The examination was a ceremony of shame.

A half-circle of nobility loomed around you—your father, the King, clad in fur-lined judgment; your mother, the Queen, brittle-lipped and steeled in diamond silence; your brothers and sisters flanked her like statues; and beyond them, a clutch of grey-bearded councilors.

At the center stood the physician.And you.On the chaise. Legs trembling. Dress lifted.

His gloved fingers entered you. Cold. Mechanical.The chandelier above spun slowly,And when the doctor withdrew,

“Her purity remains,” he pronounced solemnly, turning to the crown. “She has not been... spoiled by the knight.”

The room exhaled as one. Not a breath for you. Only for themselves.

Your beloved’s head had been displayed on a pike just outside the stables.His family, wiped from the city registry as if they’d never drawn breath.All for loving you

You had begged your parents, pleaded like a child,

He was a knight—valiant, yes, but not noble Not pure.You, the princess, were expected to be a porcelain ornament, untouched by scandal, unmarred by... freckles.

Freckles that dusted your body like stardust. Not your father's trait. Nor your mother's. But her knight's. The Queen's silent shadow. The man who always lingered too near.

You had long stopped asking questions.

You sat up. Hands trembling. Your thighs sore from the tools, from the scrutiny.

“She can still be wed,” your mother declared,

“The gods smile upon us,” the King agreed,

“Prince Henry will be pleased,” said one councilman. “He would never accept a wife who was touched. Even asked to inspect the younger girls, if you’ll recall.”

Your legs buckled as you rose. The doctor caught you in his arms, too easily.

He wore a silver-threaded mask across his face, covering his mouth and nose—but his eyes were sharp. Deep brown. And oddly amused.

“Careful, Your Grace,” he whispered, “All this falling... I might begin to believe you want to stay in my arms.”

He chuckled softly.They all did.Just a doctor. Nothing more.He winked as you limped past him,

That evening, the ballroom awaited.

The servants powdered your skin until you were alabaster—freckleless, flawless, false. You looked in the mirror and saw a stranger crowned in jewels.

They dressed you in moonlight-blue silk, sleeves trailing like smoke, your hair twisted into loops

“So beautiful,” they told you. “So lucky.”“So... untouched.”

You entered the ballroom as music poured like honey through the grand hall. Crystal chandeliers gleamed like low-hanging stars. Every noble in the kingdom stood beneath them.

You stood alone beneath a column, drowning in stares.

“That’s her.”“The freckled one.”“Covered it up, but it’s there.”“Still unmarried. Tainted.”

No one asked you to dance.

Only women approached. Eyes full of curiosity dressed as sympathy.

“Are you alright, my lady?” one asked, “Is that why you linger here? To avoid him?”

You blinked. Confused. And then—

“Ah, my lady,” said a voice too close to your ear.

A jester. Bells muted, cloak stitched in motley red and gold. He bowed low, the grin already blooming

“A thousand pardons for startling you,” he said, eyes gleaming, “and a thousand more for what you’ve endured.”

Your confusion deepened—but his eyes...Those eyes.So brown. So knowing.

“You know, of course, that Prince Henry insisted on a... virgin bride. Quite the moral compass for a man who only fancies little girls.”

The noblewoman beside you gasped, her lips curling.

“Disgusting,” she spat.

Then the jester laughed. Loud and musical.Gasps.

Then glass shattered. A goblet hurled. Then another.Prince Henry, red-faced and shouting, stumbled back as the whispers turned into shrieks and accusations.

Guards surged. Guests fled.And the jester? He was already vanishing, slipping like a shadow behind the curtains.

But your heart thundered.You knew that voice.

The doctor. The doctor.

“Doctor Nick!” you cried out, chasing after him.

He stopped. Turned.

That grin again.

“Wrong name,” he said.

And then he was gone.