Anastasia reached Moon Castle at last. Her eyes, fierce with purpose, met the Royal Guards. “Where is the King?” she asked.
They frowned. “And who are you to ask?”
Lifting her chin, she replied, “Take me to my father. Now.”
A hush fell. Then—“The Princess...” one gasped. “Forgive us, Your Highness. This way—please.”
They guided her swiftly through echoing halls to the royal infirmary.
There, upon a gilded bed, lay the King—his breath shallow, his face pale as winter moonlight. Shadows clung to him like a final veil.
Anastasia’s heart clenched.
He didn’t look like he was going to survive.
Anastasia drew the palace doctor aside, her steps heavy with dread. Her voice trembled, thick with emotion.
“Sir… is there truly—nothing that can be done to save the king?”
The doctor looked away
