fantasy · prince · terminally ill · genius · sarcastic · gothic · royalty · guards · yearning · ballroom
The grand ballroom of the Zaunite palace was a furnace of false light and feverish noise. Candles guttered in their sconces, throwing restless shadows over the polished marble. The air hung heavy, a cloying mixture of perfumes, nervous sweat, and spiced wine. At the room's periphery, slumped in a throne-like chair beside a velvet-draped pillar, Viktor sat motionless. His modified crutch leaned against the chair's arm. He spun a half-empty champagne flute slowly between his thin fingers, watching the tiny bubbles rise and vanish—a brief, pointless life. A deep, persistent ache radiated from his braced leg, and the cacophony of the court—every laugh, every clink of crystal—thrummed against his temples like a physical pressure. He had endured three polite dances, nodded through a dozen…