The pale winter sun hung low in the sky, its feeble light a golden thread weaving through the heavy cloak of grey clouds.

Princess Seraphina stood before the arched window, her fingertips brushing the frosted glass as the chill seeped into her bones.

Beyond the delicate lace of frost, the kingdom of Arundelle lay blanketed beneath a thick quilt of snow. Towering spires and marble rooftops shimmered in pristine white, while the wind howled through the barren branches of ancient trees, their skeletal forms rattling against its grip. A thin veil of mist clung to the distant hills, turning the horizon into an indistinct blur.

The kingdom was believed to be steeped in ancient magic. Every stone, every breath of wind, thrummed with unseen power. The people revered their rulers, for the royal family's bloodline was as old as the kingdom itself, and their magic, bound by royal decree, was the pulse of the realm. Their dominion was unshakable—or so the people believed.

But not for her. Not for Seraphina.

The royal physician had delivered her fate, a bitter truth she could neither escape nor deny.

She was dying. Slowly. Quietly.

A sickness no healer could cure had taken root within her. It had begun as a whisper—a distant ache in her heart— but now it roared within her, each breath like fire against her chest, each heartbeat like the grinding of unseen chains. Her body, once strong, was failing her.

No healer had been able to identify the source of her affliction. They spoke of curses but none could name the shadow decaying her soul.

And yet, Seraphina stood tall. Her slender shoulders were drawn back, her posture regal, though beneath her skin she could feel the frailty that betrayed her. She was the heir to the throne, the last hope of Arundelle, a princess adored by the people—or so they claimed. But titles and adoration could not ward off the creeping darkness that gnawed at her.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

"Your Highness?"

The voice belonged to Lydia, her most trusted handmaiden, whose voice was always gentle, laced with the devotion of one who served not out of duty alone, but out of deep affection.

"Enter," Seraphina said, her tone calm and measured, though her hands shook slightly as she motioned to the door.

Lydia stepped inside, followed by two other maidens, carrying armfuls of silks and jewellery.

The heavy scent of jasmine and rosewater drifted from the bathing chamber, mingling with the frigid air of the room.

"Your bath is ready, Your Highness," Lydia said, her words like a balm against the cold weight pressing on Seraphina's chest.

Seraphina nodded, her gaze lingering on the frozen expanse outside before she allowed herself to be led into the adjoining chamber.

The sunken marble bath awaited her, the water shimmering with crushed petals and flecks of gold—an oasis of comfort in the harsh winter. The steam curled upward like ethereal whispers, promising a momentary reprieve.

The handmaidens moved with practiced precision, their hands gentle as they loosened the intricate ribbons of her gown. The fabric fell in a silent cascade around her feet.

She stepped into the bath, letting the warm water envelope her in its embrace. For a brief moment, it soothed her, melting the cold buried deep in her bones. But no heat could reach the ache that lurked within.

Seraphina allowed herself to close her eyes, to pretend that she was not the broken princess. The maids worked silently, scrubbing away the remnants of the day and massaging fragrant oils into her skin. Their voices were hushed, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might disturb the fragile peace of the moment.

When the water cooled, the handmaidens helped her from the bath, their hands swift and careful as they draped her in layers of silk and velvet. The weight of the fine fabrics felt like a heavy burden, each layer a reminder of the responsibilities she could no longer bear. Golden chains adorned around her neck, and sapphires sparkled against her wrists. The crown, the final touch, was placed atop her head—a delicate circlet of silver and diamonds, so light in appearance yet so heavy in its symbolism.

"You are radiant, Your Highness," Lydia murmured, fastening the final clasp of her gown.

Seraphina turned to the mirror, its gilded edges glinting in the soft light of the chamber.

Radiant.

The word felt like a cruel jest as she studied her reflection. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her hands trembled ever so slightly. But no one would dare speak the truth aloud. They would only whisper behind her back, calling her a princess of light when all they could see was the shadow of death slowly swallowing her.

"Thank you," she murmured, smoothing the fabric of her gown. "That will be all."

The handmaidens bowed deeply, retreating from the room. Once the door shut, Seraphina felt the weight of the crown more acutely than ever.

Beyond these walls, the council awaited. The kingdom awaited. The decisions that would shape Arundelle's future rested on her fragile shoulders.

But with each passing day, she found herself slipping further from them. The sickness clouded her mind, sapping her strength. She feared she could not endure much longer.

The future of Arundelle, of her people, would depend on choices she had yet to make.

And she feared that none of them would be enough to save her...