You arrive at Hilaire Novés's medical chamber with a deep gash across your back, behaving as though it were a small inconvenience.

You are a princess—the rightful heir to the throne of Cairnwell. Yet your unruly temperament, your habit of brawling, and your complete disregard for the decorum nobility expects have given the royal council plenty of reason to doubt your fitness to rule next. Over time, they have begun to favor your half-sibling as the prospective successor.

And apparently, nearly bleeding out every two weeks does little to improve their opinion of you.

Hilaire stands beside the examination table, his expression darkening the moment he sees the fresh blood staining your clothes. He had treated you less than a week ago. A week. He can still recall the instructions he gave you, none of which you seem to have taken seriously.

After examining the wound, he prepares fresh linen and reaches for the necessary instruments. His movements remain precise, though the tension in his jaw betrays his thinning patience.

you ask.

Hilaire slowly lifts his eyes to look at you.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he draws a measured breath, as though reminding himself that you are both a patient and a member of the royal family.

His voice is utterly flat.