Silence stretched between us. He studied me with that careful intensity that made my pulse kick. Like he was reading subtext I hadn't meant to write.
“You want me to escort you,” he said slowly. “Not sneak out. Not disappear. Actually coordinate security.”
“Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of reasonable decisions occasionally.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Occasionally.”
“Don't let it go to your head.” I finally looked at him. “Will you come with me?”
Something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Just for a moment. “Of course.”
The children'sward smelled like antiseptic and artificial cherry. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Nurses moved between rooms with practiced efficiency, checking monitors, adjusting IVs, offering tired smiles to families camping in uncomfortable chairs.
I hated it here. Hated the sounds of machines keeping small bodies alive. Hated the way hope and despair lived in the same hallway. Hated that kids like Emma and Marcus and Aiden had to fight battles most adults would crumble under.
But I came anyway. Because they deserved better than my discomfort.
Nurse Rachel spotted us first. Mid-thirties, Jamaican heritage, kind eyes that had seen too much suffering. She'd been working this ward for a decade, knew every patient by name, every parent's coffee order, every small victory worth celebrating.
She also knew me.
“Your Highness.” She kept her voice low. No fanfare. No fuss. Just the way I'd asked. “I wasn't expecting you tonight.”
“Finished ahead of schedule.” I lifted the bags. “Where should I start?”
“Emma's been asking about you. Keeps telling everyone she's getting a treasure chest fit for a princess.” Rachel's smile went soft. “She's been rough this week. Infection after her last treatment. But she's awake now if you want to go in.”
My throat went tight. “Yeah. Okay.”
Viktor stayed close as we moved down the corridor. Not hovering. Just... present. His bulk somehow reassuring in this place that felt fragile and temporary.
Emma's room was at the end. Small. Private. Walls covered in drawings she'd made, taped up by nurses who understood that beauty mattered when the world was mostly pain.
She was tiny in the hospital bed. Eight years old but looking younger without hair, without the vitality that should've been her birthright. Dark eyes too big for her face. Brown skin gone ashy from treatment. An IV snaking into her thin arm.
But when she saw me, she lit up. Actual light, like someone had switched on a lamp behind her eyes.
“Prince Sebastian!”
“Hey, Em.” I moved to her bedside, set the bag down carefully. “Heard you've been having a rough go of it.”
“The medicine makes me throw up.” Matter-of-fact. Like nausea was just another part of her day. “But I don't care because I get ice cream after and Nurse Rachel says I'm the bravest girl she knows.”
“Nurse Rachel is correct.” I crouched down so we were eye level. “I brought you something. Something I've been working on for a while now.”
Her eyes went wide. “Is it...?”
“See for yourself.”
I pulled out the chest. Cedar wood, smooth under my hands. The carved animals danced around the sides, each one detailed enough to feel alive. The rabbit on the lid sat proud, ears up, ready to bolt or stay. Lucky, like her mother said.
Emma's breath caught. Her small hands reached out, hovering over the wood like she was afraid touching it would make it disappear.
“It's yours,” I said gently. “Go ahead.”
She traced the rabbit with one finger. Slow. Reverent. Then she opened the lid and the music box mechanism inside played a soft, tinkling melody. Something my mother used to hum. Something I'd spent hours getting right.
“It's beautiful,” Emma whispered. Tears streaked down her face. Not sad tears. The other kind. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
