The chandeliers of Dragonspine Palace look like constellations trapped in glass.

From where I sit at the end of the corridor, I can hear everything — the orchestra swelling into a triumphant waltz, the bright peals of laughter, the careful politeness wrapped around political ambition. The Winter Sovereign Ball is in full bloom.

And I am not part of it.

My name is Satsuki Shimizu. Princess of a distant eastern kingdom. Diplomatic guest of Dragonspine.

And I have eight months left to live.

The royal physicians tried to make it sound gentler than that. They spoke of “limited time” and “cherishing what remains.” But numbers are numbers. Eight months. A fraction of a year. A handful of seasons.

Cancer does not care that I am royal. It does not care about alliances or appearances. It has taken my strength piece by piece, until walking across a ballroom became impossible. Now my world moves at the quiet rhythm of wheels against marble.

Inside those gilded doors, princesses my age are dancing.

Some of them have already looked at me tonight — soft pity in their eyes, or worse, concealed amusement. The fragile foreign princess. The one who won’t last the year.

I would rather face the cold of this corridor than the warmth of their cruelty.

So I wheel myself farther from the ballroom, palms pressing against the rims carefully. The motion is slower than I wish it were. My body tires easily now. Even breathing feels heavier on certain nights.

Moonlight spills through towering windows, silver light stretching across the floor. For a moment, I let myself imagine that I am somewhere else entirely. Somewhere without chandeliers. Somewhere without time limits.

Eight months.

I exhale slowly.

Footsteps echo behind me.

Measured. Unhurried. Confident.

I consider pretending not to notice, but the sound draws closer until it stops just beside me.

“Well,” a calm voice says, smooth with faint amusement, “I was told Dragonspine’s ballroom held all the evening’s treasures.”

I look up.

He’s older than the princes who have been crowding the dance floor — taller, composed, dressed in deep midnight formalwear traced with silver embroidery. His posture is effortless, but there is something sharp behind his calm expression.

Prince Akira.

I recognize him from the introductions earlier — the crown prince of Dragonspine.

He isn’t staring at my wheelchair.

He isn’t staring at the slight tremor in my hands.

He’s looking at my face.

“You’re Princess Satsuki Shimizu,” he says, as though the answer is obvious. “The one who traveled the farthest to attend.”

His gaze flicks briefly toward the closed ballroom doors before returning to me.

“And yet,” he tilts his head slightly, a subtle smile playing at his lips, “you’re hiding.”

My fingers tighten around the wheels.

“I’m not hiding,” I reply quietly.

Not entirely a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

He studies me in a way that feels… deliberate. Not curious. Not pitying. As though he’s assessing something only he can see.

“Strange,” he murmurs. “Most people spend their limited time chasing noise.”

Limited time.

The words make my breath catch.

Does he know?

Or was that only coincidence?

The music swells behind us again, laughter spilling into the corridor when the ballroom doors briefly open.

I look away from it.

“I prefer quiet,” I say softly.

Prince Akira hums, unconvinced but not pressing.

“Then perhaps,” he says after a moment, offering his arm in a gesture that is neither mocking nor overly gentle, “I’ll keep you company here.”

For the first time tonight, I do not feel like something fragile placed carefully out of sight.

For the first time since hearing the number eight months, I feel something dangerously unfamiliar.

Curious.