previously unattainable to her as a girl. The fact that she revels in this power, rather than rejecting it, suggests that social structures, rather than inherent abilities, dictate who holds influence and who does not.

Further, when Sophie, as Filip, first meets Tedros, she insults him for losing “his princess to a girl” (291) and revels in the power she feels when she emasculates him: “Suddenly she liked being a boy” (292). Her ability to fool the boys and their teachers shows how much of a performance gender is, something Agatha hinted at when she encouraged Sophie to think of her boy’s body “as a costume” (268). By exposing gender as a constructed identity that can be altered, performed, and manipulated, the novel dismantles rigid expectations, showing how easily one can shift between social roles when the circumstances allow it. Sophie’s performance of masculinity, along with the gnomes’ ability to alter their sex, Merlin’s spell, and the power of phallic symbols highlight how unstable and shifting gender categories are.

As the boys and girls prepare for war, the novel further critiques the cyclical nature of conflict, showing how power imbalances breed resentment and escalate into violence rather than resolution. The declaration of the Trial cements this growing hostility, transforming what was once a battle of ideology into a literal fight for dominance. The girls, having been told that a life without princes is the ultimate victory, embrace their militant stance, while the boys, desperate to reclaim their place in the narrative, view the Trial as their last chance to restore the old order. Tedros’s own unraveling reflects this broader instability—dethroned and humiliated when the male teachers awaken, he is no longer seen as the rightful leader of the boys but as a failure who lost everything to the girls. His bitterness toward Agatha, fueled by Aric’s taunts and his own insecurities, pushes him to see her as an enemy rather than a former love, reinforcing how personal wounds become political weapons in a system that thrives on division. Meanwhile, Evelyn Sader orchestrates these tensions from the shadows, manipulating both sides to ensure that war is inevitable. By presenting conflict as the only path forward, she prevents the boys and girls from questioning the structures that pit them against each other, making them pawns in a battle that serves her ultimate goal—bringing back the School Master. The Trial, then, is not just a contest of skill, but a reflection of how easily those in power manufacture war to maintain control. This ties in The Confluence of Heroism and Villainy, as the protagonists and their enemies blur together in their pursuit of power.