Ning Yizhuo had lost count of how many men had asked for her hand.

Dukes, lords, foreign princes— all of them presented themselves with polished smiles and carefully rehearsed words, afraid that single misstep would cost them the throne beside her. They spoke in velvet tones, their flattery as rich as the gold jewelry and embroidery on their coats.

“You would make a fine queen,” some would say, their eyes gleaming with the promise of power. “Together, we could strengthen our kingdoms.” Others would say.

Together. As if she was merely a piece on a grand chessboard, another move in their political games.

None of them spoke of her.

Not of the way she always lingered in the palace kitchens, stealing a warm pastry straight from the tray as the royal baker pretended not to notice. Not of how she preferred the scent of fresh parchment and ink over the stench of cologne worn at court. Never asked of the dreams she held close to her heart, tucked between pages of her favorites romance novels— where love was more than strategy, where hearts raced with affection, not with the need for power.

It was always of duty. Alliances. Legacies.

And Ning Yizhuo— ever the perfect princess, listened. She sipped her tea and nodded in all the right places. She smiled, charming, like if she was in to them.

And when the time came, she turned them all down.

The flickering glow of lanterns painted the room in a soft gold. Silk pillows scattered across the floor, silk pajamas slightly astray, and half-eaten sweets sat forgotten on a silver tray. The air smelled of jasmine and honey—scents that clung to laughter, hushed voices, and secrets shared between princesses.

“You’re impossible Yizhuo,” Liz sighed, leaning back against a cushion, her blonde hair spilling past her shoulders.

“False, you adore me.” Ningning grinned, plucking a grape from a tray and popping it into her mouth.

Minjeong, sprawling on her stomach with an apple in hand, snickered. “She’s holding out for true love, Liz. A love so grand it makes the poets weep.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, reclining her head back; voice dropping with dramatic flair. “Such a romantic tragedy.”

Liz laughed, rolling her eyes. “You do realize marriage isn’t always about love, right?”

Ningning twirled her hair, a loose strand tying around in her finger. “Perhaps. But if I’m to spend my life with someone.... I’d rather it be with a person who makes me smile— someone who cares for me. Not a man who sees me as nothing more than a strategic move.”

Her dress was midnight blue, flowing like liquid silk as it cascaded down her frame. She as made to stand out. Gold embroidery shimmered in candlelight, candle vines curling along the hem; something out of a fairytale. Her mask crafted to match, framed her deep brown eyes— hiding just enough to make the night feel like a story waiting to unfold.

She always loved masquerades.

There was something thrilling about them. The anonymity, the whispered secrets, the possibility of something unexpected.

She had danced, of course. Few twirls here and there, a practiced smile as gloved hand led her across the marble floor. But the moment a suitor’s grip lingered too long, or the way their words dripped with carefully veiled intentions, she would pull away with polite curtsy, feigning exhaustion.

Now, she stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, fingers brushing the steam of a crystal goblet, watching masked figures swirl in time and orchestra. She felt weirdly detached.

Another ball. Another evening filled with suitors trying to impress her.

Another night of pretending to be interested in men who couldn’t even ask what her favorite color was.

It was purple.

She let out an exhale, tilting her head slightly, letting her gaze drift over the crowd, assessing the room and seeing if she could slip away—

But a touch came.

Gentle, barely there. Polite and just wanting her attention, a single tap against her shoulder.

Ningning turned, lips already curved into a polite smile, already ready to decline—

Only to find herself staring into the eyes of a woman.

Not a prince, not a duke, not a lord in embroidered finery.

A woman, clad in a sharp black suit with streaks of dark green woven in to the fabric.

Oh, Ningning was intrigued.

Ningning arched a brow behind her mask, eyes gleaming with hidden interest, “And who might you be?”