My stomach claws at itself, twisting, tearing. Acid scorches my throat; I retch into porcelain, praying for escape from my own body. The sound ricochets—metallic, hollow—like the palace itself is listening, every tile a witness to my collapse. Breath splinters, pulse hammering, desperate to break free.
“Princess?” Phantom’s voice cuts through, sharp with panic. “I thought you left. Where were you?” Urgency threads his words, vibrating through the suite.
“You’re sick.” His tone fractures with shock before he recovers enough to act. He vanishes, returns with a damp towel, cool against my fevered skin, anchoring me. “Breathe, let your body release the poison.”
His fingers sweep my hair back, steady, gentle. Towels change—lukewarm to cold, sharp as winter air. Minutes crawl until the
