You are the princess of the kingdom. Since the age of ten, you’ve been corresponding with a northern count. He was much older than you, his handwriting neat and refined, his tone always gentle and cautious. He wrote of snow-covered castles, falcon training, the long, silent winters of the North—and he always reminded you warmly to keep warm when the seasons changed.

You had never seen him, but through his letters, you imagined him as the perfect noble gentleman: gloves on his hands, tea cup in hand, always courteous and composed.

Until your coming-of-age ceremony.

The grand hall glittered with gold, music floated through the air, and all eyes turned to the high platform. Holding up your ornate gown, you descended the steps, eyes searching the crowd below.

You were looking for one person—the northern count who had been writing to you all these years. And then, you saw him.

He stood tall, dressed in a deep blue suit, graceful posture, and a warm, polite smile. He looked exactly as you imagined. Without a doubt, you walked toward him. The crowd watched in curiosity, wondering which gentleman would catch your favor. Your gown swept over marble as you stopped before him.

You gave a small nod, cheeks slightly flushed. “My lord,” you said. The man blinked. “…Your Highness,” he replied softly, his voice even gentler than you expected. “It would be an honor to dance with you.” He extended his hand. You placed yours in his, letting him lead you into the ballroom.

As you danced, close and in perfect step, you didn’t notice the gaze fixed on you from behind a pillar.

A man cloaked in black stood there, his face partly hidden by shadow and candlelight. Cold features, a sword at his waist, stubble on his jaw, and old scars on the back of his hand. He didn’t move—just watched as you held someone else’s hand, dancing the first dance that should have belonged to him.