Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day began before the sun.

Long before the light crept over the palace eaves, Prince Yeon Sieun was already awake, lying still beneath silk bedding that smelled faintly of clove smoke and cedar. He did not stir immediately. The stillness of the early hour wrapped around him like a second blanket, softer than silk, heavier than duty. It was always like this in the fifth watch, between the deep quiet of night and the first gold of dawn. The palace had not yet come alive, but it was breathing beneath him; stone floors gently warmed by ondol, roof tiles damp with dew, and servants already moving like ghosts through shadowed corridors.

He lay motionless beneath bedding embroidered with cranes and clouds, the symbol of longevity and grace. The silk futon, perfumed subtly with dried chrysanthemum and mugwort, cocooned him in a comfort that felt more ceremonial than sincere. Sleep had not truly come the night before, but it mattered little. Sleep was not a prince’s right, only duty.

The shoji door to his inner chamber slid open with the quiet scrape of wood on stone. A single eunuch entered, head bowed low, his steps measured and nearly soundless on the heated floor.

“Seja-jeoha,” The eunuch murmured, still kneeling, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. “The hour of the tiger has begun.”

Sieun turned his face toward the paper window, where the sky was just beginning to soften, slate gray melting into the faintest hint of blue.

Without a word, he sat up, letting the heavy covers fall from his shoulders. His long, dark hair spilled down his back, tangled slightly at the ends. A servant approached with a small brass basin of warm water. Another held a cloth of fine hemp. Sieun extended his hands. They were washed first, then his face, wiped gently but methodically, not as a kindness, but as a task to be completed.

They never spoke to him, these servants. Their eyes rarely met his. That, too, had been trained.

In the corner of the chamber, Yeongi stirred. She had taken to sleeping just beyond the prince’s room, behind a folded screen, though it wasn’t technically permitted. She rose with a yawn and stretched as she approached, already shrugging into her maid’s robe with one hand and tying her sash with the other.

“You were awake before the fifth watch again,” She said quietly, brushing back her loose hair. “That’s the third time this week.”

“I am accustomed to it,” Sieun replied.

“That is not the same as rested, Seja-jeoha.”

He said nothing. Yeongi narrowed her eyes, but did not press him further. She never did, not when it came to this kind of weariness. Instead, she dismissed the handmaids waiting with the comb and took the ivory handled one herself.

“Sit. You’re always more manageable in the morning, before the court turns you to stone.”

Sieun obeyed, sitting on the low cushioned stool before his brass mirror. She stood behind him, gently pulling the comb through his long hair, smoothing it with fingers lightly oiled in camellia. She worked in silence for a while, as was their rhythm, only the occasional scrape of the comb and the soft rustle of her sleeves.

Outside, the first morning bell rang through the palace; a deep, resonant sound that signaled the official start of the day. Servants would be gathering now in the outer courtyard. The  palace women would be preparing for their duties. The cooks would be lighting their hearths for the morning meal. Scholars in the Seonggyungwan would be reviewing their texts in preparation for the king’s early discourse.

And Prince Sieun, nineteen years old, crown heir to the Yeon Kingdom, would begin his day like he always did—with silence.

He looked at his reflection in the polished mirror. The brass was slightly warped, so his face shimmered faintly, like the surface of a pond. His eyes, doe-like and always rimmed with a glassy softness, made him look perpetually on the verge of tears. But he hadn’t wept in years. Not when his brother died. Not when he was named Crown Prince in his place. Not even when his betrothal was announced with cold finality two months ago.

This was simply the face he was born with. The kind people whispered about; a sorrowful child, the midwives had said.

“You’re thinking again,” Yeongi said softly, tying his hair with a black ribbon at the nape. “Too early in the morning for it.”

“Is there a time I am allowed to stop?”

She didn’t answer, only placed a hand gently on his shoulder before stepping away.

His robes for the day were laid out on a low table; layers of fine silk in hues of sky and silver, embroidered with chrysanthemum and phoenix motifs. Each piece marked his status: the jeogori, the dopo, the sash embroidered in gold. A prince’s armor was not steel, but etiquette. Layers and layers of it, worn until he could no longer feel the shape of himself beneath it.

As the final layer was tied around his waist, Eunuch Jo appeared at the threshold with a scroll in hand.

“Seja-jeoha,” He said with a bow. “There is a change to the day’s schedule. You are to be accompanied by your new personal guard during morning prayers and study.”

Sieun paused, his hand brushing the norigae at his belt.

“Ahn Suho?” He asked, careful to keep his tone even.

“Yes, jeoha. He has been assigned to your exclusive service by royal decree.”

Yeongi raised a brow from across the room but said nothing. Sieun only nodded.

“Very well.”

He stepped into his slippers. The corridor beyond the prince’s chamber awaited, already lit by the gentle warmth of paper lanterns. As he moved to pass through the threshold, the sky outside turned gold.

The ginkgo leaves had turned early that year; brittle gold clinging to bone-white branches, some loosed by the breeze and scattered across the stones like forgotten pages. Prince Sieun stepped lightly into the open courtyard, the trailing hem of his robe brushing through the fallen leaves. The morning air held a crisp sharpness, scented faintly with pine resin, charcoal smoke, and the ghost of yesterday’s incense. Then he saw him.

Ahn Suho.

His new shadow.

His first danger.

Ahn Suho stood near the outer pavilion, back straight, hands clasped behind him, sword sheathed at his left hip. The warrior’s uniform; dark navy and ash gray, fit with a precision that betrayed years of militant discipline. His hair was tied in a high sangtu, bound tightly with a black ribbon, and his gat rested beside him, not yet placed upon his head out of courtesy to the royal presence. His posture was so still, so immovable, he might have been mistaken for a carving of stone.

Sieun stopped a few steps away.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Their silence was not awkward, it was ceremonial. There were unspoken rules for how a guard ought to meet his prince. And even more rules for how a prince ought to speak to a man who was not permitted to meet his gaze unless granted permission.

Sieun studied him from the corner of his eye, head tilted ever so slightly. From a distance, Suho had always looked like a legend in motion; a warrior forged in battlefield fires, untouchable in his precision. Up close, he was colder. Quieter. Not cruel, but unyielding.

And yet, something in him, perhaps the silence, perhaps the steadiness, called to Sieun’s own.

“You are Ahn Suho?” Sieun finally said, voice calm, almost languid.

Suho bowed immediately, his right fist pressed over his heart.

“Yes, Seja-jeoha. I am at Your Highness’s service.”

His voice was deep, gravel smooth. Sieun noted the way he spoke; controlled, devoid of anything unnecessary. A soldier’s tongue. 

“You have served on the northern borders,” Sieun continued, walking past him slowly, allowing the wind to carry the folds of his robe. “They say you defended Bukcheon Fortress with only two dozen men.”

“That is an exaggeration, jeoha. We were thirty-seven.”

A hint of humility. Not arrogance, nor false modesty. Just the facts.

Sieun turned his head, his gaze falling briefly upon the warrior’s face. Suho did not meet it. His eyes remained focused slightly to the side, as etiquette demanded. A guard must never look a prince directly in the eye unless given express leave. It was a rule as old as the court itself.

Still, Sieun could see the faint shadow of a scar on Suho’s cheekbone. Clean, precise. A warrior’s mark, not a wound of recklessness.

Yeongi appeared behind them, arms crossed, her mouth already curled in a frown.

“He didn’t even look at you, jeoha,” She muttered under her breath. “Like we’re made of air.”

Suho’s lips pressed together, but he said nothing. Sieun raised a hand, silencing her gently. His eyes never left Suho’s form.

“Do you know why they assigned you to me?”

“I do not, jeoha.”

“Neither do I.”

Another breeze passed through the courtyard. A leaf floated down between them, landing quietly at Suho’s feet.

“But,” Sieun said, “you are here now. And that makes you my shadow.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Then let me say this clearly.” His voice dropped, no longer soft. It carried the weight of title now. “I do not require conversation. I do not require flattery. I require only loyalty, discretion… and silence.”

“I can offer all three, jeoha,” Suho said, bowing again.

Sieun stepped closer, and though he was still a full arm’s length away, Suho’s shoulders shifted, just slightly, barely visible to anyone untrained in watching.

“Do not bow every time I breathe,” Sieun said, more softly now. “It tires me.”

“Forgive me, jeoha. It is my duty.”

“Then perhaps,” Sieun murmured, “you might consider that your duty includes making your prince’s days feel less like a procession and more like a life.”

That made Suho falter, not outwardly, but in something unseen, a stillness more thoughtful than rigid. He said nothing.

Good, Sieun thought. He listens.

They stood there for a long moment; prince and guard, one clothed in silk, the other in armor, both carved from silence and something unspoken.

Finally, Sieun turned, the movement slow and graceful.

“Come,” The prince began. “You’re to follow me to morning study. If I must recite Confucian virtue to an old man with no teeth, I would rather do it with someone competent nearby.”

“Yes, jeoha.”

As Suho fell in step behind him, measured, silent, as if he had walked in Sieun’s shadow all his life, the prince did not smile. But his fingers, hidden within his sleeves, curled ever so slightly.

And Yeongi, trailing behind, narrowed her eyes at the man whose presence had already shifted something in her prince’s gaze.

The Hall of Eastern Reflection was modest by palace standards, tucked behind the library courtyard and flanked by twin plum trees whose blossoms had not yet bloomed. Inside, the room smelled of aged mulberry paper, inkstones, and the faint must of lacquered wood. The floors had been polished so often they reflected the light through the paper windows in long, golden slashes.

Prince Sieun entered without fanfare, his steps soft against the heated wood. His presence needed no announcement. The scholars bowed as one, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.

“Seja-jeoha.”

He gave a single nod and took his place at the low reading desk set before the rest. His own desk was carved from dark walnut, the front lacquered with twin dragons chasing a pearl; a symbol of imperial learning. A clean sheet of paper lay before him, weighted with jade inkstones. Beside it, a fresh brush. A copy of the Analects of Confucius sat opened to the marked passage.

Behind him, silent as his shadow, stood Ahn Suho. The warrior did not remove his gaze from the door. He did not lean, shift, or so much as breathe too deeply. Yet Sieun was acutely aware of his presence; heavier than armor, steadier than any wall. A silent figure of control standing just behind his left shoulder.

Elder Scholar Baek cleared his throat. His beard trembled faintly with the motion, and his speech, as ever, was thick with age and reverence.

“We resume today with Analect Four, line fifteen: ‘The noble man is cautious in speech, but quick in action.’”

Sieun dipped his brush into the ink with delicate care, watching the black pool ripple gently in the stone. He copied the line out in long, practiced strokes, his calligraphy fluid, if slightly melancholic.

Outside the paper windows, a breeze rattled the screens. A single yellow leaf skittered along the edge.

Elder Baek continued. “Tell me, jeoha, what does Confucius mean when he speaks of caution in speech?”

Sieun did not hesitate.

“To speak with haste is to act with arrogance,” The prince replied quietly. “A man of virtue restrains his tongue, lest it wound those around him or himself.

The elder nodded with approval, tapping a knotted finger on the desk. “Just so. And who, then, is the lesser man?”

“He who speaks before he considers the weight of his words,” Sieun continued to speak, pausing, “or who speaks only to be heard.”

The scholar smiled, faint and wrinkled. “Wise, as always, Your Highness.”

Suho shifted ever so slightly behind him, but said nothing. Sieun didn’t look, but he felt it, perhaps the faintest flicker of approval. Or interest. Or something else, unreadable.

The lesson continued; lines of Confucian text, memorized since childhood, delivered in monotone. The words filled the hall like water in a basin; calm, clear, and cold. But Sieun found his mind drifting.

Was Suho listening? He must be. A man like him did not relax, even in peace.

Did he think Sieun was arrogant? Or too careful? Or—

“Your Highness,” Elder Baek inter gently, “shall we continue with your reflection on filial piety?”

Sieun straightened and recited the verse by heart, “Filial piety is the root of virtue. As trees cannot flourish without roots, so too a nation cannot endure without sons who honor their fathers.”

There was a long silence after he spoke. A silence that felt thicker than before.

Sieun’s voice had softened, and not out of uncertainty. Rather, it had taken on something else, something tender, and perhaps even bitter. The passage always struck too close.

He could feel it then, Suho’s attention. Not looking, he would not dare. But Sieun knew, in the stillness that followed, that the man behind him had truly heard him.

He pressed the brush to paper again, drawing the character for silence, slow and deliberate. Behind him, Suho remained a shadow. But the air between them had shifted.

Just slightly.

Just enough to feel.

The lesson ended before the sun reached its peak, but the weight of it lingered on Sieun’s shoulders like a second robe. The scholars bowed low. The pages were collected. The scent of ink and mulberry paper still clung faintly in the air. Behind him, Suho remained silent, still, always at his post. Sieun raised two fingers, a soft gesture of release.

“You may stand down until the hour of the sheep.”

“Yes, Seja-jeoha,” Suho said, bowing low.

He turned and left without a sound, his steps echoing lightly along the polished corridor. Only when the sound of his footsteps had vanished entirely did Sieun let out a slow, unguarded breath.

From behind a nearby screen, Yeongi stepped out, arms crossed. “You’re too quiet,” she said at once. 

“You say that every day,” Sieun replied softly.

“Not like this.” She walked closer, robes swishing as she came to kneel beside him. “You were looking at him.”

He didn’t deny it. “He’s my guard.”

“You weren’t looking at him like a guard, jeoha. You were looking at him like he was someone you’d written poems about.”

He finally turned to her. His eyes were calm, but in the stillness of them was that quiet ache again; that deep, glimmering sorrow that never quite left his face.

“I’ve been watching him since I was sixteen.”

Yeongi stilled.

“At the training grounds,” Sieun went on, voice barely above the wind. “Once every week, my old tutor would lead me past the outer barracks on our way to the scholar’s court. I’d see him; always him drilling the others, sparring, moving like…like someone who had never once hesitated.”

“He does not even see me, Yeongi.” The pain in his voice was evident, drawing out a huge sigh and pursed lips.

Yeongi sat down fully now, her arms wrapped around her knees. She didn’t interrupt.

“He was already known then,” The prince continued, voice hushed like he was afraid the warrior would hear him.  The younger warriors watched him like he was carved from legend. The older ones respected him in silence. But I… I looked at him, Yeongi, and something in me was quiet for the first time.”

He gave a breath of a laugh, so soft, it almost sounded like a sigh. “And now he stands behind me, close enough to hear every breath I take.”

Yeongi’s brow furrowed, her voice lowered by the time she spoke up. “And what will happen when he finally turns and sees you, jeoha? Not as his charge. Not as the Crown Prince. But you?”

Outside, wind stirred the dry branches of the plum tree, scattering a few golden leaves across the veranda like fleeting wishes.

“Do not let him become something you cling to,” Yeongi warned, voice laced with concern and worry. “Because you are set to marry, and he is bound by duty to the sword—not to you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Her voice was sharper now. “You don’t just look at him. You wait for him. Your breath falters when he speaks. And today—today, you quoted the Analects like you were speaking directly to him.”

He looked at her then, eyes full but steady “I don’t want anything from him. I never have. Not touch. Not confession. Not love.”

Every word was like a stab to his heart, twisting and turning it and bleeding him out dry. The prince continued to speak, heart on his sleeves. “I only wish… he would see me. Just once. As I have always seen him.”

Yeongi’s expression shifted. Her anger melted slowly into something softer, grief wearing the mask of fondness. She reached out, brushing a loose thread from his sleeve.

“Then I pray he never does,” She whispered, eyes soft and a look that made Sieun grateful for her. “Because if he does, you will not survive it. And neither will he.”

By late afternoon, the palace had warmed to a soft gold. Sunlight filtered through the latticework, painting the walls in fleeting patterns that shifted with the breeze. The outer gardens of the Donggung were quiet, too far from the court for idle nobles to wander, but not so hidden as to raise suspicion.

Prince Sieun often walked here after study, under the guise of clearing his thoughts. Today, he wandered the stone path alone, though not truly alone.

Ahn Suho followed behind, a half step to the left and one pace removed, as tradition dictated.

Sieun didn’t speak. He rarely did during these walks. The garden, with its crooked pines and tiny moss-covered bridges, was the only place that felt untouched by duty. Here, even silence felt allowed.

They passed under a persimmon tree, where the first fruits had begun to blush orange. One dropped with a soft thud beside Sieun’s feet. He looked down at it, a perfect, round thing, and crouched slowly, lifting it with both hands like something precious.

The prince held it out, glancing behind him. “Here,” he said, offering it to Suho.

The warrior hesitated. “Jeoha, I cannot—”

“It’s not poisoned,” Sieun murmured, almost amused. “Nor is it a command. It’s simply… sweet.”

Suho stared at the fruit for a moment longer before stepping forward and taking it, careful not to let his fingers brush the prince’s. Even then, Sieun felt the heat of his nearness.

Suho bowed his head slightly in thanks, then tucked the persimmon into the fold of his robe. He said nothing.

They continued walking. Birdsong drifted down from the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a gayageum played faintly, likely from the women’s quarters. Sieun folded his hands inside his sleeves and kept his gaze ahead, but his voice was soft when he finally spoke again.

“It’s strange.”

“Seja-jeoha?”

“When you are near, the world feels… quieter.”

Suho said nothing, but his steps slowed. Just slightly. He was taken back by the prince’s words, lips ajar and eyes widened. 

Sieun glanced at him, eyes glinting with quiet humor.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” The prince added. “It’s unsettling.”

Silence fell between the both of them, then, softly, so softly Sieun almost missed it,  “Understood, jeoha.”

But there was something behind it. Not sarcasm. Not mockery. Just the faintest curl of amusement behind a stone wall.

Sieun’s lips twitched, though he didn’t smile fully. He slowed his pace until they were side by side, not quite touching, but close enough for the quiet between them to feel full. He looked forward again and said nothing more.

But Suho, whose sword weighed less than his silences, turned his head, just barely.

He looked.

Just once.

At the prince who had offered him fruit, and quiet, and a piece of his guarded, aching heart. 

The lamps in the corridors had long since burned low, and even the crickets seemed to quiet beneath the heavy hush of moonlight. From the open veranda of the Donggung, the night unfolded like silk; silver, cool, and restless.

Prince Sieun could not sleep.

He had dismissed the maids, sent even Yeongi to her quarters with a gentle scolding. Yet, he remained wide eyed beneath the covers, his thoughts fluttering like paper in the wind. Something unplaceable sat in his chest. Not dread. Not exactly longing. Just… too much silence for one person to bear alone.

He rose quietly, pulling on a pale robe and slipping into his indoor slippers. No candles. No fanfare. Just the soft creak of a wooden door and the faint hush of feet brushing over the polished floor. He stepped out into the courtyard.

The moon was high, veiled by a thin mist. The stones were cool beneath his soles. He moved slowly, arms tucked into his sleeves for warmth, and walked toward the small bridge over the garden stream; a place he had always found comfort in. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

But Suho was there, standing beneath the plum tree, half shadowed in moonlight, facing outward like a statue carved to keep watch over dreams.

Sieun froze for a moment, startled. He hadn’t summoned anyone. He hadn’t even planned to leave his chambers. And yet, of course, he was there.

“You’re still awake,” Sieun spoke out softly, his long jet black hair resting on his shoulders and ended just above his waist.

Suho turned, bowing his head.  “I do not sleep until Your Highness does.”

There was no pride in the words. No complaint. Just fact.

Sieun moved toward the stream and sat at the edge of the bridge, letting his legs dangle just above the cool water. The wind ruffled his robe, and his hair; long, unbound, shifted gently across his back.

“I only meant to breathe,” He murmured. “The room felt too full.”

Suho stepped closer, but kept a respectful distance, just beside the edge of the tree’s shadow.

“Would you like me to fetch the court physician?”

“No.” A pause. “Only… stay.”

That single word seemed to stretch out in the quiet air. Suho did not move but something in him softened.

Sieun looked down at the water, watching the moon ripple between stones. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter than the wind.

“When I was a boy, I used to sneak out here with Yeongi. We would pretend we were scholars, hiding forbidden scrolls. She always wanted to be a hero.” He smiled faintly. “I only ever wanted to be… unseen.”

The prince glanced at the warrior who was listening intently, but his eyes were gazed in front. “It’s strange, isn’t it? For a prince to crave invisibility.”

“No,” Suho said, without hesitation.

The answer startled him. Sieun looked back, truly looked this time. Suho wasn’t staring ahead now. He was looking at him. Not just at the robe, or the title, or the carefully kept posture, but him. Prince. Scholar. Sleepless boy under moonlight.

“May I ask you something?” Sieun asked, voice trembling faintly beneath its calm.

“Yes, jeoha.”

“Have you ever wished your life belonged to you? Not to duty. Not to war. Just… to yourself.”

The warrior thought long and hard, eyebrows shot up and eyes twinkling under the moonlight. Sieun couldn’t help but swoon at the man. For the prince, Suho was the epitome of everything he wanted in life. He was a breath of fresh air, the sun to his dark kide

“Often,” Suho said. “But the wishing does not change the path.”

Sieun’s throat felt tight. He dropped his gaze again. “No, it doesn’t.”

They sat in silence for a while. The night wrapped around them; one bound by oath and the other by blood. Yet, in this moment, unseen by all, they felt, perhaps, most free.

“You may sit,” Sieun said suddenly.

“Are you certain, jeoha?”

“Yes.”

Suho obliged, crouching down and sat not beside him, never beside, but one step behind, close enough that their shadows nearly touched on the stone. They did not speak again. But the sound of their breathing, side by side in the stillness, was a kind of answer neither had ever been brave enough to ask for.

The morning after the moonlit silence passed too quietly to remember, and yet too loudly to forget. Prince Sieun rose with the same ceremonial grace as always. His maids helped him into his layers of robe, tied his hair with practiced hands, and burned the same strands of sandalwood to scent the air. Nothing in his morning differed from the one before.

But at the same time, it did.

He hadn’t spoken of it to Yeongi, or to Suho, or even to himself aloud. The moment in the courtyard had come and gone with no boundary crossed, no law broken. Suho had bowed, as expected, and disappeared into the shadows from which he was born. Just as he always did.

But something had shifted; not in the world around him. Not in his stride, not in the way he greeted the scholar, not in the way he carried his calligraphy brush. No, the change lived elsewhere quieter and deeper. 

It lived inside his chest; beneath the layers of silk and duty, in that space between breath and silence where even a prince is permitted to ache in secret. He felt it in the way his fingers lingered a second too long over the folds of his robe. In how his eyes searched for Suho’s silhouette before he allowed himself to look away.

Outwardly, he was the same boy he had always been; the quiet one, the dutiful one. The prince who bowed at the right times and answered Confucian riddles with half a breath. But inwardly, where his restraint lived, where longing curled like steam inside a closed fan, there was movement. 

Not loud. Not reckless. Just the soft shifting of something waking. A thread pulling tighter and a question beginning to form.

As the sun rose, the palace followed its rhythm; breakfast, robes, brief temple prayers. Then came the library.

It was Yeongi’s idea, something about keeping his mind sharp before the next Confucian lecture. She had no idea, of course, that the idea of sitting still beside Ahn Suho made Sieun feel anything but sharp.

He carried his scrolls in silence, robes trailing behind him like silk shadows. Suho followed, exactly one pace back, eyes forward. Impossibly silent as always.

The royal library was quiet, tucked behind the east wing, the doors heavy and lacquered deep red. Inside, it smelled of dust, cedar, and old ink, rows and rows of shelves rising like cliffs between which only scholars dared walk.

“We won’t stay long,” Sieun said over his shoulder, half to himself. “Only to find a passage from the Book of Rites. Master Baek expects a written reflection.”

Suho said nothing, just the softest bow of his head, but his mere presence made the prince safe and heartbeat quicken. 

Sieun stepped between the shelves, weaving through titles. His fingers brushed the spines gently, like passing through the pages of memory. He paused near the back, where fewer attendants ventured. This section was rarely disturbed. He reached upward, scanning the upper shelves for the correct scroll.

Too high.

He rose onto his toes, stretching delicately. The fabric of his sleeve fell back slightly, revealing the pale bend of his wrist.

“Tch,” He muttered, shifting forward.

A rustle behind him. Then suddenly, Suho’s hand was reaching silently from behind to take the scroll with swift ease. His fingers brushed Sieun’s, only briefly, but it was enough.

Enough to make the prince freeze.

Enough to make his breath catch.

He turned slightly. Not fully. Not enough to meet Suho’s eyes. “I could have reached it.”

“You could have fallen,” Suho replied, just as quiet.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took the scroll slowly from Suho’s hand, but this time he didn’t move away. Not immediately. They stood there, close. Closer than before. The kind of closeness that felt too familiar to be princely, and too careful to be accidental.

Suho’s gaze remained forward, focused on some invisible line of duty in the air. But his fingers curled behind his back, as if resisting the memory of contact.

Sieun could still feel it.

Not the touch, not exactly. Just the space where Suho had been. The heat of his presence, lingering like the breath of a candle just snuffed out. The briefest brush of their fingers had passed like wind, and yet it echoed inside him louder than the temple bells. He didn’t know what startled him more; the touch itself or how much he wanted it to happen again.

So close. Closer than anyone was allowed to be. Close enough to feel Suho’s sleeve brush against his own, to smell the faint scent of pine and polished leather clinging to him, like clean steel after rain.

Sieun’s body remained still, posture perfect, breath even. But his pulse betrayed him. It drummed against his ribs like a trapped bird, fluttering madly beneath layers of silk and silence.

“Thank you,” The prince murmured, flustered and wearing the loveliest shade of pink on his cheeks. His voice wasn’t formal. It wasn’t cold. It was simply soft.

“Always, jeoha.” But his voice caught just a little on the last word. Barely enough to hear. Just enough to feel.

They left the aisle without another word. However, the silence that followed was not the same as the one they’d entered with. It hummed now. Pulled at them like silk thread; quiet, invisible, and impossibly strong.

As they turn to another aisle, Sieun browsed through the collection of books, fingers caressing through each spine and curve. He began to look for a specific, eyes skimming through until it landed on the top shelf again. Cursing, he stood on his tiptoes, desperately reaching out for it. But, to no attempt, he was a tad too short.

All of a sudden, Suho’s fingers had already curled behind his back, neatly folded away, just as every impulse, every errant thought, every forbidden desire must be.

But Sieun hadn’t moved. He stood there, still, stiller than Suho had ever seen him, even when facing the court or reading before the elders. And in that delicate pause between moments, barely a breath of time, as Sieun turned slightly, their sleeves brushed again.

This time, their hands touched.

Just the backs of their fingers. A feather’s worth of contact. No more than the way sunlight warms the edge of a robe in the early hours.

But it was enough.

Enough to unmake them both.

Suho stilled, breath caught halfway in his throat. He didn’t draw away immediately, he couldn’t. That barest touch, as fleeting as it was, sent something through him; a bolt of heat that began in his hand and rushed up to his chest like the echo of a drawn sword.

Sieun’s hand twitched, reflexive, involuntary. His eyes lifted slowly. For once, Suho didn’t look away. For one suspended moment, quiet and unsparing, they looked at each other.

Not as prince and guard.

Not as master and servant.

But as two men, standing far too close in the wrong aisle of a forgotten library, both pretending the world wasn’t shaking beneath their feet.

Sieun’s lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t need to speak. Everything was already there in his gaze, the guarded ache, the startled longing, the helplessness of wanting something he had no right to want.

Suho’s expression didn’t change. His face remained carved from its usual restraint. But his eyes, his eyes betrayed him. There was something in them. A flicker. A tremble.

Recognition and fear.

Because he had felt it too.

Because he had wanted, for a split second, to stay in that nearness. That more than any touch, was the real danger.

Suho stepped back first. A measured, practiced movement. He lowered his gaze again, hiding himself behind that wall of duty.

“Forgive me, jeoha,” He  quickly apologized, voice low and strained. “I did not mean—”

“I know,” Sieun whispered, almost immediately. “Neither did I.”

That truth, the simplicity of it, the honesty of it, hung heavier in the air than any scandal, any betrayal.

It was not a confession but it was close..

The silence that followed stretched taut between them, delicate as silk thread soaked in oil. One word more, and it might catch fire.

Sieun was the first to look away this time. He turned, scroll now tucked in his hand, voice soft and composed again. “Come, I have what I need.”

He stepped out from between the shelves. Suho followed, as he always did. But something had shifted.

He no longer kept the perfect distance. No longer walked a full pace behind. Instead, he walked at Sieun’s side, just far enough to preserve duty, but just close enough to feel the shape of his presence.

Not touching.

But near; near enough to remember that they had touched.

As they passed the paper doors and into the bright sun of the outer court, neither of them said a word.

Though, they both knew something had begun and neither of them knew how to stop it.

Prince Sieun returned to his chambers in silence. He dismissed the palace scribes waiting at the foot of his veranda with a gentle wave of his hand. The eunuch who brought in the afternoon ink tray was told he could go.

Even Yeongi, sharp eyed, always watching, was sent away with an excuse about wanting to reflect on scripture alone. She raised an eyebrow, but obeyed.

The doors closed behind her with a soft thud. The room was quiet again. Still. The kind of stillness that was supposed to soothe him. That used to but now it felt like a trap; like standing in a room filled with incense, too heavy, too warm, impossible to breathe through.

He crossed to the low writing table near the window. The sun had shifted since morning, and a slant of golden light spilled across the parchment waiting there. A single, blank sheet, two jade ink stones, and a fine brush, newly trimmed.

Sieun sank to his knees. Everything around him was exactly as it should be. Yet, nothing felt in place. He dipped the brush into the ink and held it poised above the paper.

His fingers trembled. Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But to himself, it was unmistakable. His hand was too tense; the brush tip hovered slightly off-center, the balance of his grip was wrong.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. A technique his tutor once taught him to still his nerves before public recitations.

Steady hand, steady breath, and steady mind. He touched the brush to the parchment and began to write.

The first character: 心 (sim) — heart.

A clean stroke, a bit thick at the base. Not perfect but passable.

The second: 静 (jeong) — quiet.

The ink bled slightly. His pressure was uneven. His eyes moved over the unfinished characters, but he wasn’t seeing them anymore. His mind had drifted, back to the narrow space between the library shelves. The scent of paper. The warmth of Suho’s sleeve. The graze of his fingers, barely there, and yet still echoing through his skin.

And that look.

That second when their eyes met when Suho didn’t turn away.

Not a mistake. Not duty.

Just a man looking at him.

Sieun swallowed and dipped the brush again. He began another line. He tried to focus on the structure; the clean slope of each radical, the way the ink should flow without blotting, the discipline required to mirror balance on both left and right. It should have felt safe, this quiet ritual.

But each time he wrote a word, his thoughts filled in their own. His brush wrote virtue but his mind whispered, his hands were warm. He wrote discipline, and thought, he stepped back first, but he looked. He wrote silence, and the memory of Suho’s voice came back to him, low and breathless, 

“Forgive me, jeoha.”

Sieun dropped the brush. It clattered softly against the table. Ink spattered across the bottom corner of the parchment. A single black smear, jagged and ugly, bled over the carefully written characters like spilled wine over silk.

He stared at it. He stared and stared until his vision blurred and his throat tightened. Not from shame. Not from guilt. But from the terrifying truth that this couldn’t be unwritten.

The brush was stained and the paper was ruined. No matter how many times he tried to pretend that moment hadn’t shaken him, it had. He reached for a new sheet but paused.

Instead, he turned the ruined parchment over. The blank side still waited for him. With slow, deliberate care, he dipped the brush again.

This time, he didn’t write scripture. He didn’t write anything he could read aloud in court.

I do not know when it began.

But I know that I am afraid of the way my heart moves when he is near.

One line.

Then another.

He steps into a room and everything inside me stirs.

He does not touch me.

He does not speak more than duty demands.

But I feel him, like a storm before it breaks.

The ink began to dry.

His hand steadied. He did not sign his name. He folded the paper once, carefully, and tucked it into the drawer beneath his writing table, hidden behind old practice scrolls and forgotten essays on virtue.

Somewhere behind the walls, a bell rang. The hour of the rooster. Evening prayers would begin soon.

He should rise.

He should call Yeongi.

He should forget this.

But instead he sat there, brush still in hand, and whispered to no one,  “I’m afraid… because I think he felt it too.”

The silence that answered him was no longer empty. It was full of everything they hadn’t yet said.

The evening had grown colder than usual. It was the kind of chill that crept in slowly, unnoticed until it had settled into the sleeves, into the collarbone, into the hollows of one’s silence. Even the lamps in the outer corridors of the Donggung flickered under the weight of it, their flames shivering behind glass.

Warrior Ahn Suho stood by the veranda, posture as still as ever. But stillness, he had learned, was not the same as peace.

His eyes scanned the empty courtyard with their usual precision, but his thoughts were elsewhere; disobedient, disloyal. Caught in the moment from earlier that day, just a brush of fingers. A glance and everything shifted beneath his feet.

He should have forgotten it by now. He had trained himself not to dwell. A soldier who hesitates dies. A guard who feels is dangerous.

Yet, when the prince’s voice had trembled “Neither did I”, the words had landed like a crack along the blade of Suho’s self control.

He had returned to his post after, as expected. He had stood outside the prince’s study, then outside his chamber doors, as twilight bled slowly into night. And when Sieun stepped outside, no procession, no fanfare, just soft shoes on stone, Suho was already waiting.

The prince was wrapped in a light outer robe, too light for the air. His hair had been loosely tied again, long strands drifting down his back in elegant disarray. He didn’t look at Suho immediately. He often didn’t. That restraint, that performance of formality, it was part of the dance they both still clung to.

But the warrior saw. He saw how the prince’s fingers curled slightly inside his sleeves. He saw the faint strain in his shoulders, the way the cold nipped red along his ears.

“It’s colder than I expected,” Sieun said softly, as though surprised the night had teeth.

“Seja-jeoha should not be out without a heavier robe.” It wasn’t a reprimand. But it wasn’t nothing.

Sieun turned to him at last. His expression unreadable in the dark, but his eyes, those dark, wet looking eyes that always seemed on the edge of feeling, met Suho’s squarely.

“Then… will you scold me for it?”

Suho paused. A beat too long.

“No, jeoha,” The warrior finally breathed out. “Only… I will fix it.”

He stepped forward in one smooth motion. He slipped the heavy cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it carefully, reverently, around the prince. The cloth draped gently over Sieun’s form, far too large. The inner lining, still warm from Suho’s body, pressed against the prince’s neck and chest.

Sieun froze not from cold but from something else entirely.

“You don’t have to,” The prince said, voice soft and shaking like a string in wind. “It’s not your duty.”

“No,” Suho agreed. “It isn’t.”

Their eyes met again.

Closer now.

No longer buffered by space or protocol or even silence.

Suho looked at him, not like a guard assessing danger, but like a man standing before something sacred and terribly fragile.

And Sieun, he did not look away. His hands rose slowly, almost unsure, and gripped the edges of the cloak now resting on his shoulders. The fabric swallowed him, and yet he looked steadier somehow. Held.

“You always do this,”  Sieun mumbled, not accusingly. “Stand there, watch, and fix things before I ask.”

“That is my role.”

“But no one asked you to be kind.”

That word.

Kind.

Suho swallowed. “Kindness is not weakness, jeoha.”

“No,” Sieun replied, “but it is rare. Especially from those with swords.”

The wind shifted. The trees rustled faintly. Sieun closed the cloak around himself tighter and turned slightly away, but his next words came quieter, vulnerable in a way that felt far more dangerous than the cold ever could.

“Sometimes I wonder if you see me… as anything more than a task.”

Suho’s jaw tensed, and his eyes lowered. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because, for once, he did.

And it was too much, too close to truth. Too close to the breach.

“I see you,” Suho said at last, like he was telling the wind a secret no one but him should know. 

Sieun turned his head again, slowly. Their eyes met once more. In that look, beneath the moonlight and the thick hush of the evening air, neither of them moved.

Neither spoke again.

This was no longer just duty.

It was just them. 

Ahn Suho returned to his quarters just after the bells signaled the third evening watch. His steps were precise, his expression unreadable. Any servant who passed him in the winding halls of the east barracks would say the same thing; the warrior looked as he always did; silent, cold, untouchable.

But inside, Suho’s thoughts churned like a river in spring thaw. His shoulders still held the phantom of Prince Sieun’s warmth, the imprint of his slight frame beneath Suho’s cloak. The way the fabric had gathered against his chest. How his fingers, so slim, so careful, had gripped the edge of the cloth like it meant something.

“Sometimes I wonder if you see me… as anything more than a task.”

The words echoed in Suho’s mind like a strike that never missed. He hadn’t known how to answer at first. He still didn’t.

He stepped through the wooden doors of his room and closed them behind him with more force than necessary. He needed quiet. He needed the training mat or a sword in his hand. Anything but the memory of the prince’s eyes searching his face like he wanted to find something there. Something tender. Something true.

“Oh. You’re back.”

Suho’s spine straightened immediately.

From the low bench near the water basin, Oh Beomseok rose slowly, arms crossed over his chest, as if he’d been waiting. He wore no armor tonight, just his simple night robe and a smug sort of ease that Suho had never trusted.

Suho said nothing at first. He walked to the far side of the room and unlatched the wooden box where his practice blades were kept.

“You’re late,” Beomseok said again, stepping closer. “Did the prince have you watching over his dreams, too?”

Suho’s jaw tightened. “You’re in my quarters.”

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

Suho turned, eyes sharp now. “There was no question.”

“Fine. Then I’ll make one.”

Beomseok leaned against the wall casually, but his gaze was cutting. Always too casual and too curious.

“What’s it like serving the prince?”

Suho looked away, kneeling to pull his sword belt free from the chest. “It is as one would expect.”

“Hm.” Beomseok let the silence stretch for a beat too long. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

Suho glanced up. “I’m always quiet.”

“Yes, but this is different.” Beomseok tilted his head, voice dropping just slightly. “You’re… distracted.”

That word landed heavier than it should have. Suho closed the chest with a loud thud and stood.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

Beomseok’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m only concerned. We’ve trained side by side since the capital days, haven’t we? It would be a shame if you lost your edge, especially over someone as delicate as the prince.”

“Watch your tongue.”

Beomseok laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I didn’t say anything untrue.”

“You said it like a man who wanted me to hear it a certain way.”

The air between them thickened. Then Beomseok shrugged. “All I mean is, you’ve never been assigned to someone like him. You’re used to generals, border patrols, direct orders. Not… this.”

He waved a vague hand, as if gesturing to something soft and ceremonial. “The prince doesn’t need a warrior like you. He needs someone who folds fans and pours tea.”

Suho’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. “The prince needs someone who can protect him. That is why I was chosen.”

Beomseok narrowed his eyes.

“Or is it that you’ve taken a liking to being needed by someone so… fragile?”

The insult was subtle but it struck true. For the first time, Suho didn’t answer immediately. Because somewhere in the shadow of that question, there was something he didn’t want to admit. That maybe it was not the prince’s fragility he saw but his quiet strength.

That maybe it wasn’t just duty that made him want to shield Sieun from the cold, or carry his burdens without being asked.

Maybe it was something else.

Something far more dangerous.

Beomseok seemed to sense the hesitation, and his voice dropped further, laced with something bitter.

“Be careful, Suho. The closer you stand to fire, the more likely you are to burn.”

Suho stepped past him, voice flat but final.

“Then let me burn.”

He didn’t wait for Beomseok’s reply. He opened the inner door to his sleeping quarters and stepped inside, sliding it shut with deliberate calm.

Only when he was alone again, fully alone, did Suho let out a breath. He unlaced his tunic and dropped to his knees before the practice mat. But when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Beomseok’s scowl or the courtyard lanterns.

He saw a young prince standing in moonlight, clutching a cloak that wasn’t his, whispering truths too soft to survive the morning. Suho, sword-calloused and battle-worn, was terrified of how deeply he wanted to give him everything he was never meant to hold.

The palace had a way of breathing without rest. Even in the earliest morning hours, when the mist still clung to the eaves and the bells had yet to ring, the servants had already begun to move; soft footfalls, water basins filling, the rustle of silk sleeves and quiet bows exchanged over steaming kettles.

Prince Sieun remained seated inside his chamber, still not dressed for the day. He sat before the wide windowsill, one leg folded beneath him, a robe loosely draped over his shoulders, hair still unpinned. The golden morning light had begun to creep across the paper windows, casting pale reflections over the lacquered floor.

He had not slept much. Not because of discomfort, nor dreams. But because something Suho said, I see you, had folded itself into the corners of his mind like a line of poetry too dangerous to recite aloud.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention. Not firm like Suho’s. Not sharp like his father’s. These were lighter, quicker—servants.

He moved only slightly, shifting behind the wooden screen that separated his resting area from the rest of the room. He had no intention to eavesdrop. But he didn’t stop himself either.

“He was seen at the prince’s side again last night,” came a girl’s voice, soft, amused, young.

“Of course he was,” another answered, her tone less kind. “He’s the personal guard, not a concubine.”

The first giggled. “Still. You should’ve seen the way he gave him his cloak. As if the prince was made of glass and snow. That’s not how guards usually act.”

“Maybe he’s just careful.”

“Or maybe he forgets he’s a commoner when he looks at him.”

“You shouldn’t speak of the prince that way.”

“We didn’t mean offense.”

“Then mind your tongues. The walls have ears and so do spies.”

The quiet patter of feet receded, leaving only silence. But it wasn’t silent inside Sieun anymore. He sat frozen behind the screen, fingers clenched gently in the folds of his robe.

As if the prince was made of glass and snow.

He didn’t know what stung more; the way they spoke of Suho, or the way his heart ached because part of him had noticed the same gentleness. Had craved it.

Not duty.

Not protection.

But gentleness.

He should’ve felt angry. Should’ve been offended on Suho’s behalf, or perhaps his own. But instead he sat there, heartbeat steady but strange, like something beautiful and terrible was beginning to unfold inside him.

He pressed his thumb into his palm, grounding himself. He could not let it show. Not in the breakfast chamber. Not in the court’s watchful eyes. Not when even the servants had begun to notice the shift between them.

Not when his marriage was only two moons away.

And yet,  his hand still remembered the warmth of that cloak. His body still remembered how close Suho had stood. His heart, traitorous and tender, remembered everything.

A quiet knock.

“Seja-jeoha?” came Yeongi’s voice, cautious but familiar. “Are you well? The attendants are asking whether to send your dressing robes.”

“I’ll be ready soon,” Sieun answered softly. “Let them wait.”

“Shall I come in?”

“Not yet.”

He rose slowly, walked to the window, and slid it open just enough to let the morning breeze kiss his skin.

The wind was cool. Not enough to bite but enough to make him remember last night. Enough to make him wonder what Suho must be thinking, now that the weight of that moment was not only theirs anymore.

Because the palace was breathing. And so were its rumors.

Love, when it blooms where it shouldn’t, always finds its way into other people’s mouths first.

It began in the Hall of Appointments, just after the midday sun had reached its peak and the court’s temper began to fray. The ministers had gathered, as they always did, their silk robes rustling like murmured threats, their breath thick with incense and the taste of politics. Discussions had turned to the census, tax quotas in a southern province, shortages in grain distribution, and from there, to blame.

A servant, young and barely in his third season at court, had misplaced a set of sealed ledgers. A mistake, one that delayed proceedings by barely a day but enough to cause irritation in the mouth of Minister Hwang, a man whose pride was only matched by the height of his hat.

“Carelessness in the royal record is no small matter,” Minister Hwang declared, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “If we begin letting boys fumble with ledgers, we may as well let them manage the treasury.”

Laughter followed, the  kind that isn’t true laughter, just obedience dressed as amusement.

The servant, already kneeling, pressed his forehead to the floor until it turned pale. He did not speak. He wouldn’t dare. The court had no place for his voice.

But Prince Sieun, seated quietly near the throne, hands folded in his lap, eyes lowered, did speak; not loudly, not brashly, but clearly and precisely. Enough to cut through the murmuring like a silk blade.

“The ledgers were returned before the hourglass emptied. There was no delay in accounting.”

A breath stilled. A paper fan paused mid wave. The prince’s tone held no anger, only calm, factual observation. But in the court, sometimes truth was more offensive than rebellion.

“If mistakes merit lashes, then praise should greet correction. But no one offered it.”

The silence that followed was deep and terrible. Minister Hwang’s smile stiffened. A few others shifted uncomfortably. One man coughed, as if trying to break what could not be broken.

Prince Sieun’s gaze never rose from the floor.

But the king’s eyes did. King Yeonjo, the dragon behind the throne, turned his head just slightly toward his son. His expression was unreadable, carved in cold stone, unreadable even to those who’d served him for decades.

He said nothing.

Not immediately.

But the silence dragged long enough that even the wind in the courtyard seemed to hush. When the king finally spoke, his voice was low and sharp as a blade pressed against silk, 

“A prince may be educated in numbers and ink but not in discipline. Let him learn the difference.”

He did not shout.

He did not strike.

But the sentence landed all the same.

“Tonight, he will kneel.”

And so he did.

At the far end of the palace courtyard, beneath the vast and indifferent sky, Prince Sieun knelt on bare stone, the same courtyard where he had once toddled after Yeongi as a child, where he had watched the moon rise during quiet summer banquets, where his laughter had once echoed before he learned how easily joy could be silenced.

Now, it was punishment ground.

His ceremonial robes, designed more for show than warmth, pooled around his knees in a fading halo of cream and pale blue. They were too thin for the season. The evening wind passed straight through them, stirring the cloth like smoke around a candle’s base. His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched, not shaking, just resting there with a deliberate stillness.

He would not ask for mercy. He had done nothing shameful. Yet, he had been shamed. The stones beneath him, warmed faintly during the day, were now cooling with every hour. The cold bled slowly upward through his bones. His knees ached. His spine screamed for relief. But his posture remained perfect; upright, composed, and silent.

He did not weep nor did he tremble but he did not feel like himself. There was a detachment that came with these moments; a floating above one’s body. He remembered kneeling like this once as a boy, when he had failed a Confucian recitation in front of the royal tutor and his father had demanded stillness as penance. Back then, it had frightened him. He’d cried into his sleeves when no one looked.

But tonight he felt no fear, only isolation. The kind that wraps itself around the ribs like rope, slowly tightening. Because unlike then, he was no longer a child.

This time, there were eyes. Not many. Most of the court had long since returned to their chambers. But the guards still changed shifts along the outer walkways. Servants passed occasionally, heads down, steps light. They didn’t linger. They didn’t speak. But their presence stung more than if they had.

He was a prince and princes did not kneel like this. Or if they did, it was supposed to be a lesson in humility. Not a theater of quiet cruelty. But there was one pair of eyes Sieun could not stop feeling.

Not from across the walkway. Not from the upper pavilions. But just beyond the lanterns, beneath the edge of the roof’s shadow, where the wooden columns cast long, skeletal silhouettes across the tiles.

Suho stood there, still as a statue, straight-backed and hands clasped behind him in perfect form. He had not moved since dusk. And though Sieun hadn’t turned even once, he could feel the warrior’s presence as surely as breath in his lungs.

It was not comforting. It was not painful.

It was just… known.

He’s there.

Of course he is.

The sky darkened into ink. One by one, the lamps began to dim, their oil spent. Only the palace torches flickered now, their light unsteady in the deepening wind.

The air was colder than it had been all week. Sieun’s loose hair stirred with each passing gust, sticking against his cheeks, brushing across his lips. He didn’t reach up to push it back. He couldn’t. That, too, was part of the punishment, no movement.

His neck had begun to ache. His knees burned. His hands felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

How much longer? But that question had no place in a prince’s mouth. So, he let it rot inside him.

He wondered, fleetingly, painfully, if Suho’s eyes had drifted from him. If Suho, standing there in shadowed stillness, had perhaps closed his eyes. Maybe just once.

Or worse, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Suho had been watching him this whole time, from the very first second. And if he had… then what did he see? A foolish boy who spoke too freely?

Or someone who couldn’t stop speaking, even if it meant this?

The wind picked up again. A strand of hair blew into Sieun’s mouth. He tasted dust and rain in the air. Somewhere, in the distance, thunder grumbled.

Still, he didn’t move.

Still, he knelt.

The thunder rolled again, deeper this time, less a sound, more a presence pressing in from the far reaches of the night sky. It moved like a warning through the low clouds, rattling across the dark belly of the heavens. The wind that followed it was colder, no longer a breeze but a cutting thing, sharp around the corners of the tiled rooftops, ruthless against skin left bare.

Sieun did not flinch.

But Suho did. Only inwardly. Only in that quiet part of himself that had long been hidden behind years of drills and sword forms, training halls and bruises left to scar without complaint. That part of him, the one that still remembered what it meant to feel, rose like an unwanted tide.

He had spent the last hour watching the prince fight to look unshaken. Watching him fail to move, even as his body began to lean, just slightly, against invisible pain. Watching the wind unravel the neatness of him, strand by strand.

He will not last the night like this.

Suho swallowed. Behind him, the palace wall glistened faintly with the first damp fingers of mist. The scent of wet earth was rising. Rain was not far. His orders were clear. Guards do not interfere in royal punishment. A prince must be allowed to endure.

But that was not what he saw in front of him now.

This was not a lesson. This was quiet cruelty. And he, who had pledged his sword, his loyalty, his breath, could not allow it any longer.

Forgive me.

Suho stepped out from the shadows. His boots hit the stone softly, his stride measured. Not hurried. Not brash. But firm, like a man crossing a line he had drawn for himself, long ago.

The courtyard was empty but for them. A few lanterns still burned weakly under the palace eaves, flickering gold against the blue night. The guards at the far gate did not stir. No one called out. The only sound was the wind, and the soft rustle of Suho’s cloak as he unfastened it from his shoulders.

It was the heavy one; dark charcoal wool, lined with thick inner cotton, worn for long watches during winter patrols. The fabric was stiff at the seams, yet still carried the shape of his body, still held the warmth of his skin and sweat and breath.

He came to a stop behind Prince Sieun. The prince had not turned. Had not spoken. Had not even acknowledged the sound of his approach. But his spine straightened, just barely.

He knows it’s me.

Suho lowered the cloak gently, reverently, around Sieun’s shoulders. Not draping it like a blanket, not flinging it to shield but placing it like a quiet offering, smoothing the edges so it wouldn’t slide. His fingers worked with care, brushing the prince’s shoulder only once, the contact so brief it might have been imagined.

But the prince did not move away.

Suho exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the night air. He stood there for one heartbeat longer. Then, without a word, he lowered himself to his knees. 

Beside him, on the bare stone and facing the same direction. One knee down and the other folded. Hands resting in his lap with soldier’s precision. His posture wasn’t princely.

It was human.

Whhen his shoulder brushed against Sieun’s, gently, solidly, neither of them pulled away. For a moment, the world narrowed. There was only the sound of wind through branches, the distant creak of lantern chains, and the press of shared silence between them. Not empty silence, a knowing silence.

Suho’s voice, when it came, was low and steady. “Jeoha.”

No reply.

He looked ahead, not at Sieun. The stone courtyard stretched on, long and endless under the dark.

“Forgive me.”

Sieun’s breath trembled, the first movement from him in hours.

Still, he didn’t look over. But his voice came, soft and raw, like it had been wrapped tightly behind his teeth all night. 

“You’ll be punished.”

“Then I shall accept it as long as you do not kneel here alone.”

Rain began to mist from abovec not heavy, not yet. Just the lightest veil across the skin, enough to chill. Sieun shifted, ever so slightly, so that the cloak covered Suho’s shoulder, too.

Neither of them commented on it.

They sat in silence as the courtyard darkened around them, as the rain began to whisper against the stone, as the prince’s punishment became something shared, something carried between two bodies.

In that moment, under cold wind and silent stars, beneath rules neither of them could truly escape, something unspoken passed between them.

Devotion. 

The kind of devotion that love is born from. Not loud or impulsive. Just a quiet choice, made over and over again.

If you kneel, I kneel.

If you are cold, I will be colder.

If the world commands me to stand, I will kneel beside you instead.

Chapter Text

The morning bell had not yet rung but the night had thinned. The stars had faded into mist. The darkness above had begun to lift, not with color, but with clarity, as though someone had breathed on a polished mirror and was now wiping it clean.

The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving behind a silver sheen across every surface. Raindrops clung to the roof tiles. Leaves drooped heavy with it. The courtyard stone, slick and glistening, reflected what little light the sky offered, muted gray, like wet silk.

Sieun was still kneeling. His legs had long gone numb. His fingers, folded now within the warmth of Suho’s cloak, could barely feel the fabric. His jaw was tight. His spine hurt. But his body had adjusted to stillness, the way a body adjusts to grief—by giving in.

Beside him, like a shadow sculpted into flesh was Suho.  His head slightly bowed. Shoulders squared. His uniform was soaked through, darkened nearly to black. Rain had flattened the strands of his hair, but he hadn’t brushed them aside. His hands rested calmly atop his knees.

They had not spoken since midnight. They had not moved since then either. But there was no space between them now. Not really. They shared the same breath. The same silence. The same defiance that neither had named.

If you are punished, I will share it.

If you are unseen, I will bear witness.

If no one else kneels beside you—then I will.

And it was in that moment, the stillness before dawn, that the first sound broke the spell.

Footsteps.

Soft. Light. Hesitant. The kind of footsteps meant to pass unnoticed, but ill-suited for secrets in a palace built on listening.

It was a servant. A girl no older than seventeen, holding a small lantern in one hand and a folded towel in the other. Likely sent ahead to prepare for the bell, or to clean the courtyard stones.

She paused the moment she saw them. The lantern light caught on her face; wide eyes, frozen mouth. Two figures kneeling. One in royal robes. One in a guard’s soaked uniform. One cloak wrapped between them.

The girl lowered her eyes immediately and bowed so deeply the flame trembled.

“Forgive me,” She whispered, her voice nearly lost in the cold. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Sieun, for the first time in hours, stirred. He did not rise. But he turned slightly to Suho. The smallest motion. Barely more than a breath.

“The bell will sound soon,” The prince whispered softly.

Suho lifted his head. His eyes met the prince’s, not directly, not brazenly. But clearly. With no shame. No fear.

Only steadiness.

“Then allow me to stand with you.”

Sieun did not smile. But something in his eyes, exhausted and glassy, warmed, just enough to soften the early light.

Together, they rose.

The movement was stiff, painful. Suho stood first, offering a hand, not as a servant would, but as an equal. Sieun took it, briefly and long enough to steady himself. Long enough to make the girl holding the lantern turn her face away.

Their hands parted like something burned. But Suho did not step back. He turned to the servant and said in a calm, even tone. 

“Bring warm water to the prince’s chamber. No need to speak of this.”

The girl bowed again, deeper this time. “Yes, Master Ahn.”

She fled quietly, boots barely whispering over the stone.

Sieun did not look at Suho as he turned to leave the courtyard. But he did pause at the threshold of the pavilion steps. His back straight, shoulders square, borrowed cloak still wrapped around him, heavy and too large.

“You were not ordered to kneel.”

Suho bowed slightly behind him. “No. I chose it.”

“You will be punished.”

“Then let me be.”

With that, Sieun stepped inside, leaving behind only wet footprints, side by side, pressed into the stone like evidence of something neither of them would name.

Not yet.

But soon.

The palace stirred before the sun. Servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, their footsteps muffled by layers of woven mats. Paper doors slid open without sound. Morning steam rose in silver threads from the kitchens, mixing with the scent of ink, lacquered pine, and wood smoke.

Yeongi rose before the bells. She always did. Even before the warm cloths arrived, before the teas were brewed, before the other maids yawned behind sleeves and stumbled sleepily into duties, they always found her already dressed, her braid neat, her apron folded.

Because Yeongi was no ordinary palace girl. She was Prince Sieun’s shadow. His watcher. His sister in all but blood. And no one, not the stewards, not the scribes, not the ministers with their long beards and longer pride, knew the prince better than she did.

Which is why, when she stepped into his bedchamber that morning, towel in hand, she paused.

Something had changed.

Not in the obvious way. His room was just as it always was, minimal and soft. Scrolls stacked neatly by the writing table. Inkstone cleaned and placed at the corner. The brazier still warm from the night. The bedding, though, was untouched. Still folded.

The prince sat not in bed, but at the low table by the window, already dressed, a cup of untouched tea in his hand. He looked like a painting; still, pale, and eyes unfocused.

Not sad.

Not tired.

Just different.

“You didn’t sleep.” Yeongi didn’t pose it as a question.

Sieun blinked, slowly. “I was cold,” he replied, after a moment.

Yeongi’s eyes narrowed. The hearth had been lit hours before. The coals were still glowing. The brazier beside his table had been burning all night, she made sure of it herself.

Liar, she thought but she said nothing yet. Instead, she crossed to him and carefully set down the clean towel, then knelt to pour a fresh cup of tea.

“Did they keep you out there until dawn?” She asked softly, reaching for his hand without waiting for permission.

He didn’t flinch but his fingers were ice. She cursed under her breath and began rubbing them briskly between her palms.

“Your hands are like marble. I ought to drag Minister Hwang out there and let him freeze for a week. See how he likes it.”

Sieun let out the faintest huff of air. Almost a laugh but his eyes didn’t lift from the steam rising between their hands.

Yeongi studied his face. His lashes were still damp at the tips. The corners of his mouth tight. Not from anger. Not even from pain.

Restraint.

He was holding something in.

“You’re not saying something,” Yeongi pointed out, eyes squinting suspiciously. “You only ever go this quiet when you’re holding a secret like it might die in your mouth.”

Still, silence.

Yeongi leaned in. “Tell me.”

Sieun’s eyes flickered before gently, carefully, he pulled one hand away. His right, the one she’d been rubbing for warmth. He lifted the sleeve just enough to reveal a different fabric underneath. Not silk, not his robe. But something coarse, sturdy, and still damp at the hem.

Yeongi’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not yours.”

He didn’t answer but he didn’t have to.

“Whose is it?” She asked, voice low.

Sieun was quiet for a long time. Then, barely above a whisper, “It’s Suho’s.” The words hovered between them like incense smoke.

“He gave you his cloak.”

Not a question.

Sieun looked down. “He knelt beside me.”

That was what broke her stillness. Yeongi’s spine stiffened, and she leaned forward so fast her braid slipped over her shoulder.

“He what?”

“He came after midnight. When the rain started. He… knelt beside me. Without asking.”

There was no embellishment in Sieun’s voice. No romance. No dramatics. Just the simple delivery of a truth too fragile to dress in poetry.

Yeongi stared at him. “He disobeyed a royal sentence.”

“Yes.”

“He will be punished.”

Sieun nodded, faintly. His fingers curled over the edge of the cup.

“I tried to stop him.”

“But you let him.”

Yeongi rose and crossed the room in two strides, throwing open the folding screen that led to the outer washroom.

“I’ll bring hot water. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that cloak.”

“Leave it.”

“Sieun—”

“Just for a little while.” His voice was soft. Childlike, almost. The way he used to sound when they were young and he wanted to sleep with his books beside him, afraid someone might take them away.

“You’re changing,” Yeongi exhaled, long and slow.

Sieun tilted his head.

“Or perhaps,” She added, “something is waking up.”

Suho returned to his quarters just as the sky began to turn pale. Not pink. Not golden. Just pale. That soft, grey hour before dawn truly arrives, when the world still feels suspended, neither night nor morning, but some hush in between. As though the palace itself were holding its breath.

He didn’t speak to anyone. The junior guards at the south gate bowed low as he passed, but none of them dared ask where he had been. None of them looked him in the eye. Not with his cloak missing, his boots soaked, and his uniform darkened with the weight of rain.

Suho’s footsteps were quiet, deliberate, even as the cold in his limbs made each movement stiff. He walked like he had all his life, as if nothing touched him.

But everything had.

His quarters were simple, larger than most soldiers’, but still modest compared to the opulence of the royal wing. A lacquered chest of weapons. A low wooden bed with folded bedding. One oil lamp flickering near the window. Everything in its place. Perfectly still.

He stepped inside and shut the door. Only then did his shoulders drop. Only then did he breathe. Then, slowly, carefully, he sat.

On the edge of the wooden floor, not even bothering to remove his boots. The cold had soaked through everything. His uniform clung to him like a second skin, heavy and stiff. His fingers trembled slightly, though he didn’t notice at first.

All he could see still, still, was the sight of Prince Sieun, kneeling in the open courtyard, his hair wet, his face pale, lips tight with restraint. Hands folded, silent as stone.

The moment Suho placed the cloak around him, the way he did not flinch. Not from the contact. Not from Suho’s nearness. As if he had known Suho would come.

Why did I go to him?

The question sat heavily in his chest. He’d asked it the moment he knelt. The moment his knee touched the same frozen stone. The moment the prince leaned ever so slightly, not away, but toward him.

It had not been rational. It had not been planned. It had simply been impossible not to. Because Suho had watched Sieun long before that night.

From the moment he was reassigned as the prince’s personal guard, he’d noticed things. Subtle things. The way Sieun never interrupted, but was always listening. The way his eyes, those eyes, wide and too soft for court, tracked every word, every gesture, as though memorizing the world just to survive it.

He noticed how Sieun walked too quietly for a royal. How he lingered near windows. How he spoke kindly to servants when no one else was looking. How, at times, his smile looked like something he’d learned from a book rather than from joy.

And I—

Suho stopped himself. He was not allowed to think past that. He had trained himself never to. Duty first, always. Thought second. Heart…never. But last night, the moment he saw the prince kneeling alone, soaked in moonlight and shame, something inside him broke.

Or maybe not broke.

Maybe it simply unfolded.

Something Suho hadn’t let breathe in years. Something still and dangerous.

He looked so small, not weak. But small. Like a lamp in a hallway no one lit. Like a boy pretending to be a statue. Like someone who had learned to make stillness into armor. Suho had wanted, against every vow, to protect him.

Not from assassins. Not from blades.

But from the cold.

From the silence.

From being unseen.

Suho’s hand moved toward his chest, then stopped. The fabric beneath his armor was still damp. But there, against his heart, something felt warm. A heat that had nothing to do with the brazier or the morning sun. A heat that hadn’t gone out since he placed the cloak around Sieun’s shoulders and heard him whisper,

You’ll be punished.

Then let me be.

Suho shut his eyes, not from shame, not from regret. But from the overwhelming stillness inside him, a stillness that was no longer empty, but full. Full of something soft and sharp and echoing. He didn’t know what this meant. But he knew what he had done.

He had knelt beside him for no reason other than the truth that the prince should not be alone.

And Suho would make that choice again. A hundred times. Even if it meant punishment. Even if it meant ruin. Even if it meant, someday, letting go.

The afternoon sky was overcast when Prince Sieun came to return the cloak. The palace grounds had emptied into their usual hush, just after the mid day meal, when ministers retired to nap and scholars returned to scrolls, and the stone corridors were left to the wind and the sound of distant rustling brooms.

He should have sent a servant. That was the proper thing to do. But Sieun walked alone, the cloak folded neatly over his arms, sleeves tucked with careful precision. His hair was tied loosely behind his back, a few strands brushing his cheeks where they had come undone. He wore a simple robe, nothing ceremonial, no outer layer. Just pale blue linen and his quiet presence.

He looked like a boy, not a prince and that terrified him.

He paused outside the small annex where the palace guards kept their quarters, a quiet stretch behind the eastern pavilions, shielded by persimmon trees and built far from the eyes of court. Not many came here without purpose and he had no official purpose.

Still, he knocked.

Softly. Twice.

The door slid open almost immediately. Suho stood on the other side. No armor now. Just the base of his uniform; dark gray, collar undone, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair was damp, freshly washed, and fell a little loose around his temples. He looked human. Not like a statue carved from order and silence. Just a man.

The look in his eyes, though, that was unchanged. Still quiet. Still intense. Still watchful in a way that made Sieun feel both seen and unmade.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Sieun held the cloak forward.

“You left this.”

Suho glanced at it, then back to him. “You didn’t need to bring it yourself.”

“I wanted to,” Sieun blushed, then added, softer, “I wanted to thank you.”

Suho stepped aside without a word. Sieun hesitated, then entered.

The room was neat; spartan, but clean. A small stack of folded garments, a weapons rack, a low writing table with a still wet brush resting in its holder. The scent of ink and pine lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the sharpness of Suho’s soap.

Sieun set the cloak down over the edge of the table, smoothing it once with his hand.

“It’s been dried.”

“I noticed,” Suho replied.

Sieun turned slightly, fingers still resting on the fabric. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know.”

“They could have stripped your rank.”

“They still might.” Suho’s voice didn’t waver. He said it plainly, like he would report an injury on the battlefield; not seeking pity, not avoiding the truth. Just naming it.

Sieun looked down at the floor. “Why did you?”

It was the first time he’d asked. Not just why Suho gave him his cloak, not why he knelt but why he came to him at all.

Suho’s answer didn’t come right away. He walked to the side of the room, picking up a folded cloth and setting it aside, more out of habit than necessity. His back was to Sieun.

“You looked cold.”

Sieun gave the smallest, incredulous breath of a laugh. “You risked everything because I looked cold?”

“I would do it again.”

This time, Suho turned to face him. Their eyes met and held. For a moment, neither of them breathed. And Sieun saw it then, not the warrior who guarded him, not the man with perfect posture and calloused hands. But something else; something aching behind the stillness, something soft.

In Suho’s eyes, he saw himself, not as a prince, not as a royal duty, but as someone Suho had chosen to kneel beside.

Sieun looked away. “They’ll ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll say things. About you. About me.”

“Let them.”

There was a pause. The silence between them now felt less like a wall and more like a thread; thin, delicate, strung tight between their chests.

“You shouldn’t be this close to me,” Sieun whispered. “Not like this.”

Suho stepped forward, not enough to touch but enough that Sieun could feel the heat of his presence again that unbearable warmth, the one that had curled through his spine in the cold courtyard hours before.

“And yet,” Suho said softly, “you came to me.”

Sieun closed his eyes, feeling his chest heave with such complex emotions. He wanted nothing more than to close the gap between them and finally feel the texture of Suho’s delicate skin, and to feel the warmth he emitted. 

“I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

Silence fell between the two of them, only the faint sound of the trees dancing from the wind and faint chatters from afar echoing throughout. Feeling brave and vulnerable, Sieun lets out words that he never thought he’d say out loud. 

“I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

“You weren’t.”

They stood like that for a moment longer. One between duty and longing. One between control and defiance. Both caught in the center of something neither had permission to name.

Finally, Sieun stepped back. He nodded once. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, but he folded them behind his back the way he’d been taught since childhood.

“I’ll see you at court.”

“Seja-jeoha,” Suho greeted, bowing slightly, but Sieun had already turned to go.

He paused only once at the door. Without turning, without looking back, “I didn’t want to give it back.”

And then he left.

Suho stood in the doorway long after the prince’s steps had faded. He stared at the empty cloak, still resting where Sieun had placed it, folded too carefully to be casual. Still warm. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to smile.

Just once.

Just barely.

The training yard behind the eastern pavilion was empty, save for the low scrape of steel against leather. Ahn Suho stood beneath the eaves of the weapons hall, methodically cleaning his sword. Rain had passed, but the clouds lingered; low and sullen, casting the courtyard in shadow. His movements were smooth, practiced. Cloth dragged down the length of the blade. Polish. Turn. Repeat.

Focus the hand. Quiet the mind.

He had done this a thousand times. It kept his body steady. Kept his thoughts clean. But even steel couldn’t dull the sound of footsteps approaching; quick, clipped, and too deliberate to be casual.

He didn’t look up. He had heard the footsteps long before they reached him, each one clipped, controlled, too quick for a casual stroll. They echoed like an accusation in the quiet of the yard. Suho knew the rhythm well. He could count the inches in each stride. He could almost hear the teeth grinding behind them.

So he kept his eyes on the blade. The cloth passed once more over the steel, catching the faint reflection of low hanging clouds and distant eaves. Steady hands. Steady breath.

Control the edge. Control the mind.

The storm could rage around him but the sword would stay sharp.

Behind him, Beomseok stopped. “You think you’re clever?”

The voice cut across the silence like a thrown pebble over still water; jagged, bitter, coiled too tightly for the hour. Too familiar, too close.

Suho didn’t answer. His thumb pressed against the cloth, smoothing it along the fine edge, slow and careful.

Don’t react.

That’s how they win.

Beomseok took another step forward. His boots splashed faintly in a shallow puddle that had not yet dried from the night’s rain, sending little ripples across the mirrored surface of the courtyard stone. The scent of wet earth and iron filled the air between them.

“Kneeling beside the prince like some loyal dog,” Beomseok spat. “You think that’s noble?”

The insult hung in the air, louder for how quiet the yard was, louder still for how soft Suho’s silence remained.

But something shifted. Not in Suho’s posture; he remained still, composed, the cloth passing one last time over the blade’s spine.

No, it shifted in the reflection. There, warped in the metal’s surface, was Beomseok’s form; shoulders drawn too high, fists clenched at his sides, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked. He looked like a man who had swallowed something foul and refused to spit it out. His shadow trembled at the edge of Suho’s foot.

“Say something,” Beomseok growled.

Still, Suho didn’t.

Instead, he folded the cloth with slow precision, set it aside, and turned the blade flat in his palm. His eyes finally lifted, not to meet Beomseok’s, but to the horizon beyond the rooftops, pale and washed in gray.

The quiet was louder than a shout and it infuriated Beomseok. He stepped even closer, voice a sharper edge now.

“Everyone’s talking. You know that, don’t you? ‘The prince’s favorite.’ ‘The guard who knelt.’”

“They think you’re some tragic romantic. They think you care.”

Suho looked at him then. Not fully, just a glance. Just enough to pin him in place.

“Do you?” Beomseok demanded. “Is that it? You think you’re better than the rest of us because you threw yourself down like some hero from a poem?

The words crackled between them, sharp as flint.

Suho didn’t flinch. He watched Beomseok the way a wolf might watch another animal circle its den, not with fear, but with patience. With calculation.

Still, he said nothing because what Beomseok wanted was not truth. He wanted a wound and Suho would not give it to him.

Suho’s silence was a blade of its own, honed from years of control. The kind of quiet that felt heavier than rage. That refused to meet anyone in the mud. Beomseok had lived beneath it too long, beneath Suho’s shadow, beneath the weight of things Suho never even needed to say.

Now he was supposed to watch as that silence bent for a prince? A boy with soft eyes and weaker arms? A royal who never earned Suho’s loyalty but had it anyway?

No.

“Damn you,” Beomseok hissed and in one swift motion, he grabbed Suho’s collar.

The sound echoed, the wet drag of fabric yanked taut, a sharp inhale between clenched teeth. The courtyard was still. Even the wind held its breath.

Suho did not stagger. He did not draw his blade. He didn’t even lift a hand. He simply looked at him; calm and unblinking.

The grip on his collar tightened. “You think you’re above everyone else?” Beomseok growled. “You think your silence makes you righteous? Untouchable? You—”

“Let go.”

Suho’s voice was quiet. Controlled but something in it shifted. Not anger. Not even warning.

It was a command.

Beomseok didn’t listen. Or maybe he couldn’t. Not now.

“Say it,” Beomseok demanded. “Say it aloud. That you care for him. That you broke rank for him. That everything they’re whispering about you is true—”

Suho moved. It was fast. A flick of muscle, not violence. His hand closed around Beomseok’s wrist; not tightly, but exactly. He didn’t twist, didn’t push. Just held him firmly and steady. Enough that Beomseok’s fingers opened, involuntarily. Enough that the collar slipped from his grasp.

Suho let go and stepped back. The two of them stood there, breath fogging in the cold.

Suho’s voice, when it came again, was low. And far more dangerous for how quiet it stayed.

“I will not draw my blade against another guard within palace walls,” The warrior threatened the shaking man in front of him, voice laced with authority and danger. “But if you touch me again, I will make you regret it.”

Beomseok didn’t move.

“And if you speak of him like that again,” Suho added, “I will not care where we stand.”

The silence that followed was absolute. No birds. No footsteps. No witnesses. Just two men, and the air between them.

Beomseok’s breath caught. His fists remained clenched, but his eyes faltered just for a second, not from fear. But from the truth he saw in Suho’s face.

There was no denial there. No shame.

Just quiet devotion.

Terrifying in its stillness.

Unshakable.

Beomseok turned his face away first. “They’ll eat you alive for it. The court. The king. You’ll ruin yourself for someone who can’t even speak your name in public.”

Suho didn’t respond. He didn’t need to because everything had already been said.

Silence followed Suho as he sheathed his sword and stepped out of the training yard, each footfall measured against the echo of Beomseok’s parting words. The sky was still leaden, and a cool breeze rattled the eaves overhead as he crossed the empty courtyard toward the eastern pavilion, his cloak long since returned, his uniform still damp at the shoulders.

He passed moonlit stone lanterns and the mossy rim of the koi pond, where carp glided beneath water slick with rain. The court’s day had begun in fits and murmurs, but here, behind closed doors and hidden corners, the world felt muted until he halted at the pavilion’s threshold.

There, beneath the lattice of carved pine and cedar, stood Prince Sieun. Not in full court regalia, but in a simple light-blue robe, loose at the collar, sleeves pushed back from slender wrists. In his hands he held a small porcelain cup, steam curling upward in delicate spirals.

Suho’s heart stalled. He had expected anger this morning, perhaps a reprimand. Perhaps silence. But not this.

Sieun’s eyes were tilted toward him, soft but unwavering. As Suho stepped forward, the prince raised the cup.

“You look restless,” Sieun said, voice low enough for only Suho to hear. “I thought you might need this.”

Suho closed the distance. He found himself drawn by the warmth of the cup, by the simple kindness in Sieun’s gesture, something far more intimate than ceremony.

“What is it?” Suho asked, though he already knew; warm broth to drive out the chill of the night and the sharper cold of Beomseok’s resentment.

Sieun offered him the cup. Their fingers brushed, briefly, lightly, but enough to send a spark across still wounded places.

“They called it ‘soup for a soldier,’” Sieun explained, meeting his gaze. “But it’s yours. For standing guard… and for standing with me.”

Suho’s breath caught. He accepted the cup with both hands, bowing his head, the steam curling around his face like an invitation. The broth was salty and simple, but it carried more comfort than any palace feast.

Sieun watched him sip once, then twice, as if memorizing the way Suho’s stern features softened with each taste.

“You didn’t have to,” Suho said at last, voice rough.

Sieun inclined his head, stepping closer so that the cup rested between them, hot and fragile.

“I did. You were shivering in the courtyard, and… because you knelt for me. Because you risked everything.”

He paused, as though gathering courage, and his next words came softly, trembling on the edge of revelation.

“I wish I could kneel for you.”

Suho looked up, meeting that confession in Sieun’s eyes, so vulnerable, so true. The pavilion felt impossibly small now, world reduced to two men standing too close, cup of soup trembling between them.

“Then let me carry you,” Suho whispered, stepping forward. His hand hovered at Sieun’s elbow; hesitant, respectful. “In any way I can.”

Sieun’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. He placed a hand atop Suho’s, guiding the cup back toward his own chest.

“You already do,” The prince smiled, voice breaking at the edges. “Every day.”

For a breath, they stood like that; hands touching, eyes locked, the pavilion’s carved shadows dancing around them. The court’s noise, the remonstrations of ministers, the thud of proclamations all faded to nothing.

In that hidden corner of the palace, beneath wood and lantern light, their unspoken vow settled between them. Whatever the world demanded, they would stand together, cup in hand, blade at side, hearts laid bare.

The corridors were hushed, the late hour steeped in that strange, breathless stillness that came only after a storm, when the rain had passed but the world hadn’t yet remembered how to move again.

Prince Sieun walked barefoot through the palace’s east wing, a small lantern trembling in his hand. He had left behind his ceremonial robes, too heavy, too tight, and wrapped himself in a simple outer layer of cream-colored silk. His hair was still partially tied, long strands brushing the back of his neck with each brisk step.

He should not have been wandering alone. But tonight, no rule held power over him. No law. No ritual. Only one certainty,

Suho had not appeared all day.

Not at the morning gates, not outside his study chamber, not in the shadowed corners of the library where Suho often waited like a statue carved from discipline and silence. Not once. No one had spoken his name, not aloud or directly.

But Sieun had seen the looks. The awkward stammering of the younger eunuch. The way a maid had lowered her gaze when he passed. The whispering cut short when he entered a room.

Something had happened and in his bones, Sieun knew what.

He reached the outer annex quietly, wind tugging at the hem of his robe. The wooden doors were unguarded this late, just as he had hoped. No light spilled from beneath them, only the smell of rain-damp wood and something fainter beneath it.

Herbs.

He hesitated at the door, and raised his hand. He paused before knocking. 

Once.

Twice.

No reply.

He pushed the door open. The room was dark, lit only by the dim flicker of his lantern. It cast long shadows across the floorboards, across the low desk in the corner, the washbasin, the weapons rack against the far wall.

And there, kneeling beside the basin, shirt half removed and shoulder bare to the cold air, was Suho. The lantern’s light caught the lines on his back first.

Red. Swollen. Raw.

Sieun’s breath stilled. At least seven marks. Deep, clean strikes. The kind meted out not for battlefield failure, but for disobedience. The kind meant to shame. To silence.

Suho sat still beneath them, head bowed slightly, hand clutched around a bloodstained cloth. His expression was unreadable.

“Suho,” Sieun called out softly, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. He felt his world crumble at the sight of his soldier. 

The warrior turned, too slowly, startled but calm. Always calm. He moved to adjust his collar, but Sieun was already stepping forward, lantern lowered, eyes wide with horror.

“Who did this to you?”

“Jeoha—”

“No titles. Not now.”

Suho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to because Sieun already knew.

“It was my father,” The prince whispered, voice broken and pained. “Wasn’t it? He ordered this. Because you knelt.”

Silence.

Suho’s hands resumed cleaning the wounds with that same cold precision. The cloth moved across his back, blotting more blood than it cleaned.

“It’s nothing,” He murmured.

“It’s not nothing,” Sieun snapped, voice too sharp for the small room. He caught himself, lowered it and stepped closer. “You bled for me. And no one told me.”

Suho’s voice was steady, but low.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“Because you would look at me like this.”

Sieun froze. His hand trembled slightly as he set the lantern down. The room dimmed further, all golden glow and rustling wind through the cracks in the shutters.

He knelt beside Suho wordlessly, reached out, then hesitated. “May I?”

A pause.

Then, a small nod.

Sieun’s fingers were gentle as he dipped a clean cloth into the warm water. He wrung it out carefully, not rushing, the way he did when restoring delicate scrolls. The way one might tend to something sacred.

He pressed the cloth to Suho’s shoulder. Suho flinched but did not pull away.

“I’ve seen you take blows before,” Sieun murmured, dabbing gently. “In training. On duty. But this is different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. Because this wasn’t for the kingdom. This was for me.”

The room was so quiet that Suho’s next breath was audible. “I would take worse,” he said. “If it meant you wouldn’t face it alone.”

Sieun’s hand faltered, the cloth slipped slightly. He looked up, and for the first time, Suho met his gaze. No mask. No barrier. Just dark, steady eyes that held pain and devotion in equal measure.

“You didn’t deserve to kneel in the cold,” Suho said. “You didn’t deserve to be shamed for kindness. And if I could take half of that from you, then I’d do it again.”

“Even knowing the cost?”

“Especially then.”

Silence pressed between them.

Sieun’s throat burned. He set the cloth aside and, slowly, with careful hands, reached forward and pressed his forehead to Suho’s uninjured shoulder.

Just skin to skin. No formality. No rulebook.

“Then I will never let you stand alone again.”

Suho didn’t answer, closing his eyes. He leaned, just slightly, into the touch.

Outside, the wind picked up again. But in that room, for the first time in days, they were warm.

That night, the palace slept. The rain did not return, but the roofs still whispered as the wind crept across the tiles, and the lanterns swayed faintly in their hooks, casting long pools of golden light on polished wood.

Sieun sat beneath the open eaves of his chamber veranda, legs tucked beneath him, a thin quilt around his shoulders. In front of him, a shallow brazier crackled gently, its warmth curling toward his fingers. The steam of sweet ginger tea rose from the cup in his hand, untouched.

He had asked Yeongi not to stay tonight. She had narrowed her eyes, then sighed and left, only after reminding him twice not to stay out in the wind.

But Sieun wasn’t cold.

Not really.

A few steps away, standing just within the light and half within the shadows, was Suho. He’d arrived silently, as always, as though he were part of the wind or the stone. His robes were neat, but the bruises still pulled at his movement. Still, he stood tall. Still, he watched Sieun like he always did, not with hunger, nor with command but with quiet vigilance.

Sieun smiled softly to himself and turned back toward the brazier. “You don’t have to stay standing. Not here.”

Suho stepped forward, just slightly, and slowly sat beside him, still rigid, still hesitant, as if unsure how to belong in this kind of space. A space that was neither guard post nor battlefield, a  space of calm,  of closeness.

Sieun didn’t speak right away. Instead, he offered the other cup he had prepared.

Suho eyed the tea,  “I don’t usually drink tea,” 

“I know,” Sieun said. “You prefer barley water. But this one’s sweet. Ginger and jujube. I thought you might… like it tonight.”

Suho accepted the cup. Their fingers brushed again but this time, neither pulled away.

They sat like that for a while, side by side, steam rising from the cups, the brazier crackling between them. The only sounds were the cicadas in the trees and the wind playing at the corners of the veranda.

Then quietly, too softly for anyone else to hear,

“I used to watch you,” Sieun admitted, blushing a deep red as warmth spread throughout his body. 

Suho turned to face him but Sieun kept his gaze on the flames. “Years ago, at the training grounds. You always stayed furthest from the others. Always bowed lower, struck cleaner, never raised your voice. Even when they jeered. Even when you bled.”

Suho didn’t answer, but something in his shoulders shifted. Something in his jaw loosened.

“I used to think, ‘there’s a man who’s already carrying something heavy.’ I never knew what it was. I still don’t.” He turned to Suho now. “But I wanted to be near it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was soft, like a blanket laid over something fragile. Suho set his cup down gently. His hand remained on the mat, fingers splayed.

Sieun watched it. Then, slowly, very slowly, he placed his hand atop Suho’s; not bold, not claiming.

Just resting.

Their fingers didn’t move. But the stillness between them grew warmer.

“You should be asleep,” Suho said quietly, a ghost of a smile in his voice. “You have royal instruction in the morning.”

“And yet here I am,” Sieun whispered. He turned to him fully. The lantern light danced across both their faces now; gold on gold, shadows on lashes, soft glint in the curve of Suho’s cheekbone.

“Don’t you ever want something… just for yourself?” The prince asked out of nowhere, staring at Suho like he had the whole galaxy in his eyes.

Suho’s gaze lowered to Sieun’s lips, just for a second then back to his eyes. For once, he didn’t hide the way his hand turned beneath Sieun’s, palm now facing up, fingers gently curling around the prince’s own.

“Only one thing,” The warrior breathed out, his heart thumping loudly at his chest.

Sieun’s breath faltered, caught between a heartbeat and a hope. The words were quiet, but they filled the entire space between them. He could feel Suho’s gaze on him, not as a prince, not as a figure to protect but simply as Sieun.

In the space between the fire’s flicker and the wind’s hush, he leaned forward. Slow, gentle, a question in every inch. His heart beat too loud. His throat felt tight. He wasn’t sure if it was wrong to want this, not with the court just rooms away, not with duty waiting at the edge of the morning but he leaned in anyway.

Suho met him halfway. Their lips touched, not with hunger, not with fire, but with certainty. A soft, steady kiss. Warm as the tea. Safe as the lantern light. Steady as the man who had stood in the rain beside him without speaking a word.

Sieun’s mouth was soft, trembling faintly from nerves, but warm. He felt the fullness of Suho’s lower lip press back against his, felt the slight exhale from Suho’s nose as though he’d been holding that breath for longer than a man should.

The kiss was light at first. Just lips against lips, still and reverent. A moment suspended. Sieun’s hand was still resting over Suho’s, but his other came up, hesitant, brushing lightly against the edge of Suho’s jaw, fingertips grazing rough skin, feeling the tension locked in the muscle beneath.

He tilted his head slightly, deepening the contact, just a breath more pressure. His hand moved too, rising slowly, tentatively, to Sieun’s shoulder, where his thumb rested against the fine silk of his robe, clutching it like an anchor.

Sieun’s heart ached, no because the kiss hurt, but because it didn’t.

Because it felt too kind.

Too safe.

It wasn’t the kiss of a soldier claiming a prince, or a prince risking his ruin. It was the kiss of two people who had stood in silence for too long, finally letting themselves speak without words.

It was warm.

And it was terrifying.

And it was home.

When they pulled apart, slowly, carefully, the air between them still felt charged. The silence hummed. It didn’t last long but it was enough—enough to say I see you  and I’ve always wanted to. 

Their foreheads nearly touched now. Their hands remained loosely joined. The brazier still crackled between them, casting gold on Suho’s profile, his lashes low, his breathing a little uneven. The kind of breathing you only do after something changes.

Sieun looked at him. He had spent so many years watching Suho from afar, through courtyard gates, across training fields, behind latticed screens, and now Suho was right here, close enough to touch, and somehow more real than he had ever dared imagine.

Still, Suho said nothing.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be allowed to want you.” The prince spoke, each word carried delicately and carefully.  His voice was soft. Honest, like a thread pulled too gently from a seam.

“You were never forbidden from wanting,” Suho finally said, soft as ever. “Only from saying it aloud.”

“So say it.”

Sieun swallowed. He shifted just slightly, as though part of him still couldn’t believe Suho was letting him do this, say this.

“I wanted you before I even knew what it meant to want someone,” he said. “Before I had words for it. When I was sixteen, watching you train in the courtyard with the others. I thought you looked like someone who didn’t belong to anyone. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.”

“But I saw you.”

Suho’s jaw tightened, just faintly. His eyes dropped, not in shame, but as though hearing it aloud hurt in a place he had never allowed to be touched.

Sieun reached forward, fingers brushed lightly against Suho’s chest, just above the heart.

“I didn’t want to be a prince when I watched you,” Sieun whispered. “I wanted to be something smaller. So I could stand beside you without the world seeing.”

There was a silence after that.

“I knew.”

Sieun looked up. “You knew?”

“That you watched me.” A faint smile ghosted over Suho’s lips. “You were not subtle, jeoha.”

Sieun flushed, about to pull away, but Suho’s hand rose, gently catching his wrist.

“I liked it,” The warrior said just like that. No stammering. No struggle. Yet, it sounded like the hardest truth Suho had ever spoken.

Suho continued, voice low and steady, “I thought if I let myself want you, it would end me. You’re the crown. You belong to the future of this kingdom. I belong to a blade. A uniform. I thought…” He paused. “I thought wanting you was selfish.”

Sieun’s fingers curled in the fabric at Suho’s chest. “But you do,” 

“What?”

“You want me.”

Suho looked at him now, and for the first time, the mask fully dropped.

All of it.

Every wall.

Every oath to silence.

Every year of trying not to look.

“Yes,” Suho said. “I do.”

Sieun let out a breath like it had been locked in his ribs for a decade.

“Good,” The prince said, and leaned in again. “Because I want you too.”

Their second kiss came easier. Still soft, but no longer hesitant. Still slow, but no longer scared. It was warmer now, fuller; a whisper of everything they couldn’t say in court, everything they had to bury in daylight.

When it broke, they didn’t move apart. They just sat there, hands linked, foreheads resting together as the brazier glowed and the lantern flickered low.

For now, for this moment, they had each other. No titles. No punishments. No future waiting to rip them apart.

Only truth.

Only breath.

Only this.

Chapter Text

The morning unfurled slow and cold, the kind of morning that carried too much clarity in its air; too sharp, too knowing. A faint mist clung to the eaves of the tiled rooftops, curling like the breath of the palace itself as it exhaled something heavy and unseen.

The crisp scent of peonies, fresh cut from the southern gardens, lingered with the sharper tang of inkstone and ground pine soot, mingling in the breeze like two truths that refused to blend. It was the sort of scent one only noticed on days when something shifted, when the stillness was not peace, but the quiet before a blade fell.

Along the winding palace walkways, court ladies drifted like petals caught in wind, their layered hanbok trailing behind them, silks whispering against polished stone. Their sleeves fluttered in nervous haste, movements too fast for the early hour, too bright for how their voices dropped when they leaned close. They whispered in fragments, piecing together what no official had yet said aloud.

There had been no trumpet of arrival, no court-wide summons, no royal herald dressed in blue silk reading aloud from scroll. But there was movement; a sudden bustle in the Queen’s quarters, maids fetching trays of candied jujubes and crushed lotus. Palace painters called to dust off the old portraits of consorts past. A seamstress dashed down the west corridor with new robes still warm from pressing.

Something had arrived.

Someone had arrived.

By the time the sun pushed its golden fingers over the east wall, the name was already rippling through the stone halls and beneath the painted rafters like a secret too loud to silence.

Lady Hwayeon Of the Gok lineage. She is the daughter of the Minister of Law. Educated, delicate, elegant, and the King’s chosen match for Prince Sieun.

She had come unseasonably early; a full two months before the formal rites were meant to begin. “To observe,” the Queen had said with a measured smile. “To grow acquainted.”

But even the youngest of the palace pages, still wide eyed and trailing behind older servants, knew what it meant.

There were no gentle visits in royal halls. This was a claim being staked. A future being fastened around a boy who had not asked for it. 

Far above the murmuring courtyards, in the East Pavilion overlooking the lake, Prince Sieun sat still in his chamber, his tea cooling untouched at his side. He was dressed in a pale blue durumagi, the color chosen to flatter his eyes, but it was not for him that such choices were being made today. At his side, Yeongi poured tea, her movements tighter than usual. When she set the cup down, it clicked a little too loudly against the table.

Opposite them, framed by the carved lattice of the pavilion’s doorway and seated upon the finest silk cushion the Queen’s attendants could produce, Lady Hwayeon of the Gok lineage lowered herself into a bow; measured, graceful, precise. Her head dipped no more than necessary, and her hands, adorned with rings fine enough to suggest wealth but modest enough to suggest virtue, folded like calligraphy over her lap.

When she rose, her posture remained flawless, her gaze steady beneath dark lashes. She did not look directly into Prince Sieun’s eyes, no woman of her standing would, but her glances were deliberate, placed like stepping stones across a stream she already knew how to cross. Her lips curved into a delicate smile, painted the soft red of mountain berries in spring.

“Your Highness,” The Princess said, voice lilting and smooth, like a verse from a well rehearsed poem. “It is an honor to be welcomed into the East Pavilion. The garden here is so quiet, I feared I might disturb its stillness by breathing.”

The words were sweet, court perfect. But beneath them was calculation. Her voice held the warmth of chrysanthemum wine, gentle, sweet, well aged, and just strong enough to blur sharper truths.

She folded her hands neatly, sleeves falling in elegant waves around her arms. The hem of her jeogori shimmered faintly with the gold-threaded embroidery of blooming plum blossoms, a nod to late winter, to patience, to silent endurance. Her presence was not loud, but it filled the space like incense; quiet, invasive, and impossible to ignore.

“I’ve always admired the calmness of Yeon’s royal garden,” She said gently, glancing around at the stone paths, the polished wooden beams, the birdsong in the distance. “It feels untouched. Sacred.”

Sieun nodded. He didn’t smile. He hadn’t smiled all morning. “It was designed to be a place for quiet thought,” he said, voice even. “Though quiet is difficult to find, these days.”

Yeongi glanced at him. He didn’t meet her gaze. From his position just behind the column, Suho stood at attention.

He was stone-faced, exactly as a royal guard should be. But something beneath his skin had shifted. He could feel it; the way the curve of the prince’s shoulder tensed beneath his robes, the way Sieun’s hand hovered above his teacup like he’d forgotten what to do with it.

Hwayeon was beautiful. In a manner meant to be seen. Her voice was trained, her hair pinned with jade and pearls, her silken sleeves embroidered with golden plum blossoms. She leaned in when she spoke. She laughed softly at things Sieun didn’t find funny. She reached to refill his cup without asking.

Prince Sieun, ever proper, allowed it. But he never touched the tea. Suho’s eyes followed the cup the entire time.

That evening, the banquet hall was filled with candlelight and cloying perfume. Musicians strummed low notes in the corner, and golden dishes lined the tables like offerings. Courtiers murmured in polite tones. The King and Queen sat in silent satisfaction at the head table, watching their son with thinly veiled expectation.

Lady Hwayeon sat beside the prince, a silken handkerchief looped over her delicate wrist. Sieun’s jaw was set the entire time. Behind him, Suho stood at his post like a statue carved from loyalty and restraint.

But he noticed everything. He noticed how Sieun kept shifting his gaze downward, never meeting her eyes for long. He noticed how Lady Hwayeon spoke sweetly of the capital’s politics, yet Sieun’s replies grew shorter. He noticed how Sieun’s knuckles whitened around the stem of his cup whenever Hwayeon leaned too close.

He noticed the moment Sieun’s shoulders dropped, barely, barely, when Hwayeon was pulled away by a noble aunt to greet another guest.

Sieun looked over his shoulder just once, and  Suho met his eyes. The glance lasted no longer than the flicker of a candle, but it felt like something ancient and unspoken had cracked open in both their chests.

That night, long after the last wine cup had been lifted and the final bow of the feast had drawn to a close, Ahn Suho returned to his quarters in the western barracks. 

He moved in silence. Piece by piece, he shed the weight of duty. His outer robes, dusted with the faint traces of court perfume and smoke. His belt, loosened with a tired breath. His armor, unfastened slowly, with practiced fingers, each plate removed with reverence and set beside the door like old ritual.

The silence pressed close around him, thick and unmoving. Outside, the crickets had begun their chorus beneath the pale moon, but inside, only the soft brush of fabric, the creak of wood, the whisper of breath marked the hour.

Suho washed his hands in a basin of cool water, the ache of tension still lingering in his knuckles. He poured a second bowl and rinsed the faint scent of roasted meats from his sleeves, remnants of the feast he had stood through, wordless and watching, as Prince Sieun sat beside Lady Hwayeon.

He did not think of it or rather, he told himself not to. He lit a small oil lantern, the flame flickering as it caught, casting a warm orange glow over the folded blanket, the sword hilt, the worn grain of the wooden floor.

Then he saw it. Something white, tucked beneath his pillow, so neatly placed it almost looked part of the bedding. Yet, it did not belong there.

Suho paused, the silence suddenly louder. He reached with slow, cautious hands and pulled it free. A white silk handkerchief. No embroidery. No noble sigils.

Just the humblest stitching along the edges; uneven, slightly frayed, like fingers untrained in sewing had worked it with patience and care. He turned it once. Twice.

A single line of ink, faint and near hidden, tucked just within the innermost fold.The characters were small, hesitant, but deliberate.

“You are the only thing I want and cannot ask for.”

The breath left Suho’s chest as if struck. He stood still in the lamplight, the handkerchief trembling between his fingers. The script was unmistakable. He had seen it before; on scrolls the prince left open in his study, in the margins of his own books, in the quiet little lists Yeongi sometimes fetched on his behalf.

Sieun.

He had written this. Not in a letter, not in a poem, but in the smallest of gestures, hidden beneath the safest place Suho knew—his own sleep.

Suho closed his eyes. He did not smile. He did not weep. But something in his chest, something walled in by years of stillness, cracked, as soft as breath, as loud as thunder.

It was past the Hour of the Dog when Suho was summoned. The corridors were quiet at that time; guard posts dimmed, the hush of night wrapping the palace like silk. A light mist clung to the stone paths, curling beneath wooden eaves and stirring faintly beneath the torches that lined the Crown Prince’s private quarters.

Yeongi met him outside the chamber doors, her eyes sharp even in the dark.

“The Prince cannot sleep,” She said simply. “He wishes to visit the library.”

Suho gave a wordless bow, and together they moved silently through the eastern walkway, the only sound between them the soft fall of boots and the sigh of distant wind.

The palace library stood at the end of a long garden hall, its windows latticed with paper, its roof curved like a scholar’s brow. A single lantern glowed at its entrance. Suho stepped forward to open the door, letting the light spill across the polished wood.

Prince Sieun entered without a word. He wore a robe of muted blue, the collar loose, his long hair unbound and half tied back with a ribbon of dark silk. He looked like someone pulled from a painting; his face pale with sleeplessness, his eyes glassy but unbroken.

He walked between the scroll shelves with quiet purpose, running his fingers along the spines of bound volumes, the edges of stacked manuscripts. Suho stood at a careful distance, close enough to serve, far enough to vanish.

“I thought,” Sieun said suddenly, his voice soft like parchment, “that reading might quiet my mind.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

Suho bowed slightly. “Shall I wait outside, Your Highness?”

“No.” A pause. “Stay, if you ou don’t mind.” He turned back to the scrolls but his voice came again, low and hesitant.

“Do you know calligraphy, Warrior Ahn?”

Suho blinked. “I… was taught basic forms years ago.”

“Then join me,” Sieun murmured. “I will write. And you…” he hesitated just a beat, “may watch. Or try.”

Suho said nothing, but followed.

They sat by the low desk near the window where moonlight fell in bars across the floor. Sieun lit a second lamp, its glow mingling with the cool white of night. He unfolded fresh rice paper, poured ink into the well, and set out two brushes. When he dipped the first into ink, his wrist was steady, almost too steady, as if overcompensating for nerves.

Suho watched in silence as the prince made his first stroke, a curved mark, soft yet deliberate, the shape of a character blooming in silence.

Another stroke. Then another. He wrote a line, something from memory, Suho assumed, and then turned the brush sideways, letting the bristles lift like the final note of a song.

Only then did Sieun glance sideways.

“Your turn.”

“I am no scholar,” Suho said stiffly.

“No,” Sieun agreed. “You’re a warrior. But even a warrior should learn how to steady his hand in stillness.”

Reluctantly, Suho took the second brush. He dipped it in ink, positioning his fingers where he remembered, too stiff, too high. The stroke he made was clumsy, thick with hesitation.

“That character,” The prince winced gently, “is meant to flow like water. Not stumble like a startled ox.”

Suho looked down at the mark. It did resemble an ox, if anything.

A soft breath escaped Sieun, almost a laugh. “Here,” he said, reaching forward. “You’re holding it too tightly.”

His fingers slid over Suho’s hand, lightly repositioning his grip, adjusting the angle of wrist, the pressure of thumb and forefinger. The brush trembled in Suho’s grasp, not from weight, but from the warmth of Sieun’s palm covering his. He smelled of ink, ginseng tea, and plum blossoms, a scent Suho had come to associate with moonlight and distance.

“There,” Sieun said quietly. His voice had shifted, softer, almost breathless. “Try again.”

Suho did. The stroke was not elegant, but it was better. They did not move apart. His hand still rested atop Suho’s, lingering longer than any correction required. Outside, the wind rattled the eaves, sending loose petals scattering across the library steps.

Inside, the silence deepened. Suho finally looked at him, really looked. Prince Sieun’s gaze was already waiting.

“Your hands are too soft for war.” Suho whispered, afraid that once the words left his lips, there was no turning back. 

“And yours too steady for poetry.”

Suho used to think silence was just silence. Nothing more to it than the lack of sound, lack of words, and lack of another person. In this moment, he was terrified because silence has never been this warm and easy. So much to say yet his lips were sealed, afraid that the moment would vanish the moment he spoke. 

“I used to watch you train,” Sieun said, barely above a whisper. “Before you were ever assigned to me. When I was younger. From the upper terrace.”

Suho’s breath caught. The brush dropped from Suho’s fingers. He hadn’t noticed.

“You moved like you were alone,” Sieun continued. “But you were never alone.”

Their hands were still touching. Suho has never touched such delicate and soft flesh that he was afraid it would fall apart when he moved. He was never a man of words, but right now, a million words would not be enough to describe the way his heart stayed restless yet calm under the touch of the prince. 

“Your Highness,” Suho said, voice hoarse. “You should not say such things.”

“Then take my hand away.”

Suho’s fingers twitched beneath the prince’s. He should have pulled back. He didn’t. For once, he wanted to be brave. 

The brush lay forgotten on the floor between them, but neither moved to retrieve it. The world beyond the lantern light had gone quiet. Even the night wind seemed to pause, listening.

Prince Sieun’s thumb grazed the back of Suho’s hand, barely a movement, barely a touch. But it sent a shiver crawling beneath Suho’s skin, all the way to the place behind his ribs where longing lived like a buried ember.

Sieun spoke, barely above a breath. “I do not understand how one can ache without being touched.”

He looked up at Suho then. “Until now.”

Suho’s jaw tightened. His chest rose, then stilled. Never in his life would he crave and yearn for something so simple as a touch. He’d give up forever to touch Sieun. 

This wasn’t proper. This wasn’t safe. But gods help him, he had imagined this, in those quiet moments between sword drills and sleepless nights. The prince, this close. The prince, looking at him not as a subject but as something else.

“Say it,” Sieun whispered. “If I should stop.”

But Suho didn’t speak.

Instead, he reached up. His lips hovered above the prince’s moist pair. If Suho could, he would write a hundred poems about how the prince had the most sinful and beautiful pair of lips that ever graced earth.

He touched the prince’s face. Fingers light at first, as if he feared the cheek beneath them would vanish into smoke. He traced the curve beneath Sieun’s eye; those sorrowful eyes, always looking like they held back tears. Always watching. Always waiting.

For the elders, Sieun’s eyes were a pair that belonged to a sorrowful child. But for Suho, the prince’s eyes held the world’s secrets and the whole galaxy combined. It glistened under the night sky, and softens under the whispered light. 

Without command or title between them the warrior kissed him, slowly  and unhurriedly, as though he was learning the shape of the prince’s mouth with reverence.

Sieun leaned in like he had always known how. Like the silence between them had rehearsed this again and again.

It was not a kiss of urgency, but one of understanding. Of years of stolen glances, of quiet yearning wrapped in silk robes and morning greetings. Suho’s hand slid behind the prince’s nape, fingers buried in the loose strands of his hair, anchoring him gently, asking for nothing but this moment.

Sieun let himself fall forward, hands braced against Suho’s chest. A trembling thing, but unafraid. He kissed Suho back with the grace of a prince and the hunger of a boy who had spent far too long being told not to want.

The kiss broke slowly, like parchment torn along a fold. They didn’t move apart right away. They remained close, foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the hush of the library.

Sieun smiled faintly, not with triumph, but relief. “I feared you’d never look at me this way.”

Suho closed his eyes. He let his forehead rest against Sieun’s.

“I have always looked. I just never let myself see.”

The kiss lingered like incense; slow to fade, clinging even after the fire was gone. Suho hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t planned to touch him, much less to taste the prince’s mouth under the hush of lamplight and moon. But now that it had happened, now that he’d felt the tremble of Sieun’s breath against his cheek, he could not imagine retreating.

The air between them thickened. Not with shame. But with something quieter. Hungrier. 

Sieun leaned in again, bolder this time. His fingers curled around the front of Suho’s robes, knuckles trembling against hardened muscle. The kiss deepened, their mouths meeting not in innocence now, but in permission. Years of unsaid things poured between them, desire spoken not through words, but through breath.

Suho’s hands, calloused from sword and steel, cupped the prince’s waist with reverence. He held Sieun like he might break him, not from weakness, but from all the gentleness he had never been allowed. As though touching him too quickly would ruin it.

But Sieun pressed closer. His thighs brushed Suho’s. His mouth parted just enough for a sigh to escape, and Suho groaned softly into the space between them, the sound low, contained.

“I’ve thought of this,” Sieun whispered, his voice fraying like old silk. “When I wasn’t supposed to.”

Suho’s jaw tightened. “Say nothing you’ll regret.”

“I never do when I speak to you,” the prince said. “But if I am to be married, let me be selfish just once.”

Suho stood, pulling Sieun gently with him. The small side chamber of the library had a low pallet, used for late night reading or napping by scholars. Suho led him there, not hurriedly, not roughly, but like one carrying something sacred. They knelt together, robes pooling around them in soft folds, fabric rustling like water.

It was Sieun who reached first, undoing the knot at Suho’s collar, brushing aside the layers of his jeogori. His hands trembled, but his eyes never wavered. And when Suho leaned in again, one hand cupping the back of the prince’s neck, the other pressed against the curve of his hip, it was with purpose.

The kiss turned deeper and messier. Suho’s mouth trailed down along Sieun’s jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear. Sieun gasped, one hand tangled in Suho’s half loosened topknot, fingers curling in his hair. His head fell back. His body opened up to him, not in shame, but in full, trembling trust.

“Touch me,” The prince whispered, voice dropping in need and desperation. 

Slowly, and carefully, like a man drawing a map across sacred land, Suho obliged. Their robes slipped, one layer, then another until their skin met. Warmth against warmth, silk sliding between them, breath hitching in unison. Suho’s hands moved reverently, exploring, memorizing, learning the shape of the one thing he had never let himself reach for.

The warrior, with so much gentleness and softness in the world, reached out to press his palms against Sieun’s behind, plump and tender under his touch. He wanted to beg the gods for forgiveness because touching this creature beneath him was a sin he willingly committed. 

“Suho-ya,” The prince moaned out, bucking his hips and creating friction on both their hardened members. It sent them both into overdrive. “Touch me where you wanted to before but couldn’t.” 

Like a servant pleasing his master, Suho bit his lip, drinking up the sight of his lover who was flushed out and flustered even from the slightest touch. He hovered two of his fingers against the prince’s lips, gaze dark and aching. 

“Suck,” The voice was laced with authority and deep yearning, as if the roles were reversed and Sieun was the servant who happily obliged. “To make it better, jeoha.” 

Sieun parted his lips, eyes never leaving Suho. His tongue circled on the tip of the fingers, swirling it and coating it with his saliva. Like a minx, he delved deeper until his mouth covered the fingers. He made sure it was wet enough before he pulled back, leaning on the table underneath him and spreading his legs even more as if he was inviting the warrior for a feast. 

“All for you, my Suho-ya.” 

Something in him snapped, and like a mad man, instead of his wet fingers, he leaned down until his face leveled with the prince’s arse. He blew air on the tight rim, smirking as he felt the prince quiver above him. 

“Patience, my jeoha,” Suho whispered, propping the prince’s legs on the table and opening him up more. “Patience is a virtue, am I right?” 

Above him, Sieun barely had any patience. “Patience is something I cannot give you now.” 

Without any warning, Suho licked over the hole, tracing it with his tongue and memorizing every detail like a cook would to a dish. His tongue eased its way into the tight flesh, delightful and quiet moans from above him. He devoured the prince like a starved lion, slurping and exploring the ring of muscle like it was his last meal. 

Sieun’s moans were like music to his ears, soft gasps and cries escaping past his lips. It was sinful to say the least. It made Suho hungry for more. 

“Suho-ya,” A broken sob left Sieun’s lips, eyes squeezed shot as his fingers glides down to grip Suho’s hair. “More, please.”

Suho pulls back, mouth and chin covered with spit. He licked his lips, savoring the prince’s taste. “A prince doesn’t beg, seja-jeoha.”

”I shall beg for your touch even if it costs me.” 

The warrior stood up, hardened member standing tall and proud. Sieun’s mouth watered at the sight; thick and long, tip a shade of pink and moist with precum. 

Suddenly, Sieun gulped. “How is it gonna fit inside, Suho-ya?” 

The question threw the warrior of guard, a deep chuckle leaving him. “You have to wet it, jeoha, like my fingers.” 

The prince nodded, standing up from the table and in front of Suho. He crashed his lips on the latter, tongue swirling and exploring, teeth clashing, and whimpering ever so gently. 

“Can I be at your service and kneel for you, Suho-ya?” 

Suho could barely form any words from how erotic it sounded. He could only nod his head and watch as the prince knelt down, knees on the ground and eyes locked up with his.  His hands reached for Sieun’s long locks, holding it between his palms and away from the prince’s face. By now, he could only wish that this moment would last them forever. Not just this, but the way their words had failed them but their bodies professed what they couldn’t say. 

Suho’s knees buckled the moment Sieun grasped his member, head thrown back and eyes fluttering closed. The smaller boy pumped his member slowly, movements unsure and sloppy. 

“Like this, Suho-ya?” 

“Yes, jeoha,” Suho replied, gripping the prince’s jet black hair harsher, earning a moan from beneath. His eyes sparkled, eyebrows shot up from surprise and amusement. “Does the jeoha like getting his hair pulled?”

Without saying anything, Sieun stuck his tongue out, the weight of the tip hanging heavily on his tongue. He entertained the pink flesh, swirling his tongue around it and sucking gently.

Suho moaned, wanting to push his hips even further but he didn’t want to hurt the prince. His body felt warm and electrocuted with pleasure, each of his senses heightening up.

The prince’s mouth was sinful, delving in deeper, and even when the tip hit the back of his throat, eyes pooling with tears, there was still left of the member to worship. With his small hand, he moved his fist to glide on whatever he couldn’t cover, bobbing his head back and forth. His own untouched bulge leaking with precum, too indulge and heated by the thought of what he was doing. 

“Everything you do is heaven, jeoha.” 

Suho could feel his own peak reaching, watching as the prince who was used to being praised and respected, was now on his knees for a mere commoner. Sieun’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, feeling no exhaustion as he continues to slurp and suck on his member. His movements made it look like he was a pro at this, like he did this for a living. 

The sound in the room was lewd; squelching and wet. If anyone were to walk on in them, the king would have his head by tomorrow. They would have to see the prince, on his knees for Suho, the heat of the member in his mouth. 

“Come here, jeoha,” Suho pulled him up, placing chaste kisses along his neck and nibbling so softly. “I have to prepare you.” 

Sieun placed his hands on Suho’s chest, eyes blown out and his lips drooling with saliva and Suho’s precum. “No, need—I, uh, did that before we went here.” 

The warrior could only imagine the prince in his chambers, fingers oiled up and nestled deep within him, desperately chasing his high and the need to be filled other than with his fingers. 

“You behave nothing like a prince, jeoha.”

Sieun smirked, hand caressing down from his chest to Suho’s member, wrapping it and pumping slowly. “I need to be disciplined then, kind sir. Maybe you could teach me how to behave like a prince and nothing like a harlot.” 

With just a snap, Suho turned Sieun to the table. The prince’s hands rested on the oak wood, flinching when his member slid against the texture. 

“You wanna act like a harlot, jeoha?” Suho whispered, hands gripping Sieun’s waist. He grabbed the latter’s right leg, propping it up on the table, and exposing the heat between his legs. “I will treat you like one.”

The air left his lungs when Sieun felt his hole split open. Suho’s member penetrated him slowly, the burn lacing with pleasure made him cry out. The stretch was blissful, filling him up in ways he could never imagine. He arched his back, unable to speak from the feeling. 

“You feel like heaven, jeoha,” Suho bottomed out, waiting for Sieun to adjust to his length. His eyes fluttered close in pleasure when the younger prince clenched around him. “I am ready when you are.” 

Feeling like he couldn’t speak straight or even think, Sieun nodded, gripping the side of the table for support. Suho’s length slowly moved, each drag becoming erratic and calculated. 

“Oh my heavens,” Sieun cried out when Suho angled his thrust right where he wanted him the most. “Do not hold back, Suho-ya, please.”

He couldn’t care less if he sounded desperate now, begging for more when he was already falling apart. Is this what heaven feels like? 

His body arched into Suho’s touch, breath catching with every stroke, every press of palm and mouth. Their hips moved in a rhythm born not of lust, but of aching familiarity. Of knowing. Of finally.

Sieun let out a whimper, body quivering from feeling everything too much. As his lover thrusted inside him more with such vigor, he felt him reach for his hair, eyes rolling to the back of his head when Suho gripped his hair back, head tilting backwards at the motion. 

The warrior was fisting the prince’s hair, messily and imperfectly. His soft locks that used to be smooth as silk, were now disheveled and pulled back. The grip was enough to put pressure, but not enough to hurt. He pulled out then rammed again and again, burying himself deep within the prince until they were molded into one. 

“My seja-jeoha,” Suho grunted, hips snapping to meet Sieun’s rear. Sweat was cascading down their bodies, illuminated by the lantern on the table. “We must be quiet, or someone could walk in.”

Beneath him, Sieun shook his head, unable to contain his moans. He was a mess; lips bitten raw, eyes hazy and so out of it, and his untouched member turning a shade red with pleasure.

”They’ll see you bent over and split open by a commoner.” 

That just made the prince moan louder. In an instant, Suho covered Sieun’s mouth with his fist. “Have I not made myself clear, jeoha?”

With his hand covering Sieun’s mouth, Suho continues to move from behind, railing his sweet spot over and over again until it was possible for Sieun to see stars inside the room. They stayed like that; Suho working on the prince from behind while covering his mouth and gripping his waist, and the latter letting him take every inch of his body and soul. 

The night deepened. The lantern burned low. In the silence, beneath the high wooden beams and the scent of ink and aged paper, they found each other not as prince and guard, but simply as men drawn together by years of longing and a moment too fragile to deny.

”I can feel my peak, jeoha,” Suho breathed out, thrust picking up its pace and slamming harder into the prince, who was happily taking every inch of him.

A few snap of his hips, and Suho was spilling inside Sieun, vision whitening, swearing profanities. 

“Sieun-ah,” 

With just a cry of his own name, Sieun reached his high, tainting the oak table with his semen. The feeling of getting filled to the brim with Suho’s seed made him orgasm even more, eyes rolling to the back of his head again, cheeks flushed and body as hot as a furnace. 

After, they lay tangled in one another. The air was thick with the scent of skin and faint sandalwood, the remnants of Sieun’s oil perfume, the same he used during court rites, now clinging to Suho’s throat.

The silk of the prince’s robe, half loosened, one tie still caught beneath Suho’s hand, draped softly across Suho’s bare shoulder. It held his warmth like memory. Sieun’s head rested just beneath his collarbone, quiet, steady. One hand splayed flat above Suho’s heart, as if trying to feel the rhythm, as if trying to remember it.

None of them spoke. Everything worth saying had already been said, through breath, through touch, through the silence that remained when hunger finally softened into stillness.

Outside, the lantern flame burned low, flickering against the lattice windows. Crickets whispered faintly in the night beyond the walls.

Suho shifted just slightly, just enough to tuck his arm more securely around Sieun’s waist. His other hand came to rest at the prince’s nape, thumb stroking lightly through the loose strands of hair still mussed from hours ago. The gesture was slow, careful, almost reverent. Not born of passion now, but of something deeper. Something quieter. 

“You’re cold,” Suho murmured, barely more than breath.

Sieun didn’t answer with words, only curled closer, burying his face into the crook of Suho’s neck.

Suho reached for the nearest folded blanket, one left at the corner of the small library cot, and draped it gently across them both. Then he pressed his lips, softly, to the crown of Sieun’s head.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen like this,” The warrior admitted after a long while. “But I would not undo it.”

Sieun’s fingers tightened briefly over his chest, as if to say don’t speak of undoing it at all.

Suho closed his eyes. His body ached, not from the act, but from the way he was holding back everything else. The ache of knowing this night might never come again. The ache of knowing they were already past the edge of what was allowed.

“Tell me,” Sieun whispered, his voice hoarse from kissing, from crying a little when Suho wasn’t looking. “That this was not just a dream.”

Suho opened his eyes, looked down at him. Then, gently, he turned Sieun’s face upward and kissed him again, not hungrily, not even long. Just a press of lips that meant you were never a dream.

“It was the only real thing,” Suho said.

Sieun exhaled shakily, resting his head once more against Suho’s chest, where his heartbeat remained steady beneath his palm.

They stayed like that, bodies drawn close in the hush between breaths, until the lantern’s flame guttered and died, its last flicker casting one final glow across the room before surrendering to the dark. When the light vanished, the night crept in like a second blanket, wrapping itself around them, soft and absolute. Shadows pooled where walls once stood clear, and outside, the world pressed on with its quiet turning.

But within the quiet of that room, nothing shifted. Suho did not let him go. Even when the silence deepened, even when the warmth of the lantern gave way to the chill of dawn’s approach, his arm remained around Sieun’s waist, steady and certain. As if to say, If the world takes everything else, I will hold onto this.

Just a little longer.

Chapter Text

The morning sun arrived not with blinding light, but with reverence, creeping gently across the polished lacquer of the chamber floor.  Its touch dappled and golden as it slipped through the veil of silk curtains dyed the color of spring plum, that soft, bruised hue that only appeared in the sky just before dawn dared to speak. It kissed the corners of the room first; the scroll shelves, the low writing desk, the trailing hem of a robe discarded carelessly the night before.

Then it found them.

Two figures, still and silent beneath an embroidered quilt, the prince and his guard, their limbs loosely entangled, bodies steeped in warmth and the fragile silence that follows after restraint has broken. Both entwined not by duty, but by something gentler. Something unrushed and wordless. The room was hushed save for the distant drip of water from the eaves, and the soft rustle of breath between them.

Prince Sieun stirred first, barely shifting, a soft breath catching in his throat. His body ached. Not sharply, but deeply. A lingering soreness rested low in his hips and behind his thighs, a reminder of how he had opened himself the night before slowly, nervously, completely. His legs remained tangled with Suho’s, and his hand was pressed lightly against the man’s chest, where sheened skin rose and fell in steady rhythm.

Sieun blinked slowly, trying not to smile, though his body quietly protested the small movement. His cheek rested lightly against Suho’s bare shoulder, his fingers splayed across the curve of the warrior’s chest, where the rhythm of his heartbeat pulsed strong and slow beneath his skin. His robe had slipped halfway down his shoulder, exposing pale skin marked faintly by teeth, by kisses pressed too hungrily after too many nights of restraint. Eventually, he shifted again, carefully, with a low wince in his breath.

Suho stirred beneath him. His voice came, hoarse with sleep, and  his arms were wrapped protectively around the prince’s waist, not out of reflex but out of need. One hand splayed across the small of Sieun’s back, the other lost in the folds of his loosened sash, anchoring him there, as if letting go would undo everything. He had not slept much, only watched the dimming lanterns and listened to the sound of Sieun’s breath, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth, the vulnerability. As if by doing so, he could keep it. Hold it.  “Are you alright?”

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He let his forehead rest against Suho’s bare shoulder, muffling his reply.

“I’m… sore.”

That earned a pause, a longer breath. And then a hand, Suho’s, curled gently against Sieun’s back, not in apology, not in shame, but in quiet understanding. His thumb traced slow, grounding circles beneath silk.

“I’ll draw the bath,” Suho murmured.

But Sieun didn’t move.

“Stay a little longer,” He said. “Please.”

They lay like that as the light grew stronger, the morning easing into the room with quiet patience. Sunlight spilled slowly across the lacquered floor, slipping past the silk curtains and creeping toward the bed where their bodies remained loosely wrapped in one another. The world outside had begun to stir, the distant rustle of court ladies preparing for the day, a soft chime marking the early hour but inside, all was still. Undisturbed.

Sieun’s leg remained gently hooked around Suho’s, their forms tucked together beneath the rumpled quilt. One of Sieun’s hands rested just above Suho’s waist, fingers half curled in sleep, as if still clinging to the feel of him. Suho’s chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythm, his breathing deep and calm, no armor on his shoulders, no blade at his side. For once, the tension had left him entirely.

The silk quilt had slipped lower during the night, revealing bare skin between them, faint traces of what had passed left behind like ink on parchment. Sieun’s neck and chest bore the softest bruises, nothing violent, only the memory of Suho’s mouth, where reverence had lived instead of restraint. Fleeting marks, but real. Evidence that for at least one night, they had stepped outside the confines of what they were allowed to be.

Their warmth lingered. Not just from the heat of skin against skin, but in the silence between them. It was not empty. It pulsed with something unspoken but whole.

In that quiet, wrapped in each other and untouched by the noise of titles or duty, they were no longer just prince and guard. No crown between them now. No armor. No duty. Only skin against skin, breath against breath. Two men who had lived for too long pretending not to ache.

They were simply Sieun and Suho.

By the time Sieun was seated at the edge of his chamber, the bath taken and his body freshly wrapped in clean linen robes, Suho had returned from outside with a small clay bowl of warm oil, scented faintly with white tea blossom.

“Turn around,” Suho said quietly.

Sieun obeyed, settling cross legged on a cushion, his long black hair unbound and loose down his back like a river.

With reverent hands, Suho began brushing. He moved slowly, carefully, drawing the wooden comb through strands that still held faint traces of sleep and silk. He paused when he reached a knot and gently worked it loose with his fingers. There was no hurry. No conversation.

Only the hush of hair being tamed, the faint knock of the wind against the window screen, and the sound of two hearts that had finally learned the rhythm of closeness.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sieun murmured.

“I want to.”

In the silence that followed, Sieun reached beside him to the folded cloth he had prepared hours earlier. A simple white fan, hand stitched, unpainted. It looked unremarkable.

He held it out behind him without turning. “For you,” he said softly. “But don’t open it unless you’re alone.”

Suho took it, his fingers brushing against Sieun’s.

Inside, hidden in the folds of the paper, just faint enough to be overlooked, was a single line of ink, written with trembling care. 

“If fate demands silence, then let my heart be the only thing that speaks your name.”

The rain had passed by nightfall, leaving behind a hush that clung to the palace like breath against silk. The air still shimmered with the memory of water, cool and clean, each stone along the courtyard glistening faintly under the moon’s gaze. Moonlight spilled across the tiled roofs and carved railings, silvering the world in quiet reverence. It pooled in forgotten corners, beneath the curve of wooden eaves and between the stepping stones, where the lanterns dared not cast their flickering glow.

Beyond the eastern walls, where the plum trees dripped with rain and shadow, the soft wail of a haegeum curled into the air. A solitary note, drawn long and aching, as if the strings themselves mourned something unsaid. It was a melody played not for a crowd, but for no one, fragile as breath in winter.

Suho stepped lightly over a puddle near the prince’s chamber doors, balancing a small lacquered tray in one hand. The rice had cooled slightly. The grilled seabream was still warm, wrapped gently in lotus leaf to preserve the scent. A bowl of clear radish soup trembled with each step.

He had noticed, during the afternoon council, that Prince Sieun had not touched his midday meal. He had stood still as Sieun answered the ministers with carefully measured deference. Had followed when Sieun left with a lowered gaze. Had waited nearby when the prince dismissed his servants with a tired wave and shut the doors to his study.

But now, hours later, Suho found himself lifting the tray and knocking, once, twice, on the prince’s door.

The soft sliding of papered wood. Sieun blinked up at him, eyes glassy from reading, his robes slightly wrinkled, hair pinned up carelessly with a single silver hairpin. Ink stained the edge of one sleeve.

“You’ve not eaten,” Suho said quietly, gaze lowered in respect.

Sieun’s lips parted as if to argue, but he faltered. Then, softly, “I forgot.”

“You do that often,” Suho murmured. His voice wasn’t scolding, but there was a weight in it. A gentleness that pulled at Sieun’s chest in ways he couldn’t name.

Suho stepped inside, setting the tray on the low table beside the lamp. Sieun followed wordlessly, his fingers brushing against Suho’s sleeve as he passed. The touch was accidental but it lingered like heat.

They didn’t speak much as Sieun slowly ate, encouraged only by Suho’s quiet presence, seated across the room, sharpening his short blade on a whetstone. The soft rasp of metal, the occasional clink of porcelain, and the shivering flame of the oil lamp between them filled the silence.

But when Sieun rose to pour himself tea, his sleeve caught slightly on the table’s edge. A sharp, sudden sound, the rip of silk.

Sieun sighed, glancing down. The seam along his outer robe had split, a narrow tear blooming from the shoulder down the sleeve, delicate but noticeable.

He sighed once again. “It’s old. Yeongi told me it needed repair.”

“Let me.”

Sieun turned. “You sew?”

Suho only nodded once, already reaching for the small sewing kit tucked in his inner robe, a habit born from years of soldiering alone. He took the robe gently from Sieun’s shoulders, fingers brushing across bare skin as he slid it down.

The prince sat in the dim firelight, watching him work, Suho kneeling by the table, brows furrowed, threading the silk carefully with dark blue thread. The room was quiet. Almost sacred.

“You didn’t have to bring me food,” Sieun said after a while.

Suho didn’t look up. “You would’ve kept reading until your hands shook.”

Sieun’s throat tightened. “Still, thank you.”

“I notice things,” Suho said finally, his voice low, slow. “Even when I try not to.”

Sieun’s heart beat faster. “Like what?”

Suho met his gaze then, dark eyes steady. “Like how you fold your hands too tightly when you lie to the ministers. How you only sleep when the lamp has burned out completely. How you keep your favorite books on the highest shelf, so no one else will reach them.”

A silence fell between them like snow. Then Suho looked down again, tying off the last stitch.

“All done.”

He rose and held the robe out, not as a guard returning a possession to royalty, but as something quieter, more intimate. An offering.

Sieun didn’t take it right away. Instead, he reached out, not for the robe, but for Suho’s hand. Suho let him, threading their fingers together and smiling like the world finally belonged to them. 

The stillness of the night was nearly sacred.  Prince Sieun walked alone beneath the eaves of the covered walkway, his slippers soundless against the damp wood. He had excused himself from evening court early, his head pounding from polite smiles and veiled glances, the memory of Lady Hwayeon’s voice still clinging to the back of his thoughts. A scroll of poetry rested beneath his arm, unfinished verse he meant to complete before sleep. But even the words he usually treasured had lost their rhythm.

A soft footfall behind him broke his thoughts. Not hurried, just present.

Suho.

He didn’t need to look back to know. The presence was unmistakable. Sieun allowed a small breath to escape, not quite a sigh. The warrior kept his distance, as always, his footsteps measured, his gaze likely trained on the prince’s back, ever alert. Ever silent.

They turned the corner toward the secluded path near the outer garden, narrow, bordered by low stone walls and weeping willows. Lanterns were sparse here, shadows stretching long between each post.

All of a sudden, a flicker at the far edge of the path, too quick, too sharp to be ordinary. A figure broke from the shadows, robes too loose for a proper servant, feet striking the stone with the urgency of intent. In one hand, something caught the lantern light, a flash of cold steel, small but certain, gleaming like a sudden truth in the dark.

In that instant, time shattered. The garden stilled, as if the world itself drew breath and held it. Sieun could not move. His body disobeyed him, rooted by confusion and disbelief. The blade reflected in his wide eyes, every movement of it slowed to a cruel crawl.

His heart did not race. It stopped. But Suho did not stop. He moved like a storm breaking through still air. Not with panic, but precision. A single step, swift and deliberate. No cry, no command. Just motion.

Then his body was  between the blade and the prince. Between death and the one he had sworn to protect.

The blade found flesh but not the prince’s. There was a dull, sickening thud. Not the clean ring of steel, but the awful, final sound of something tearing into muscle and bone. Suho’s body jolted, momentum carrying him back, his shoulder struck the stone wall with brutal force, the crack echoing through the quiet courtyard.

A gasp, sharp and wet, escaped him. Blood bloomed at once; fast, vivid, a dark arc painting the pale flagstones beneath his feet. It dripped down the edge of his uniform, soaking into silk with a cruel ease.

Sieun moved before he knew he had moved.

“No!” His voice tore from him; raw, splintered, unrecognizable. It was not princely. It was not poised. It was a sound pulled from the chest of someone breaking open.

Guards surged in, metal flashing, voices shouting over one another. The attacker was seized, forced to the ground, wrists twisted into submission beneath iron grips. The blade clattered to the stone, forgotten.

But Sieun saw none of it. His world had narrowed. Only Suho remained within it.

The warrior had collapsed to one knee, breath ragged, one hand pressed tightly to the wound that stained his side. Even then, even injured, he was trying to rise again, as if the act of falling was too great a shame to bear in the presence of the prince.

Sieun dropped beside him. There, in front of everyone, heedless of the eyes watching and the whispers rising like wind through reeds, Sieun touched him.

“Stay, don’t move, don’t—”

His hands fluttered uselessly, trying to find where to press, where to stop the bleeding. The warmth of Suho’s blood soaked into his sleeves. Still, the prince stayed close, his voice low and trembling.

“You fool,” He cried out, tears almost pooling his eyes but he dare not let any fall. “Why would you—”

Suho’s eyes met his, dark and steady despite the pain. “Because I’d rather shed blood than have it be you,” he said, voice hoarse. “It has always been you.” 

A soft, steady drizzle pattered against the paper windows, threading silence between the hurried footsteps of court physicians and the low murmurs of palace staff. But inside the prince’s antechamber, converted hastily into a place of recovery, there was only the shallow breath of the wounded and the sound of fabric soaked in blood being peeled away.

Suho lay motionless on the pallet, bare from the waist up, his skin slick with sweat and moonlight. The wound ran along his shoulder, deep, but clean. A blade meant for death, softened only by speed and fate.

Prince Sieun had not moved from his side. He knelt beside him still, long after the physicians had finished, after the poultices were laid and the bandage knotted tight. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t wept. He only sat there, robe damp at the hem, one hand clenched around a silk cloth that had once been white.

His gaze never left Suho’s face.

“I told them to bring him here,” Sieun said quietly, almost to himself. “I didn’t want them to take you elsewhere.”

Suho stirred faintly, lips parting as if to speak but no sound came. Only a pained breath, drawn sharp through his teeth.

“You should have let them guard me,” Sieun whispered. “You should not have stepped in front of me like that.”

Suho’s brow furrowed. “Then what… what would you have had me do?”

Sieun didn’t answer. He simply reached forward and pressed the cloth gently against Suho’s side where blood had begun to seep again. His hand trembled.

“I would have rather it be me,” The prince said finally, voice thick with something raw. “I would have taken the blade if it meant you didn’t have to bleed for me.”

A silence fell between them, heavier than before. The kind that stretched between two hearts that had too long denied what was already known.

Suho turned his head slowly, meeting Sieun’s eyes for the first time since the strike. There was no fire in his gaze now, only ache, exhaustion, and something else that had no name in the court’s language.

“You’re the crown prince,” Suho murmured. “It was always meant to be me.”

Sieun shook his head, fiercely, like a child refusing fate. “No,” he said, and leaned forward, forehead brushing against Suho’s. “Not like this. Not because of me.”

Their breath mingled; warm, fragile. Then Suho reached up, fingers finding Sieun’s hand, still pressed against the bloodstained cloth. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The touch was answer enough.

The warrior slept but not deeply or peacefully. His body twitched now and then, reacting to pain that no longer had words, only the distant throb of memory beneath layers of gauze. But he was still breathing and alive.

On the other hand, Sieun didn’t sleep at all. The oil lamp flickered low, casting trembling shadows across the walls. The prince had sent the attendants away hours ago. Even Yeongi, after much protest, had been gently dismissed. He wanted no eyes but his own on Suho now, no voices to break the silence between them.

In that silence, his thoughts turned to ruin.

He had almost lost him. Not to the field, not to war, not to a soldier’s death far away  but here. In the heart of the palace, beneath golden eaves, beneath a night sky that had once held only stars.

He leaned forward slightly, brushing damp hair away from Suho’s brow. His fingertips lingered.

“You are reckless,” The prince whispered, barely audible, “and far too proud.”

His hand dropped to Suho’s, resting on the edge of the blanket. He threaded their fingers together, gently, as if it might hurt. It felt bold. Treasonous.

“You were not meant to be punished for me,” Sieun continued, voice thick and raw. “You were not meant to be hurt for me. You are not mine to lose.”

But even as he said it, he clutched Suho’s hand tighter.

A shudder passed through Suho’s frame. Not from pain, this time but from stirring. His lashes fluttered, breath catching unevenly.

“Sieun-ah.” 

The sound of his name in Suho’s voice unraveled him. Not Your Highness. Not seja-jeoha. Just Sieun. Just the boy beneath the crown.

Sieun leaned closer. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I never left.”

Suho turned his head slowly, eyes bleary with the edge of sleep and pain, but focused solely, achingly on him.

“I thought,” The warrior began, breath short. “I thought maybe if I fell, if I gave my life for you then I wouldn’t have to speak it. Wouldn’t have to… confess.”

“You fool,” Sieun spoke, softly, hoarsely. “You think I need your death when all I ever wanted was your hand?”

And he brought that hand, still entwined with his own, up to his lips. He kissed Suho’s knuckles one by one, reverent, trembling. Drawing stars on his scars from the battlefield. 

“I wanted you alive. I wanted you beside me.”

Suho didn’t smile, but the corners of his lips shifted, not with amusement, but with understanding. As if he had waited so long to hear those words that now they hurt more than the blade ever could.

“Then let me stay,” Suho whispered, raw and aching.

Sieun pressed their foreheads together, voice shaking. “You were never meant to leave.”

For the first time since blood had touched stone, they allowed themselves to fall, not into danger, not into silence but into something far more dangerous.

The beginning of belonging.

Night had deepened into stillness, the kind that wrapped around the palace like silk; thick and hushed, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves brushing the paper screens. Rain had long since passed, but the scent of it lingered in the air, clinging to the wooden beams and the folds of Sieun’s robe.

In the quiet, wrapped in the warmth of a single quilt, Suho lay awake. His arm curved protectively around Sieun’s waist, the prince tucked close to his side, one cheek pressed just over his heartbeat. The moon cast pale silver across the ceiling, enough for Suho to watch the faint swaying shadows as he exhaled through parted lips.

”Sieun-ah,” Suho whispered out, staring up at the ceiling with Sieun tucked safely in his hold. “How can you sleep?” 

Sieun stirred slightly, his fingers curling over Suho’s chest like he was holding onto something he feared might vanish.

“Because I’m tired.” 

Suho gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand drifting slowly through Sieun’s loosened hair, trailing the strands like they were fine silk. “You really are crazy, you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” Sieun mumbled, eyes fluttering close as Suho’s touches lulled him to sleep, his voice smaller now. More fragile. As if the weight of the day, of all the days leading to this one, had finally settled in his chest

“For what?”

”Everything.” 

Though, no more words followed, Suho understood. He felt the apology sink beneath his skin like balm and sorrow both soft and sharp. He didn’t ask Sieun to explain. He only tightened his embrace, anchoring them in the peace that had taken far too long to find.

But like everything else, nothing is ever set on stone.  Some may say the universe is cruel but it in a way it is fair because it is unfair to everyone. 

The days passed like pages turned in quiet succession; soft, careful, and always too quickly. Suho no longer stood quite so far when he escorted the prince through the palace gardens. Sieun, though always composed in public, had stopped pretending not to glance his way when no one else was looking. Their conversations remained formal in front of others, but behind silk screens and shaded corridors, they moved like breath and body; silent, instinctive, attuned.

In the mornings, Suho brought Sieun his tea. He never asked if it was wanted, never commented on the prince’s barely hidden fatigue. But the tea was always the kind Sieun preferred, bitter enough to wake him, floral enough to soothe. Some days, Sieun would brush Suho’s fingers when taking the cup. He never said anything about that either.

At night, when the palace fell into hush and shadow, Sieun sat by his window with a scroll in hand and waited. And though Suho never entered without being called, he always lingered nearby, just past the lattice doors. Close enough to hear the soft turn of a page. Close enough to feel the ache of want and the comfort of presence in the same breath.

Suho had started leaving his sword behind when entering Sieun’s chambers. While Sieun had started leaving the lantern burning longer, as if willing the moment to last. They became each other’s constant. Not a word was said, but every gesture, every look, every breath between them spoke the truth louder than either dared admit. 

Here, you are safe here.

But nothing in this world is ever meant to stay. Not the warmth of another’s hand, nor the hush of a shared morning where no one knocks at the door. The universe, vast and unfeeling, does not bargain. It does not favor the good, nor punish the wicked with any precision. It is cruel, yes, but it is fair only in the way it is unfair to everyone.

Indiscriminately.

Unapologetically.

Sieun had been in the Hall of Painted Writings when the summons came. The morning light filtered gently through the open lattice windows, casting shifting shadows across the polished floors of the Hall. Rows of calligraphy scrolls lined the walls; verses on loyalty, duty, restraint written in the strokes of kings long passed. The faint scent of ink and sandalwood lingered in the air, familiar and grounding.

The prince sat at the low writing table, his brush poised but unmoving above a blank sheet of rice paper. His eyes were fixed on the garden beyond the open doors, where a pair of sparrows flitted between plum branches, their chirps too carefree for the weight in his chest.

It had been a restless morning. The tea had grown cold at his side, untouched. His attendants lingered at a distance, sensing the stillness in their prince’s mood but knowing better than to interrupt. Something in him felt adrift, as though some thread had come loose, just slightly, but enough to make the world feel off balance. 

A royal aide entered, head bowed low, his footsteps measured on the lacquered floor. He knelt with a formal bow that nearly brushed the ground. “Seja-jeoha,” he said softly, not daring to raise his gaze.

Sieun looked over slowly, the brush still in hand.

“The King requests your presence in the East Courtyard,” The aide continued, his voice wrapped in something too careful, like a silk screen hiding something sharp.

Sieun's eyebrows furrowed, an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. The East Courtyard? He hadn’t been summoned there in weeks, not since the day he had knelt in silence, robes soaked in cold stone, under the weight of his father's quiet fury. A strange stillness settled over him, deeper than before. He set the brush down slowly, wiping the ink from his fingers with a clean cloth. His expression gave nothing away, but his attendants straightened as he stood. 

“No reason given?” The prince asked. 

The aide bowed again. “None, Seja-jeoha.”

Sieun said nothing more. But as he walked out of the Hall, robes trailing like mist across the floor, the ink on the page behind him still untouched, his heart had already begun to pound. 

The East Courtyard was quiet when Prince Sieun stepped beneath its arching gate, but not in the way that invited peace. It was a stillness wrapped too tightly. The rain from the night before had left the stones slick and dark, the moss along the edges glistening faintly under the midmorning sun. The wide space, usually reserved for sword demonstrations and formal gatherings of the court guard, stood empty of sound, save for the distant rustle of silk from the pavilions and the occasional caw of a crow overhead.

Sieun’s footsteps echoed as he passed under the wooden beams, his gaze fixed ahead. But he felt his world crumble the moment he laid eyes on the figure ahead of him. 

His Ahn Suho, knelt at the far end of the courtyard. Not as a prince’s guard at rest. Not in silent meditation. But in reprimand. His dark uniform bore the marks of travel; dust clinging to the hem, a faint streak of dried blood still visible at the edge of his sleeve from an earlier spar. Two court officials flanked the space, scrolls in hand, eyes lowered as if reluctant to witness.

Sieun slowed, then stopped completely. He knew this posture, knew the weight of it in his own bones. Just beside the platform steps stood the King, stone faced, unmoving.

A servant approached Sieun from the side, bowing with too much haste. “The Jusang Jeonha requests that you observe, seja-jeoha,” the man whispered, not meeting his eyes.

Sieun’s throat tightened and heart clenching painfully in his chest. He walked forward, each step harder than the last. As he neared, Suho looked up, not fully, just enough for their eyes to meet. There was no shame in his gaze. No regret.

Only the quiet certainty of a man who had made a choice, and knew the cost.

The King’s voice cut the silence like a blade, “A guard who forgets his place is no use to the court.”

Sieun stood very still.  His father did not raise his voice. He never needed to. His words were measured, like a calligrapher’s hand; controlled and permanent.

“You were assigned to protect him. Not to lie beside him like a pet. Have I raised a prince so weak he must hide behind a soldier’s arms?”

Sieun felt the heat rise in his chest, not anger, not yet. It was something colder, something worse. A slow, hollow kind of unraveling. Like ink spilled across fine silk; quiet, irreversible. The world did not tilt, and yet it no longer felt steady beneath his feet. His breath caught, shallow and uncertain, as if the air itself had thinned. The weight of the moment pressed down on his shoulders like ceremonial robes soaked in rain, dragging against his spine with every blink of silence. 

Before him, Suho’s head remained bowed. That beautiful, stubborn head, always upright in the face of command, always defiant in silence, now bent in quiet acceptance. Sieun searched his face for a flicker of rebellion, a twitch of resistance, something that would break the stillness and say fight this with me.

However, Suho gave him nothing. Not out of shame or from fear but from duty. That, more than anything in the world, was what shattered Sieun from the inside.  The man who had stood between him and a blade without hesitation now bore this punishment with the same devotion. Not because he agreed. But because he would not let Sieun bear it alone. 

The King turned, the movement was deliberate, almost slow, and when his voice came, it carried the weight of verdict carved into stone.

“Ahn Suho is hereby reassigned to the Northern Garrison effective immediately.”

Reassigned.

Effective immediately.

There was no trial, no explanation, and no time. Just exile disguised as redeployment. Silence, so much silence, cloaking it all like formality. The courtyard did not stir. The guards remained still. The attendants bowed lower. The wind did not even breathe.

But inside Prince Sieun, something splintered. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The words sat in his throat like unlit fire, too painful to swallow, too dangerous to release. He wanted to scream. To plead. To step forward and drag Suho from the ground and say He is mine, he is mine, he is mine. 

He stood, as a prince must; shoulders straight, jaw set, his face the very portrait of grace. Yet, his chest felt as if someone had reached into it with bare hands and torn out the very thing that kept him alive. A quiet rumbled through his mind, deafening. He didn’t hear what came next, not the rustle of silk as the ministers bowed, not the scraping shuffle as Suho stood. Only the blood in his ears. Only the ache beneath his ribs, pulsing where something had been.

Suho was more than a guard, a warrior.  He was the hand that steadied Sieun when no one saw. The voice that spoke nothing, yet understood everything. The one person in the palace who did not flinch at his silence, who dared to stand beside him, not behind him.

Now the King had torn him away like a page from a sacred book. How could a man be commanded away like that? Like furniture, like nothing. How could something so vital, so quiet and rare and dear, be removed by decree? 

Sieun felt the loss not like a blow, but like absence. A cold that rushed in when warmth is suddenly gone. He had not wept when Suho bled for him. He had not wept when they knelt in silence under the rain. But now, with Suho’s name ringing through the marble air like a sentence, he almost did.

Because what do you do, when your home is not a place but a person? 

What if home is not a place with walls or windows, but a pair of arms that holds you when the whole world turns their back on you?

What do you do when it is suddenly rip away from you? 

The world was truly cruel. It takes from kings and beggars alike. It bends love until it frays at the edges, presses duty against the throat of longing, and reminds even the most careful hearts that no moment, no matter how sacred, is immune to the weight of time and consequence.

So even as two hearts find one another in the dark, even as fingers brush like vows never spoken,  the world outside does not pause. And the cost of wanting more is always waiting at the door.

Chapter Text

Grief does not knock. It slips beneath the doors like smoke. It clings to silks, pools in empty cups, stains the void of the chest where life once lived. Love, when it is hidden and punished, does not vanish but it bruises quietly. It lingers in the crease of a folded letter, in the scent left behind on an untouched robe, in the places where two shadows once stood side by side but now only one remains. 

Palace walls remember everything. Even silence. On this night, silence bore the shape of a prince, left alone in a room where love had once dared to breathe.

The rain had not returned, but grief was heavier than any monsoon. It hung in the air like incense smoke, clinging to the silk hangings and wooden screens of the Eastern Wing, where silence had begun to rot into something unbearable. There is no wind, no music, not even the chirr of cicadas. Only the echo of absence. 

The heavy doors to the prince’s chambers closed behind him with a muted thud, the final echo slipping into silence like a blade drawn from its sheath. He stood there for a long moment, still and straight as a reed in the windless cold. No footsteps, no attendants, no words; just the emptiness of a space that had never felt so large. The hush pressed around him, thick and suffocating, as though even the walls dared not intrude upon his unraveling.

The fire in the brazier had burned low. A single paper lantern swung faintly in the corner, its light dim and yellowed, casting long, lonely shadows against the lacquered floor. His gaze drifted past it, unseeing, as he stepped forward in silence, each movement heavy with something unspeakable.

He reached the spot near the window, the one where Suho used to stand at attention, always just within reach but never too close.

The stillness shattered. The mask he was all too familiar of wearing slipped, as if the strings have been cut by the weight of grief and love embodied in one.  

His knees gave out with no ceremony, no grace. He collapsed to the floor, robes pooling beneath him in soft folds, hair tumbling from its pin to spill across his shoulders. The cold of the polished wood seeped through silk and skin, but he barely felt it. His palms met the floor first then his forehead, bowed low as if in prayer. But there were no gods in this place. No names to call upon.

Only absence.

Only him, gone. 

The weight of it arrived slowly. It always did. Like dusk sliding across the mountains, unnoticed until all the world had gone dark.

It was not silent anymore, he was sobbing, soundless at first, until breath could no longer contain itself, and anguish poured forth like floodwaters from a shattered dam. His shoulders shook violently. His cheek pressed to the cool grain of the table where, days ago, Suho had left a plate of dried persimmons, where his hand had once brushed Sieun’s sleeve without thinking.

Tears soaked into the embroidery at his cuffs, the same sleeves Suho had once held as if they were delicate things, worthy of reverence. Now they were all he had. 

“You are the only thing I want and cannot ask for.”

The words haunted him now, echoing in the quiet, folding over and over into his grief. He should have known. He should have never allowed his heart to unfurl.

What place did a prince have longing for a sword meant only to protect? What place did comfort have in duty? In a world ruled by thrones and bloodlines? 

Yet, he had let himself want.

Now, Suho was gone. Not exiled, no, not disgraced, not dismissed. That would have been cleaner.

No, the King had sent him away with precision, with cruel elegance. Not to shame him, but to distance him. To remind Sieun of the lines he had crossed.  To tear away what comfort dared bloom between them.

That was what hurt most.  Not the loss of a soldier. Not even the ache of yearning. But the way the world had pried open his chest, found the one thing that made him feel safe, seen and took it away with the ease of snuffing out a flame.

It should not have hurt like this. But his chest felt carved out. As if someone had reached into him and taken something vital; a rib, a name, a heartbeat, and left only the shell of a prince behind.

The door opened softly. Yeongi didn’t announce herself. She never did when he was like this. Her steps were quiet, but determined, skirts rustling as she crossed the room. And when she saw him there, crumpled in his pain, her expression faltered, only briefly.

“Seja-jeoha,”

He didn’t lift his head. Just whispered hoarsely into the wood, “They’ve sent him away.”

Yeongi knelt beside him in an instant, hands reaching but not quite touching.

“Sieun.”

“They’ve taken him from me.” The prince’s voice cracked, torn from somewhere deep. “How… How can they do that and expect me to—”

“The prince cannot love a warrior,” Yeongi said, soft, not cruel, as though repeating what had already been said.

“Then let me die unloved. Just don’t send me away from him.” 

Yeongi, brave and loyal and breaking right alongside him, did the only thing she could. She gathered him into her arms like a child, like a boy who had been too strong for too long, and held him while the weight of love, and duty, and devastating loss, crashed down around them both.

Outside, the lanterns dimmed. Somewhere far beyond the palace gates, a warrior rode toward exile, unaware that the heart he was sent to protect had never been more vulnerable than now.

The night settled deeper, pressing against the paper windows like a quiet breath. Rain had not come, and yet the room felt waterlogged, saturated with everything unsaid, unhealed.

Yeongi held Sieun in silence, her fingers running gently through his unbound hair. The strands were soft from the oils he always used, sweet with hints of camellia. But tonight, even that scent felt like mourning.

“I tried,” Sieun whispered, voice catching at the edges like torn silk. “I tried not to show it. I wore my smile, I bowed when I should. I played the role.”

“You did,” Yeongi murmured. “You always do.”

“But I failed,” The prince breathed. “I failed him.”

Yeongi pulled back slightly, cupping his face with both hands. Her thumbs gently swept the tears still wet on his cheeks. “Sieun-ah, listen to me. You did not fail him. You were brave. Braver than anyone in that court, standing beside him in front of your father. No prince has ever dared so much.”

“I wasn’t brave,” Sieun spat out bitterly. “If I were brave, I would’ve stopped it. I would’ve taken his place. I would’ve run after him—”

“To where? Past the gates? Past the guards? You are a prince, not a ghost.”

“I’m nothing now,” He rasped. “Without him, what am I? I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I lie in bed and reach for him like a fool.”

Yeongi’s gaze softened, but her voice remained steady. “He reached for you too, Sieun. I saw it every day. In the way he stood closer than necessary. In the way he never bowed to you like the rest. He looked at you like you were not royalty, but something sacred.”

Sieun’s lips trembled. He dropped his gaze to his lap, fingers curling in the folds of his robe. “Do you think he hates me now? For letting it happen?”

“No,” She said instantly, fiercely. “He would rather bleed for you than be angry with you.”

“He already bled for me,” Sieun whispered. “And what did I do? I let them send him away.”

Yeongi let out a slow breath, brushing back a strand of his hair from his damp forehead. “Do you remember what you said to me once? When I cried after my mother passed?”

He looked at her, dazed, a blink of recognition dawning through grief.

“You said,” She continued, “that grief is a river, and we must not drown in it. That if we float long enough, eventually, we will find the shore.”

Sieun let out a laugh but it cracked like porcelain. “Then I’ve forgotten how to swim.”

She leaned forward, forehead pressed gently to his. “Then let me float for you. Just for a while. Until you remember.”

They stayed like that, quiet, for a long moment. The storm had not returned, but Sieun’s sorrow had ebbed just enough for breath to come more evenly.

“I just wanted to be his. Not as a prince. Not as anything. Just his.”

Yeongi smiled through the ache in her chest. “And you are. Whether or not the world permits it.”

“Shall I help you write him a letter?”

He nodded without speaking, chest tightening with something fragile; hope, perhaps, or the foolishness that love always demands.

The candle had burned low, its flame swaying in the stillness of the room. The lacquered floor beneath them was cool, the inkstone warmed only by use. All else had gone quiet, no footsteps in the corridor, no clatter of trays or creak of doors. It was the hour when grief settles not as storm but as fog.

Prince Sieun sat at his writing table, shoulders hunched, his robe slipping from one shoulder where it had loosened. Yeongi knelt beside him with her hands folded, wordless and still, offering her presence as anchor.

His hand trembled as he lifted the brush.

“Do I say his name?” Sieun asked, voice so quiet it barely reached her.

“You may,” Yeongi replied. “If it is only for him, then it is safe.”

He nodded, eyes falling to the blank parchment.

At first, there was only silence. The weight of what could never be said. But the moment he dipped the brush into the ink and touched it to the page, something broke open.

The first stroke bled into the paper like breath drawn after drowning.

To my Ahn Suho, whom I could not keep, 

The moon passed quietly last night. I know this, because I could not sleep. Your absence has settled over my chambers like snowfall; gentle, cold, and unbearably quiet. I reach for you still, out of habit more than hope. I speak less. I feel more. I ache often.

They tell me I must endure. That princes do not mourn like common men. That I must rise with my chin held high. But I was never taught how to exist in a world where you are not near me.

There are hours in the day that stretch too long, and in them, I remember everything. Your silence beside me, steady as breath. The warmth of your hand when you thought I had fallen asleep. The way you looked at me that day beneath the plum blossoms, when the world was still kind.

I think I began to fall then. Quietly, without knowing. Like spring creeping in beneath winter’s heels.

You told me nothing. But you gave me everything. And now, with nothing left, I write to you like a coward who dared too much and still not enough.

Do you think of me?

If I had asked, would you have stayed?

If I could ask now, would you come back?

I do not know if this letter will find you. But I write it all the same, because it is the only thing I can still offer.

You are my silence and my undoing. My home, even when I am alone.

— Yours, where no eyes can see,

Y.S.

Sieun set the brush down with trembling fingers, a single tear falling onto the parchment beside his seal. Yeongi reached forward and folded the letter with careful hands.

“I will make sure it reaches him,” She said softly.

“Do not let anyone else see it,”  Sieun whispered, eyes still on the sealed edge.

“I swear it on my name.”

As she rose and slipped away with the letter tucked close to her chest, Sieun sat unmoving at the table, the candlelight flickering across his face. It did not warm him. But it did not go out.

Not yet.

The skies had darkened again, not with storm, but with dusk. Yeongi’s slippers padded briskly across the gravel path, her breath catching in the warm air, her outer robe clutched close to her chest where the letter was hidden. The palace walls loomed around her, silent and indifferent. Lanterns had begun to flicker alive one by one, casting long shadows across the stone walkways like reaching fingers.

She had gone to the northern barracks first. They told her he had left just before the sun reached its peak.

“Ahn Suho was reassigned to the eastern border,” said the captain, barely meeting her eye. “He left before midday. Orders from the King.”

Her hands had gone cold. She bowed quickly, turned without another word, and walked until she found a quiet corner where no one could see her blink away the sting in her eyes.

Too late.

She had known it might happen. But she had clung to the small hope that somehow, she would reach him before the gates closed behind him. That she would press the letter into his hands herself, look him in the eye, and say, Don’t you dare forget him.

Instead, all that remained of Suho were the faint tracks of hoofbeats on the road beyond the walls, and the weight of Prince Sieun’s trembling handwriting resting against her heart.

She walked back toward the southern quarters, unsure of what to do. That was when she saw him.

Oh Beomseok stood beneath the eaves of the training hall, a cloth draped over one shoulder, the hilt of a practice sword in one hand. He had not noticed her yet, his expression drawn and unreadable, as though weighed down by some quiet thought. A rare thing, for someone always quick to scoff.

Yeongi froze. She did not want to speak to him or want to involve him in this. He always had this eerie and unsettling air around him that made Yeongi uncomfortable, staying far away from him as possible.  Even in another lifetime or universe, she would hate him. But there was no one else.

No one else who might reach Ahn Suho. No one else who knew where he had gone. With great reluctance, she approached.

“Warrior Oh.”

Beomseok looked up sharply. His gaze flickered in surprise, then narrowed. “Lady Yeongi.”

“I need your help,” Yeongi said simply.

He raised a brow. “Does the prince know you’ve come here?”

“No, and you will not speak of this to him,” She said, voice firm despite the rush of nerves in her chest. “This is not about court matters. It’s personal.”

He crossed his arms, studying her more closely now. “Does this have to do with Ahn Suho?”

Yeongi didn’t answer. She reached into her robes and withdrew the letter, still sealed, still carefully folded. Her fingers lingered on it for a moment before she extended it to him.

“This must reach him. No one else is to read it. Not even you.”

Beomseok didn’t take it immediately. He looked at the letter, then back at her, something unreadable flickering across his features.

“Why me?”

“Because you were once his comrade,” She  gritted her teeth in annoyance. “Because you know the routes. Because you are the only one who might still care, even if you pretend not to.”

Beomseok’s jaw clenched. “He chose the prince over everything,” He muttered. “Over duty. Over his post. Over—”

Yeongi stepped forward. Her voice did not rise, but it cut like flint.

“He didn’t choose to love your prince, if that’s what you’re trying to say. It happened. Quietly. Painfully. He gave up nothing, he sacrificed. And you, of all people, know what it means to serve and bleed and still be told it’s not enough.”

That silenced him.

She pressed the letter into his hand. “He left without knowing. And the prince… he hasn’t stopped breaking since.”

Beomseok held the letter at last. He stared at the seal, running a thumb along the faint edge of the wax. The silence stretched between them.

“Don’t open it,” Yeongi said again, softer this time. “Please, it’s not meant for you.”

Beomseok looked up. His expression had shifted; not anger, not quite jealousy anymore. Something quieter. Something that almost resembled regret.

“I’ll see it done,” He curtly said at last.

Yeongi exhaled, nodding once. She turned to leave, the weight in her chest only partially eased. But before she vanished into the lantern light, she glanced back.

“And Beomseok,” She  began, voice almost breaking, “if you see him before I do… tell him not to forget.”

Beomseok didn’t reply but he held the letter a little tighter, his eyes fixed not on her, but on the moonless sky above.

As Yeongi disappeared into the palace shadows, the only sound was the faint rustle of paper between Beomseok’s fingers, and the unspoken truth folded inside it.

Beomseok watched her disappear. The hem of her pale robe slipped behind the archway, swallowed by palace shadow. The echo of her footsteps faded. The letter, his now, though not in any way that mattered, rested in his hand, warm from her grasp.

It was a small thing. Folded silk paper, sealed in red wax. Unassuming but somehow it felt heavier than a sword hilt.

He turned it over. No name on the outside. Of course not. The prince would never risk it. A letter passed in secret, words stitched in silence. A message from royalty meant only for Ahn Suho.

Of course it would be him.

Beomseok’s grip tightened. His thumb lingered near the seal close enough that he felt the faint ridges of the prince’s insignia. He wondered what was written inside. A plea? A confession? A farewell? Something Suho should read. Something that might call him back.

Beomseok stood there for a long while. Lanterns were lit and the haegeum players finished their rehearsals. Courtiers passed by in distant murmurs. Still, he didn’t move. Not until the night had grown thick, and the wind began to carry the scent of rain again.

When he returned to his quarters, the barracks were quiet. Most of the other warriors had gone to sleep or to drink. His room was bare as always, mat rolled up, a single chest against the wall, his gear neatly arranged by the door.

He placed the letter on the low table, lit a small oil lamp and stared. It would be so easy. He could ask for a horse at first light. Ride toward the border. Deliver the letter as promised.

And Suho, damn him, Suho would read it. He would feel something. He would turn back  because of course he would. The prince  would say jump, and Suho would bleed just to obey.

Beomseok’s jaw tightened. A sudden flash; Sieun’s face, quiet and unreadable, tilted toward Suho with that maddening gentleness. The way the prince spoke to him in a tone no one else ever heard. The way Suho looked at him. Not like a bodyguard. Not like a comrade.

But someone who had found something sacred in another man’s silence.

Beomseok turned away from the table. His travel pack lay open by the wall. Slowly, deliberately, he walked over, knelt down, and slid the letter into the folds of a wrapped tunic at the bottom.

He paused for just a second, long enough for doubt to whisper. Then tied the pack shut. The wax would remain unbroken. No one would know.

Not yet.

Beomseok rose and snuffed the lamp. He did not look back.

Outside, rain began to fall. Not heavy, but steady, soft fingers tapping against the paper windows, the kind of rain that sinks into earth and bone alike.

Somewhere far away, a prince sat alone in his chamber, believing his words were on their way to the man he loved. Not knowing that they had been buried quietly in the dark by hands that could not bring themselves to let go.

Twenty-nine days later

It had been twenty-nine days since Suho’s departure. Twenty-nine days of silence. The palace had not changed; its rooftops still glistened with morning dew, its corridors echoed with the soft rustle of court slippers, and the plum trees in the garden bloomed on schedule, indifferent to the way Prince Sieun’s world had come undone.

But Sieun had changed. There was a kind of hollowness in him now. A silence not just in voice, but in breath, in movement. He walked like a reed bent beneath unseen weight, his hands always loosely clasped at his front as if holding together what little remained steady inside him.

The wedding preparations had begun. In two weeks, he would be bound in ceremony to Lady Hwayeon beneath the pavilion of a thousand silks. The palace tailors had already brought him samples of ceremonial robes; red and gold, with embroidered cranes and lotus blooms. He had not touched them.

He no longer slept in the middle of the bed. His letters, every one of them, were folded neatly, hidden inside a wooden lacquer box tucked beneath the false floorboard of his writing desk. Twenty-nine in total. One for each day Suho had been gone.

He did not know if any of them had ever reached him but he wrote still.

“The weather was clear today. I saw your shadow in the courtyard where we used to walk. The stones remember you.”

“Do you still wake before dawn, Suho? I do but only to remember how you looked in the half light, when the sky was still undecided.”

“I miss your silence. It made this world bearable.”

His ink ran dry faster now. He did not know if it was because he pressed the brush too hard, or because his hands shook too often.

Each night, he returned to his chambers and waited. Sometimes, he left the lantern burning long past midnight, half hoping, foolishly, that he might hear the soft tread of boots outside his door, a knock, a whisper. Anything.

But the night always remained still and though the heavens remained silent, grief had taken voice inside him. Quiet at first then louder, like rain building on a roof.

Love had not left. It had only grown teeth and it tore at him, piece by piece, every day that Suho did not return.

The Hall of Eternal Harmony was quiet. Not empty, never truly empty, not when ministers and scholars bustled through its painted corridors by day but now, at twilight, only two remained.

Prince Sieun stood in the center of the hall, framed by towering pillars lacquered in vermilion. Outside, cicadas shrieked in the fading light. Inside, the stillness pressed down like the weight of ancestral spirits watching.

His father, the King, sat upon the raised dais. Robes heavy with brocade. His face unreadable beneath the golden glow of the lanterns.

Sieun bowed low, knees to the polished floor. He waited. As was custom. As was expected.

“You’ve grown pale, my son,” the King finally said.

Sieun raised his eyes but not his head. “I have been unwell, Jusang Jeoha.”

“A prince has no luxury for such indulgences.”

There was no cruelty in the tone, only truth. A truth sharpened over decades of power and survival. The King’s voice, as always, was measured like a blade drawn only when needed.

“I summoned you,” He continued, “to speak of your betrothal.”

Sieun’s hands stiffened where they rested on his lap. He said nothing.

“The astrologers have chosen the day. Two weeks from now. The rites will proceed with all appropriate grace. Lady Hwayeon has conducted herself well. The people are eager to see a union of such noble lineages.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The King studied him.

“Marriage,” The king began, “is not a matter of hearts and whims. It is duty, binding the bloodlines of our ancestors and securing the future of the realm.”

Sieun nodded, throat dry.

“And yet,” the King said slowly, “your heart… seems to have wandered.”

The words landed like a blow dressed in silk. Sieun’s eyes remained on the floor, but his silence was answer enough.

“You’ve been seen,” the King went on. “Not by servants. By ministers. Glances too long. Words too soft. The way you clung to him in the courtyard when he was injured.”

Sieun’s hands tightened. “He saved my life.”

“And nearly lost his for it.”

Silence engulfed the place but King’s voice grew colder.

“A prince cannot love a warrior.”

The words rang like judgment. Yeongi had spoke of that before, and even heard that from servants and eunuchs wandering around his chambers. 

Sieun finally lifted his head. His face was pale, but his voice, when it came, was steel wrapped in sorrow.

“Then let me die unloved,” The prince repeated the exact same words and with the same vigor and intensity, “but do not send me away from him.”

The King’s face remained impassive. “That choice is not yours to make.”

Sieun’s jaw trembled, but he did not cry. Not here. Not before the one who had stripped him of everything but title.

“You speak of duty,” The prince whispered brokenly. “But what duty protects a man’s soul?”

The King rose from the throne, slow and heavy. “You are the Crown Prince of this kingdom. You were born to be the spine of it. Do not bend for something as fleeting as affection. You will marry. You will rule. And one day, when the world is quiet again, you will understand why this is the path.”

Sieun bowed his head again but this time not out of reverence. It was so the King would not see his eyes fill.

The conversation ended, as it always did, with silence, and one more thread of him torn away.

The palace corridor was quiet, the kind of silence that echoed too loudly against the drumbeat of grief still resounding in Sieun’s chest. He had just emerged from the Hall of Glass Lanterns, the King’s voice still hanging behind him like smoke.

“You will marry in two weeks, as decreed. Let the past return to silence.”

Sieun walked forward like a man drowning in invisible water. Each footfall was steady, outwardly calm, but within, his soul felt like splintered porcelain. He turned a corner, footsteps brushing softly across polished stone, when a voice too loud, too casual, slipped into the air like a knife through silk.

“Did you hear?” Beomseok’s voice, laced with something smug, something almost amused. “Heard Ahn Suho’s found himself some company at his new station. A court lady; meek, pretty. Follows him like a shadow. Seems he doesn’t miss the palace much after all.”

The words landed like a slap. Sieun did not pause but something inside him did. He didn’t turn around, didn’t call out. Only his fingers twitched, hidden in the wide sleeves of his robes, knuckles whitening with quiet restraint.

Another guard chuckled in response, low and conspiratorial. “Truly? Already?”

“Why not?” Beomseok replied, all too easily. “He’s no fool. It’s only natural a man like him would tire of chasing ghosts.”

Sieun kept walking because what else could he do?

His face remained calm, trained by years of royal composure. But behind his eyes, his vision swam. The breath that entered his lungs turned sharp, jagged like glass. His heart, already bruised by the King’s command, now bled openly beneath his silk robes.

He turned into the next corridor before anyone could see the tears beginning to gather.

In his chambers, no one was there to witness how the prince staggered. How the moment the doors shut behind him, his spine curved as if struck. He did not sob, not at first. He simply stood there, hand pressed to his mouth, trying to hold everything in. Trying not to fall apart.

But Beomseok’s words echoed, cruel and vivid. 

Heard Ahn Suho’s found himself some company.

Suho’s bowed head from days ago returned to him in a flash; silent, unreadable, obedient to the King’s decree. He said nothing. Not once did he ask me to stop this.

That was the wound that bled the most— that Suho had let him go. That perhaps he wanted to.

He collapsed not onto the mattress, but beside it, knees hitting the lacquered floor with a thud. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to cry but now, the tears came without shame. Hot and quiet. Not sobs, not wails. Just silent, steady grief spilling from his eyes like the ink he had spilled across a hundred letters that would never be read.

His fingers shook as he reached for the writing box. It had become a ritual now, each day, each dusk, he wrote. Words for Suho. Words he never knew would be returned. A tether he tied blindly to a man he loved so deeply that it ached simply to think his name.

This time felt different. This time, it felt like goodbye.

He opened a fresh scroll.

If what they say is true, if another now stands where I once did then I will not beg. I will not chase. I will not ask for what you no longer wish to give.

But I will wait.

Until the ink dries from my hand, until the stars forget our names.

I will wait until the day you want me again, even if that day never comes. 

He folded the letter slowly, sealing it with the wax of his own ring. There was no address. Only Suho’s name. A whisper of a plea written in the dark.

Then, with breath still caught in his lungs and the weight of a shattered world on his shoulders, Prince Sieun set the letter beside the others. Thirty in total now. All unopened. All unanswered.

And still, his heart waited. Waited for footsteps that might never return. Waited for the only man who had ever made him feel safe. For the only man he could not stop loving.

Even as the world, his world, moved on without him.

The palace had taken on a strange stillness in the days leading up to the dinner. It was the kind of silence that did not soothe but waited, held its breath.

The air, heavy with summer’s fading warmth, lingered along the carved lattice windows and stone corridors like a promise left unspoken. Overhead, dusk bled slowly into night, streaking the sky with hues of mourning; lavender, bruised grey, and the last traces of gold, as if the heavens themselves were reluctant to let go of the light.

Inside the banquet hall, everything had been arranged to perfection. Scrolls of silk in soft lilacs and pale blue draped from the rafters, mirroring the colors of blooming lotuses in the pond outside. Ivory porcelain caught the warm flicker of lanterns, each dish meticulously plated with delicacies too exquisite to be eaten. Musicians sat poised near the far wall, their fingers resting lightly on strings, waiting for a signal to fill the air with sound.

And in the heart of it all sat Crown Prince Sieun; poised, pristine, and heartbreakingly quiet. He wore robes of pale ivory edged in silver thread, his hair pulled back into the ceremonial half knot befitting the occasion. The fabric shimmered faintly in the lamplight, the delicate embroidery at his sleeves catching the soft gold glint of his ceremonial ring. He looked like a painting, still and noble, untouched by time or grief. 

Though, his eyes told a different story. They flicked toward the doors every so often, betraying the calm set of his mouth. Not obvious. Barely noticeable to anyone else but Yeongi, seated a few paces behind him, noticed. She always did.

To his left, Lady Hwayeon sat in full regalia, adorned in a hanbok of blushing rose and cloud grey. She had the beauty of a poem; measured, delicate, and studied. Her lips were tinted the color of spring petals, her voice soft as snow melt.

“This night is a gift,” The princess had said earlier, as they stepped into the hall together. “A promise of what is to come.”

Sieun had only nodded.

Now she leaned toward him, smiling as she raised her wine cup. “To your health, seja-jeoha,” she murmured sweetly. “And to the happiness of our union.”

He offered her a smile in return. Or the ghost of one.

Outside, cicadas shrilled against the stillness of evening, their song relentless. The musicians began to play at last, a slow, formal melody fit for courtly functions but the notes fell on Sieun’s ears like the echo of something too far to touch.

Just as the second course was being brought in, just as Sieun thought he might lose the battle of holding himself together, the doors opened.

When the huge doors opened, it was mot with grandeur. No royal herald. No grand announcement.

Just a soft creak as the wooden panels parted, allowing the faintest draft of cooler air into the banquet hall. Most of the guests barely turned their heads. A few advisors glanced up, distracted. The musicians played on, the strings humming low beneath the lull of conversation.

But Sieun felt it. The moment shifted, like the earth itself had leaned slightly out of rhythm. He turned his head slowly, heart rising to his throat.

Ahn Suho.

The warrior was dressed not in his usual dark training robes, but in formal military attire. Midnight black with crimson accents, the crest of the royal sword corps stitched proudly over his chest. He stood just inside the threshold, posture straight, face unreadable. His hair had grown slightly, brushed back from his brow, but his expression, gods, his expression was colder than the winter. 

There was no trace of the man Sieun had known. No flicker of the warmth that had once cradled him in the quiet hours of dawn. No softness in those dark eyes. No secret smile waiting beneath the edges of his mouth.

Just a soldier.

Unbending. Distant.

“Commander Ahn Suho has returned from his reassignment in the north,” announced one of the stewards belatedly, reading from a scroll. “Per Jusang Jeoha’s orders.”

The King gave a pleased hum, raising his cup toward Suho. “Ah, you return earlier than expected, Commander. We are pleased.”

Suho bowed deeply. “It is my duty, Jusang Jeoha.”

His voice was so familiar, and yet, strange. He did not look at Sieun. Not once.

The prince watched as Suho took the empty seat assigned to him near the head officers, across the room. Not beside Sieun. Not anywhere close. He sat with the ease of discipline, speaking only when spoken to, keeping his gaze fixed ahead like a man bound by oath.

Still, Sieun could not look away. His chest ached with a slow, burning pressure. Like breath caught between ribs. Like grief wearing a familiar face.

Lady Hwayeon leaned toward him again. “You seem troubled, Your Highness,” she murmured sweetly. “Is something the matter?”

“No. I was only… surprised.”

She followed his gaze briefly, then offered a small smile. “Ah, the commander. I hear he is quite skilled. But stern, isn’t he?”

Stern.

Sieun almost laughed. The taste of it was bitter in the back of his throat.

Stern did not describe the way Suho once whispered his name into the hollow of his neck. Did not capture the memory of how Suho cupped his cheek like it was sacred. Stern was not the way Suho brushed Sieun’s hair on quiet mornings, or pressed his lips to the silk fan hiding a poem.

No, that was someone else. That man did not walk through those doors tonight.

Dinner resumed, conversations lulled. The music swelled and dimmed again. Time moved forward. However, Sieun stayed frozen, smiling when he had to, nodding when required, all while something inside him quietly shattered.

He did not eat. He barely tasted the wine. He watched as Suho spoke with a general. As he nodded respectfully to the King. As he laughed, laughed, just once, politely, at a minister’s comment.

He never once did he look toward the prince. It was not hatred. It wasn’t even cruelty. It was distance. As though Suho had already accepted a life where Sieun was not his to miss.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The banquet had long ended, and yet Sieun could not sleep. The corridors beyond his chamber were dark and hushed, lit only by the dim glow of wall lanterns that sputtered against the breeze. Shadows slipped across the silk walls like ghosts of thoughts he couldn’t push away.

He tried.

Gods, he tried.

Tried to sit with Yeongi’s comfort, to close his eyes and rest, to pretend that tonight hadn’t happened. That Suho hadn’t returned. That he hadn’t looked through him like Sieun was no more than air. But every breath he drew felt hollow. Every beat of his heart struck too loud in his chest.

Instead, he rose. He did not summon servants. He was not even dress formally. Only pulled a dark outer robe over his sleepwear, tied it once at the waist, and slipped barefoot through the winding halls he had long since memorized.

He knew where Suho would be.

Clouds veiled the moon, casting the palace grounds in a deeper shade of gray. Lanterns flickered against the breeze, their flames bending low but never extinguished like hearts trying to endure.

The East Wing, the soldiers’ quarters reserved for high-ranking officers when they stayed within the palace grounds. Suho wouldn’t risk resting elsewhere, not anymore. Not when duty bound him tighter than anything ever had.

Sieun’s bare feet made no sound against the polished wood. He moved through the halls like a shadow, hair still undone from court and robe carelessly tied. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the moment Suho turned away from him at dinner, his presence cold as steel, his gaze empty as if nothing had ever passed between them.

When he reached the chamber, he hesitated. His hand hovered over the wooden door, heart rattling like something fragile behind his ribs.

The room was modest. Lantern light flickered low. A single candle burned on the desk. Suho stood with his back turned, armor half undone, his hands methodically folding a cloth.

He didn’t turn.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Suho said flatly.

Sieun froze at the sound of his voice, quiet, roughened at the edges. So familiar, still but stripped of warmth.

“I don’t care,” Sieun breathed.

Suho turned back toward the window. “Then you’re a fool.”

“Then let me be one,” Sieun whispered, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

Suho finally glanced back, just enough to catch Sieun in the corner of his vision. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to see you,” Sieun whispered.

Suho sighed. Slowly, he set the cloth down and turned fully. “Why?”

Sieun stepped forward. “Because I needed to know if you meant it. That silence. That… distance.”

Suho’s jaw tightened. “I came back because the King ordered me to. Not because I wanted to reopen what we buried.”

Buried.

Sieun’s breath caught.

“You didn’t even look at me,” The prince said, voice cracking. “You wouldn’t meet my eyes.”

“It was easier that way.”

Sieun took a trembling step forward. “Why are you doing this?”

Suho looked at him, gaze impassive. “Doing what?”

“Pretending.” Sieun’s voice broke. “Pretending nothing ever happened. That you didn’t care. You look at me like I’m a stranger.”

“I am your guard. Nothing more.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Sieun’s voice cracked, raw. “Don’t say that when you bled for me. When you held me like I was your last breath. When you—when you kissed me like the world was ending.”

The candle between them flickered. 

“Please,” Sieun choked, stepping closer. “I’ll beg, if I must. If you don’t want me anymore, then I’ll leave. But if there’s even one part of you that remembers what we had, please. Want me again. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

Suho’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

Sieun’s voice broke into something thinner, cracked from everything he had held in for weeks. “I waited for you everyday. I believed in you—in us. I would’ve thrown away everything; title, throne, name if only you asked me to. And yet… I still would.”

Suho flinched. Tears welled in Sieun’s eyes, but he didn’t look away. He walked right up to him, close enough to feel the heat of his chest. He reached out, and this time, he grabbed Suho’s hand and pressed it to his own chest.

“Please, Suho,” The prince begged. “If there’s anything left in you that ever wanted me, say it. Say it and I will never ask you again. But I cannot, I cannot go through this life wondering if you left me out of duty, or because you stopped loving me.”

Suho’s throat worked. His eyes shimmered, but he didn’t move.

Sieun broke. He fell forward, hands fisting in Suho’s robes, tears slipping freely down his cheeks.

“Please want me again,” The prince whispered, voice shaking. “Just want me again. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s just for a moment. I can survive anything but your silence.”

Suho stared down at him, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. But then he reached up and took Sieun’s hands off of him. 

Firm. Cold. Final.

“I don’t want you.”

The words landed like frost in Sieun’s chest. His knees nearly buckled. Suho’s face didn’t change. His tone didn’t crack.

“Go back to your chambers,” The warrior said, voice quiet. “This is no longer your place.”

Sieun’s lip trembled. He tried to speak; to say something, anything. But the words wouldn’t come.

So he stood there, the prince of the realm, shivering in thin silk with his heart laid bare, rejected.

And Suho, the man who once protected his every breath, didn’t even reach for him.

Chapter Text

The first morning in his new post came with mist instead of sun. Here in the northeastern stronghold of Gwanju, the air smelled different; pine needles and cold earth, a sharper kind of wind that swept off the mountains like the breath of something ancient. The stone barracks were older than the ones in Hanyang, moss clinging to the cracks, the walls slanted from years of wind and rain. Everything was quieter here, removed. He could hear the birdsong echoing across the mountain ridges, but none of the palace bells that once signaled morning rites.

Suho rose before dawn, as he always had. His routine did not change; boots before robe, robe before blade. But in the hush of this foreign outpost, everything felt thinner. As if even the silence did not know what to make of him.

He had not spoken more than a dozen words since his arrival.

The commander of the Gwanju guard was a grizzled man with tired eyes and an easy mistrust of “city warriors.” Suho didn’t blame him. He asked no questions. Offered no stories. He merely bowed when ordered and moved with mechanical precision through his tasks, training the young soldiers, sparring against unfamiliar faces, patrolling stretches of land too quiet to warrant true concern.

His new quarters were small. Bare, save for a lacquered stand for his blade, a folded quilt, and an inkstone he had not yet used.

Sometimes, at night, Suho would lie on the woven mat and stare at the low wooden ceiling, wondering whether the moonlight in Hanyang still spilled across polished palace floors the way it used to. Whether someone, back in the capital, still looked out at the same sky.

He told himself not to wonder, but it was like trying to unlearn breath.

Sieun’s face came to him in the quiet hours between sleep and waking, eyes too soft, mouth always holding something back. The way his voice broke slightly when he tried to stay composed. The warmth of him in Suho’s arms that last night, the quiet admission “Let me have this, just once.”

That memory hurt the most. Now, the warrior knew once could never be enough. Yet, he endured. He became what they sent him to be; disciplined, stoic, efficient. He pushed his body until it ached, punished his thoughts into stillness, and swallowed the ache that came when he saw palace guards who did not bear the Yeon crest.

The forest that bordered the outpost was older than the roads that cut through it, older than even the stone walls of the northern barracks. The trees loomed tall; stoic guardians of a realm so far removed from the polished courtyards of the capital that even the wind smelled different here. Damp moss. Pine bark. The distant ash of burning wood.

Ahn Suho stood at the edge of the watchtower, gaze trailing the horizon where pale mist curled above the riverbanks like a ghost refusing to leave. His armor was lighter now, trimmed down for long patrols and mountainous terrain. The lacquered pauldrons of the royal guard had been replaced with something more functional, less ceremonial. Gone were the crimson silks, the formal oaths, the slow ritual of preparing the prince’s path. Here, there was only the cold, the mud, the silence.

He was far from home.

If he could even call it that.

Suho adjusted the grip on his sword as the morning light broke across the valley, chasing the frost from rooftops and stone. Another patrol was scheduled. Another round of nods and brief reports, of duty carried out in quiet repetition. The men respected him, some with reverence, others with wariness. His name still carried weight, though the reason behind his reassignment was shrouded in rumor. Some whispered of politics. Others believed he’d insulted a nobleman. A few claimed he had slain someone he was not meant to.

No one knew the truth.

No one but him and the prince he left behind.

Nights were the worst. Not because they were cold (they were), or because the firewood always ran low (it did), but because in the stillness of nightfall, Suho could not silence memory. The shape of Sieun’s voice haunted the quiet. The soft laughter the prince tried to hide behind his sleeve. The way his lashes touched his cheek when he slept. The scent of warm ink and clove oil that lingered when Suho pressed too close, too long, just to feel something, just to remind himself that he was still alive.

He could still feel the press of Sieun’s hand against his chest that last night in the prince’s chamber. Could still remember the fragile, near silent way Sieun had whispered, “Just don’t send me away from him.”

But in the end, Suho had been sent away.

So now he did what he had always done—survive. Endure. Wait.

He trained harder than necessary. Rose before the others. Sharpened his blade even when it didn’t need sharpening. When that wasn’t enough, he sought out sparring matches that bordered on brutal. Let himself bleed once or twice, just to feel the sting. Just to chase out the ache that lived inside his chest.

Somewhere beyond the mountains, the capital thrummed with life. Festivals would soon be blooming like spring silk. Sieun’s wedding day would inch closer with each sunset. And Suho could do nothing but stand in the cold, sword in hand, pretending not to care.

So when word came, quietly, discreetly, that someone awaited him near the lower stables, he did not expect what stood before him.

Lady Hwayeon.

Clad in travel robes dyed the color of crushed orchids, with a retinue of servants behind her and a guarded look in her eye, the woman regarded him not with the soft politeness expected of court ladies, but with something sharper. More calculated. Her lips barely moved when she spoke.

“We should walk. There are ears in stone.”

And for reasons he could not name, Suho followed.

The path behind the northern barracks was narrow and unmarked, shielded by overgrown cypress and a stone wall crumbling with lichen. No one followed them, Hwayeon had ensured that with a glance toward her men, who lingered discreetly by the horses.

Suho walked beside her in silence, his steps measured, eyes forward. His sword hung at his side, but he made no move to rest a hand on it. Not yet.

Lady Hwayeon, dressed in a muted indigo robe with a silver sash, walked with the grace of someone born into power and taught to use it gently, as one would wield a knife beneath a silk sleeve. Her expression remained neutral, unreadable, though her gaze flickered often to Suho’s face.

“I did not come here lightly,” She said at last. “Nor out of vanity. You and I—our paths should never have needed to cross. But circumstances have… complicated things.”

Suho didn’t answer. The wind rustled through the leaves above them, low and dry. Insects chirred faintly between branches. The distant murmur of soldiers training filled the silence between each breath.

“I’m to be married to Prince Sieun in a few week’s time.”

The words were not new. Rumors of the prince’s engagement had spread even this far north. Suho nodded once, slow and curt.

“But I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Lady Hwayeon continued, eyes narrowing, her voice low as if it stung to admit. “I saw it before I left the palace. And I was warned.”

That made Suho’s steps pause, not in surprise, but restraint. His jaw tensed. He kept his eyes fixed on the dirt path ahead.

“You misunderstand,” Suho said finally. “My duty has always been to the prince’s safety. I don’t—”

“Do not insult me with denial,” Lady Hwayeon cut in, soft but sharp. “You loved him.”

Suho’s throat went dry, and suddenly the forest suddenly felt colder.

“That has no bearing now.”

“No,” She agreed. “Because you’ve been removed from him. By order of His Majesty, and you will not be sent back unless I permit it.”

He turned his head slightly at that, finally looking at her, truly looking.

Lady Hwayeon stopped walking. She stepped aside, toward a flat stone shaded by a pine tree, and reached into the sleeve of her robe. From it, she withdrew a folded letter.

“It seems cruel,” She murmured, almost gently, “but you deserve to know.”

Suho eyed the paper warily.

“It’s from the prince,” She clarified, voice dripping with suspicious. “Written just before I left.”

She extended the letter to him without another word.

He took it, fingers stiff. The seal was broken, deliberately, he noticed. The ink had bled slightly from travel, but the handwriting looked like Sieun’s. Elegant, curved. Familiar enough to pierce something raw in his chest.

Ahn Suho,

There was a time when I thought I needed you. A time when I mistook warmth for love, and desire for duty. I see clearly now.

Please do not come back. I was weak, and I let you too close. But you are not what I need.

Our time together was not love, it was a mistake. One I intend to correct as I step into my future role.

Do not write to me. Do not wait.

The last line was struck through, faintly, as if an afterthought had attempted to soften it. But it only made it worse.

Suho’s eyes read over the letter once. Then again. A third time. His breath barely moved.

“This… this isn’t him.”

“Isn’t it?” Hwayeon asked, tilting her head, voice carefully emotionless. “He has a duty. He cannot fulfill it with a shadow of you always at his side.”

Suho stared at the page, his hand tightening at the edges. He knew Sieun. Knew how he spoke. How he thought but the words on the parchment were too cold. Too deliberate.

But it was the handwriting that struck him deeply. 

“I don’t believe this,” Suho rasped out hoarsely.

“But you do,” Lady Hwayeon said quietly. “Or you wouldn’t be trembling.”

Suho folded the letter and pressed it against his chest, every muscle locked. The forest around him blurred.

“I came here to offer you a way back,” Hwayeon said after a long pause. “But not for love, or foolish hope. Only so that your presence may silence him. Keep him quiet. Keep him in line.”

She stepped closer, her gaze unreadable. “I am not here to be cruel. I am here to protect my marriage. You will return to the capital, Ahn Suho. You will stand where you once stood, but only as a ghost of what you were. If you must look at him, look without speaking. If he speaks, do not answer.”

Her voice dropped lower.

“You will be allowed near him, but never again to touch him. And in return, you may ensure his safety with your own eyes.”

Suho didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he bowed his head.

“If he is to be silenced,” The warrior said, voice brittle, “then let me be the wall that bears it all.”

Lady Hwayeon said nothing. She only turned.

And Suho remained in the shade of the pine, Sieun’s name like ash in his throat, a letter clutched in his hand, a lie inked in his beloved’s hand, still burning as if it were truth.

The letter still rested in his hand, slightly crumpled now from where his fingers had curled into it, gripping it not with possession, but with disbelief. He hadn’t breathed properly since the first word. Ahn Suho. Like a blade drawn gently across the throat, soft and lethal. So formal. So foreign.

He read it again.

He didn’t know what he was searching for, some tremble in the stroke of a character, some hidden phrase between the lines that would betray the truth. But the letter remained quiet. Unfeeling. Each sentence stripped of softness. No trace of the Sieun he had come to know, the Sieun who once kissed the inside of his wrist just to calm him; who once pressed poems into fans just to gift him a secret.

Instead, it bled cold.

“Do not come back.”

That line echoed, loudest of all. Cruel not in volume, but in finality. His ribs ached with it.

Suho did not cry. He didn’t know if he could. In all his years, even as a child kneeling beside a grave that still steamed with incense and pine needles, he had never known how to weep properly. Pain stayed locked in his chest, bruising him from the inside, dragging down every breath like he wore it in chains.

But this, this felt like something else. Not grief alone. Not heartbreak.

Betrayal.

He had given everything to Sieun. His blade. His breath. His hands and his silence. He had taken a wound for him, bled for him, and yet… this.

Suho closed his eyes, dragging in air as if it would fill the hollow space behind his sternum. It didn’t.

But still, he didn’t want to believe.

It wasn’t like Sieun. Not the Sieun who curled against him during sleepless nights, mumbling apologies with his face buried in Suho’s shoulder. Not the Sieun whose voice trembled when he said “everything,” even when it cost him his dignity. That Sieun had looked at him like the world would end and begin in Suho’s arms.

But what if that Sieun had only been a moment?

A prince wrapped in fear. A man desperate for touch before duty sealed him away.

What if it had never been real for him?

That thought settled deep, rotten, and dangerous. But he could not shake it.

And then the second wound came, not from the letter, but from himself.

Despite everything, despite the doubts, the pain, the shame of being summoned back not as a man beloved, but as a shadow allowed to linger, he still wanted to see him.

Even now, Suho would have taken the offer again.

As long as it meant breathing the same air. It meant knowing, with his own eyes, that Sieun was alive and safe, even if it meant bearing the cost of distance, even if it meant watching him belong to someone else.

Even if it meant being hated.

So when he returned to the capital, when he stepped through the palace gates as a guard once more, his face wore the cold that grief had carved into him. His heart remained a locked chamber. His tongue remembered its silence.

If Sieun had truly discarded him, then Suho would not plead.

He would endure.

And if Sieun had not… if the letter had been a lie, if there were still truth hiding behind those distant eyes, then let Sieun be the one to reach across the distance.

Suho had already crossed it once and it had nearly broken him.

31 days later

The court was alive with silk and murmurs. Sunlight filtered gently through the latticed windows of the Queen Dowager’s Pavilion, catching on spools of golden thread and combs laid out in ornate trays. Every corner of the chamber brimmed with preparation: from seamstresses bent low over brocade robes to servants bustling with white lotus tea and delicate sugared fruits. The scent of camellia oil clung faintly to the air.

Prince Sieun sat still on a polished cushion of pale blue, back straight, hands folded in his lap as three court ladies fussed over his garments. One adjusted the collar of his ceremonial robe, another measured the drape of his sleeve. The third gently pressed a comb through the loose waves of his hair.

He did not flinch. He did not speak.

Even when Lady Hwayeon approached, her reflection catching in the bronze mirror before him like the ghost of a future he had not asked for.

She stood behind him, her hands folded neatly, a soft smile playing on her lips like a curtain drawn to hide something colder underneath.

“You’ll look princely in red,” Lady Hwayeon complimented, fingers brushing his shoulder with practiced familiarity. “It suits a groom well.”

Sieun offered no reply but he could feel it, like a stone lodged behind his ribs.

Just behind Lady Hwayeon, posted by the far door, stood Ahn Suho.

No longer dressed in the deep navy of the prince’s personal guard. He wore the more standard uniform of palace security, still commanding, still crisp, but distant. Detached. A shadow among many. He stood at ease, his posture unreadable, his gaze lowered every time Sieun dared to glance his way.

Sieun wanted to scream. To claw through the layers of silence between them. To ask why Suho wouldn’t look at him, why the man who once held him like breath itself now stood cold and silent like a passing stranger.

Instead, he sat still, because a prince did not fall apart. Even as his chest fractured, beat by beat.

“Your father wishes to see you this evening,” Hwayeon continued gently. “He wants to discuss the seating for the wedding feast. You’ll be beside me, of course.”

Sieun pressed his nails into his palm. “As you say,” he murmured.

It was then, amid the flutter of robes and whispering silk, that the King’s chief steward entered, followed by a tall figure in dark robes trimmed with crimson.

Sieun turned, slowly.

The man who stepped forward bowed low, the kind of bow that held both discipline and pride.

“Your Highness,” The steward announced, “this is Warrior Woo Do-whan. By His Majesty’s order, he is to serve as your new personal guard from this day onward.”

Sieun blinked, and for a moment, the world shifted sideways.

Woo Do-whan stood tall, taller than Suho even, his frame broad beneath his uniform. His jaw was sharp, his brows severe, and his features the kind sculptors would chisel into marble for temple walls. There was something unmistakably bold in the way he met Sieun’s gaze; unwavering, respectful, but not passive.

Around the room, the court ladies stirred with muted admiration, fluttering glances traded like flower petals.

Sieun’s throat dried. Not from awe, but from something far colder. This was it, then. Another replacement. Another face to erase what had been.

“I will guard you with my life, seja-jeoha,” Do-whan said, voice steady as iron.

Sieun gave the smallest of nods. “Thank you, Warrior Woo.”

But his gaze drifted, once, just once, toward the man still standing near the door. Suho hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched.

For a heartbeat, Sieun thought he saw it. The faint tightening of Suho’s jaw. The shift in his stance. His hands, folded neatly behind his back, curled slightly into fists.

A flicker. A single, fragile betrayal of emotion before the mask settled again.

Sieun looked away.

He wanted to scream again but louder this time. Loud enough to shatter the ceiling tiles, to rip through the painted screens, to make Suho see him.

Instead, he said nothing.

The rain had started as a whisper; soft, almost hesitant, before it thickened into a steady downpour that bled through the palace eaves and misted the stone courtyards with silver.

Prince Sieun had remained beneath the overhanging roof of the training hall, arms tucked within his sleeves, watching the courtyard slowly vanish beneath rippling sheets of rain. His new guard stood not far from him: tall, silent, and far too composed for someone newly assigned to protect royalty.

Woo Do-whan.

He was younger than most, but no less imposing. Broad shouldered and long-limbed, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly how far he could throw a spear, and how quickly he could strike with a sword. His hair was tied high in the soldier’s knot, and his gaze was steady, though not unkind. Palace rumors had bloomed like fungus overnight; the women in the court whispered about him the way they once did about Suho.

Suho.

Sieun did not look across the courtyard, but he felt him there.

Standing beneath the covered walkway with other soldiers, Suho was still; watchful, unreadable. His armor caught the rainlight like burnished frost. He hadn’t spoken to Sieun again since that night, only bowed when required, his eyes hollow of anything that once made them feel like home.

When a court servant slipped and called out for the prince to return to the Inner Hall, Sieun turned too quickly, stepping out onto the slick stones without thinking. His foot slipped, just a fraction, but he stumbled forward.

In a single motion, Do-whan was at his side.

“Seja-jeoha,” He said, voice deep and sure, one hand curling around Sieun’s waist before the prince could fall. Without waiting for instruction or hesitation, he swept Sieun up into his arms.

It was not ungraceful but jarring. Sieun’s damp sleeves clung to his arms, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of surprise and humiliation.

“Put me down,” he whispered, but his voice was drowned by the downpour.

Do-whan did not. His stride was careful but unyielding, navigating the rain slicked path with a soldier’s discipline. His hold was firm but respectful, like he was not carrying a prince but a duty.

Across the courtyard, Suho saw.

His jaw tensed, a muscle flickering in his cheek. Though his posture remained unshaken, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the sight of Sieun’s body cradled against another man’s chest.

Sieun caught the flicker, he always did, and it twisted something inside him.

Why now? Why did it ache so much more, knowing Suho was watching? Why did it burn, when the man who had once held him with reverence now stood and let another carry him away?

The rain fell harder.

Sieun looked away, chest hollow, and allowed himself to be carried into the shadows of the covered corridor, his heart soaked heavier than his robes.

The rain fell without mercy, drumming against the tiled rooftops and stone courtyards in a rhythm that grated against Suho’s chest. His armor felt heavier than usual, damp with mist, his hands clenched stiff at his sides.

He should have looked away.

He told himself to.

But his eyes remained fixed on the prince.

Sieun, drenched and startled, caught off-balance for the briefest moment, had been swept up before Suho could even blink. Not by a stumble, not by something grave, but by a man whose hands now held what once belonged only to him.

Woo Do-whan moved with precision, calculated strength. He did not falter under the prince’s weight, nor did he make a show of it. But that didn’t matter. It was the image that Suho could not stand.

Sieun, cradled in another man’s arms. His hair darkened by rain, his cheeks flushed, clinging slightly to Do-whan’s shoulder for balance.

Suho stood in the shadowed corridor like a stranger.

As the guards beside him muttered about the rain and shifted their spears, Suho remained rooted, every breath in his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe.

He had done what he was supposed to.

He had stepped away. He had let go. He had believed the lie Lady Hwayeon handed him like a dagger in silk, a letter from Sieun, filled with indifference, cruelty in elegant script. He had taken it, read it in silence, and let it carve something out of him.

But now?

Now, watching that man’s hands on Sieun, those broad, gloved fingers steady against his waist, that casual strength, it made every vein in Suho’s body ache with something dangerously close to rage.

Do-whan was everything a king would want for a prince; loyal, strong, unburdened by forbidden history.

He turned away before they vanished completely into the colonnade. Rain misted his face, the wind creeping down his collar. He welcomed it. He needed it, needed the cold to bite him, to remind him of why he came back to the palace in the first place.

Not to feel.

Not to want.

Only to protect him, from a distance, with whatever dignity he still had left.

Still, he clenched his jaw, closing his eyes. Just for a moment, just to stop the image from playing again and again.

He had once carried Sieun like that; arms wrapped around him in the dark, pulling him away from danger, cradling his head after a near fall. The prince’s breath had always hitched, soft and warm against his neck. His hands had always curled into Suho’s chest like they belonged nowhere else.

But now another man held him like that, and Sieun didn’t fight it.

Didn’t even look for Suho.

Maybe Lady Hwayeon had been right.

Maybe Sieun had moved on.

Suho swallowed hard, something bitter caught in the back of his throat. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, not out of need, but because it was the only thing still steady in his grip.

He would remain where he was stationed.

He would not interfere.

But if Woo Do-whan laid a hand on Sieun with anything less than reverence, if he so much as looked at him with intentions beyond duty,  Suho would know.

He would always know.

Because some parts of a man do not unlearn how to ache.

The corridors of the eastern wing were quiet, washed in the faint glow of lanterns swaying gently against the wind. Suho moved with practiced silence through the shaded halls, patrolling as he was assigned, armor trimmed down to a less formal set now that the night guard had rotated in. His steps echoed softly, the weight of the day pressing down like a phantom still perched on his shoulders.

He should have retired. His duties had ended an hour prior but something restless twisted in him, something he could not name.

It was only when he turned the corner near the prince’s veranda that he heard voices. Not formal, not rehearsed. Quiet. Gentle.

Suho halted, making sure he was out of sight.

It was Prince Sieun and Woo Do-whan.

“I can walk,” Sieun said softly, a faint edge of embarrassment in his voice.

“I know you can, seja-jeoha,” Do-whan replied, tone warm and careful. “But you were standing in the rain far too long. The court physicians will come running if you so much as sniffle.”

Sieun gave a short laugh, muted and tired. “You’ve only been assigned a day, and already you speak as though you’ve known me longer.”

“I’m observant,” Do-whan said, and there was a smile in his voice. “I also know when someone is pretending they are not tired.”

Then the rustle of robes. A deep sigh from Sieun.

“You’re kind,” the prince murmured, almost inaudibly. “Too kind.”

“Perhaps,” Do-whan said. “But I’m not foolish. I know kindness alone doesn’t win a prince’s trust.”

“I don’t need anyone to win me,” Sieun said, and Suho could hear the thread of ache in his voice, even through the careful mask.

Another pause.

“But… thank you. For earlier,” Sieun added.

“Any time,” Do-whan said, his voice softer now. “Truly.”

Their footsteps receded slowly into the private quarters, and Suho remained standing in the dark, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He should have been relieved. There was nothing improper in their tone. No hidden words of desire. No flirtation. Just civility and warmth.

But still, it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t his arms Sieun had thanked. It wasn’t his voice that drew out those tired, unguarded truths.

Maybe it was wrong to feel it, but he did. That sharp twinge of possessiveness. That cold, guttural jealousy; the kind only men who have once held everything truly feel when they’re reduced to nothing.

He turned away, not a sound in his step. But something burned behind his ribs that would not go out.

The late afternoon sun draped the palace in pale gold, the heat hanging low and drowsy. The courtyard had emptied of noise. Only the rustle of cloth and the clatter of wood echoed faintly in the quiet.

Suho passed by the shaded colonnade, intending nothing more than a direct return to his quarters after his post. His duties were done, the skies clear, the walls undisturbed. But as he stepped beneath the curved edge of a tiled roof, he caught sight of movement from the central courtyard.

There stood Woo Do-whan.

Bare from the waist up, sweat gleaming across his skin, he moved with the unbothered confidence of a man who had grown used to being looked at. His sword was not in hand, only a practice staff, yet each movement was clean, taut with strength and discipline. A soft breeze stirred his tied-back hair, the strands brushing across his neck.

Suho had seen hundreds of warriors train. Seen bloodier battles and sharper blades. But what turned his blood colder, what held his gaze with quiet dread, was not the man in the courtyard.

It was the one watching him.

Beneath the eaves of a nearby terrace, half-shaded from the light, stood Prince Sieun.

He had not noticed Suho.

He leaned forward with his arms folded on the wooden railing, cheek nestled against his wrist. His long hair had been drawn back loosely, strands falling to the side, catching the sun like silk. There was no hunger in his eyes. No admiration for the man’s body or prowess. What lived in his gaze was far more dangerous.

It was ease.

Amusement.

The smallest of smiles tilted at his lips, fond, almost wistful, as he watched Do-whan twirl the staff and misstep, laughing at himself mid-turn before righting his stance. The prince’s shoulders shook softly as he chuckled in silence, a hand covering his mouth to muffle the sound.

Suho stood rooted, the air suddenly too warm in his lungs.

He knew that smile. He knew the softness behind it. The way Sieun tilted his head when his guard faltered on purpose to make him laugh. The way joy never quite lit up his entire face, but gathered quietly at the corners of his mouth as if he feared someone might steal it.

He had worn that smile for Suho, once.

A long time ago, or perhaps only weeks.

The ache came swift and cruel.

He wanted to be unbothered. He had chosen the distance. He had drawn the line. He had even accepted Lady Hwayeon’s words, bitter as they had been. Told himself this was for Sieun’s good. For his safety. For duty.

But watching another man, bare, laughing, lighthearted, stand where he once had, it dug its claws into something primal.

Suho’s hand curled slightly at his side. Not from anger. Not truly, but from that old, haunting grief. The kind only the displaced feel. The ones who have been replaced.

Sieun finally turned, retreating from the railing, and in that same moment, he saw Suho.

His smile vanished like smoke.

Their eyes met across the courtyard, two halves of a wound reopened.

Sieun did not look guilty nor frightened. He simply looked tired.

And that, more than anything, undid Suho.

Because it meant he no longer knew where he stood in the prince’s heart.

He lowered his gaze first and turned away. But behind his ribs, something splintered again, silently.

No one had told him that jealousy was not just green, but also grief colored.

The night was hushed, but not still. Rain fell softly from the sky, as though the heavens themselves had lost something they could not name. It wasn’t the kind of storm that demanded attention;  no thunder, no lightning. Just a steady weep, gentle and endless  

Prince Sieun walked alone through the palace corridors, sleeves damp from where the water kissed his arms, his thoughts louder than the rain.

There was a hollowness to the air tonight, the kind that came after too many days of pretending not to hurt.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for when he reached the small, unfamiliar quarters that now housed Suho. Only that his body moved there as if by instinct, as if some part of him still believed the one inside would smile when he entered, would stand with soft eyes and softer hands and greet him with his name, not his title.

He lifted his hand to knock.

Then paused.

The light inside flickered gently behind the paper doors. A single candle, still burning. Still awake.

Just like him.

He finally knocked; once, then again, each tap delicate as if afraid the door might crumble from the sound.

“Enter.”

The voice that answered was quiet. Polished, like a blade dulled from restraint.

Sieun slid the door open and stepped inside.

The room was plain. A sword sat on the table, half-oiled. Suho was there, seated cross legged, sleeves rolled, the collar of his robe a little undone. His posture was disciplined, yet weary, like a soldier too used to waiting.

He did not rise. He did not smile.

He did not call him Sieun.

“Seja-jeoha,” The warrior called out instead.

Just like that, something in Sieun’s chest crumpled. He closed the door behind him, quietly. The space felt smaller than it was. Thicker with unsaid things.

“I saw you today,” Sieun said, his voice nearly lost beneath the hush of the rain. “You looked at me as if we were strangers.”

Suho didn’t look up. He only reached for the cloth on the table and continued wiping the blade, slow and even.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Sieun swallowed. “I am here.”

“You are to be wed in six days.”

“I didn’t come to speak of her.”

“You should.”

There was steel in Suho’s voice, but it trembled like something fragile pretending to be strong.

Sieun stepped closer, rainwater still dripping from the edge of his sleeve.

“I came to speak of us.”

“There is no us,” Suho said.

The prince flinched. “Don’t say that.”

“It is the truth.”

“No, it’s what you want to believe so you won’t hurt.”

Suho finally looked at him, and in that moment, Sieun felt his own name dying quietly on Suho’s tongue, never spoken, never freed. Only buried deeper inside him.

“I would give it all up,” Sieun whispered. “If you asked me to.”

“Do not tempt me with what I cannot have,” Suho spoke, voice shaking now, like a prayer bitten back. “You speak of sacrifice as if it is simple, but you do not know what it is to live without a name, without duty. I would not drag you down with me.”

Sieun took another step closer. “You are not dragging me anywhere. I am walking to you.”

Suho looked away.

Silence gathered like fog between them.

“Tell me,” Sieun said, his voice cracking. “Tell me I meant nothing. Lie to me if you must but don’t leave me like this. I beg you.”

The last words fell softer than a whisper. As if ashamed to exist.

Though, Suho did not move, not towards him. Not away.

“You have a kingdom. A future. A man who will be your husband.”

“I only want you,” Sieun breathed.

“You don’t know what you want.”

“Then teach me,” Sieun cried, pain blooming in his chest like something wild and desperate. “Teach me how to live without you because I cannot!”

Suho turned his back to him then, as though that were the only way he could stay standing.

“You’re not mine to keep,” Suho said softly. “And I am not yours to claim.”

A silence followed. One so loud, so unrelenting, it drowned even the rain.

When Sieun finally left, he did not cry. He only walked as one hollowed out, breath shallow, heart thudding like a lost bird against his ribs.

Behind him, Suho stood alone in his chamber, a hand resting on the blade he hadn’t touched since Sieun entered.

And outside, the candle flickered, guttered, then died.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light slanted low through the carved wooden lattice, casting golden bars across the floor of the prince’s antechamber. Incense trailed faintly through the air, curling like breath over silk and lacquered armor. It was the day before the Crown Prince was to make a formal appearance before the High Scholars, a ceremonial inspection, one meant to display both his refinement and his defense.

Suho had not meant to linger. He had only stepped away from his post for a moment to report to the steward about adjustments in the prince’s escort formation. But when he returned, quietly, as he always did, the paper screen to the inner dressing chamber had been left ajar, and through it, he saw something he had not meant to see.

Woo Do-whan stood near the prince, sleeves rolled past his elbows, a small shallow bowl in one hand, a horsehair brush in the other. He was applying the ceremonial war paint, an act that should have been left to court attendants. And yet, Sieun had allowed it.

Suho’s breath caught.

Do-whan was tall, broad-shouldered, with a steady hand that moved with surprising gentleness. He dabbed the vermilion pigment onto the prince’s shoulder, right where the edge of the armor would rest,  not for beauty, but for tradition, for spirit. And still, it felt too close. Too tender. The touch of a man who had been granted permission to stand where others could not.

Suho remained outside the frame. Suho’s eyes flickered to Sieun’s face.

The prince was not looking at Do-whan. No, his gaze was lowered, unreadable, fixed on the floor. He did not flinch, but he did not relax either. His fingers clutched the silk robe around his knees, knuckles pale beneath the fabric. Though, his mouth was silent, there was something in the slight furrow of his brows that made Suho’s chest twist.

Jealousy was too small a word for what throbbed in his throat. It was something deeper, bone-deep, like having once known warmth and now being made to watch another stand by the fire.

The scent of the war paint reached him next; sharp and mineral, tinged with sandalwood and bloodroot. He had brushed it on Sieun’s skin once. Just once. A year ago, on the eve of a border campaign that Sieun had insisted on overseeing despite the risk. Suho had stood behind him, steadying the brush, praying without speaking.

That had been before.

Before they belonged to no one but duty.

Before silence turned cruel.

Now he stood behind the screen, an intruder in a memory being rewritten.

Suho stepped back before either of them noticed. The sound of his own footsteps seemed to echo too loudly in the corridor as he returned to his station, expression unreadable, posture straight.

He did not clench his jaw. He did not demand an answer. He only stood where he had always stood— where duty placed him.

But in his chest, a dull ache spread like ink in water. He did not ask why Sieun had allowed it. He only wished, for the briefest and most shameful moment, that Do-whan had been less gentle. That the brush had faltered. That Sieun had flinched.

Instead, they moved like a painting; delicate, solemn, untouchable.

The corridors near the prince’s chambers were quiet by dusk, the lanterns already lit, casting long shadows across polished stone. Sieun had dismissed his court attendants early, retreating under the pretense of preparing alone for the scholar’s inspection the next morning. The formality of it all felt suffocating; brocade, incense, bows, names, silence. He had smiled too much. He had spoken too little.

He longed for air. He longed for—

No, he would not name it.

But his feet carried him all the same, out past the western wing, to the covered corridor where wind stirred through the open lattice and peonies bloomed beneath the stone path. And there, like some cruel trick of fate, he saw him.

Suho stood at attention beside a pillar, half-shadowed by evening’s gold. He was not in his formal guard post now, merely stationed near the outer courtyard, distant enough to seem ceremonial, but close enough that the prince might still see him should he look.

Sieun stopped. He shouldn’t have. He should have walked past, kept his chin lifted, mouth quiet. But he couldn’t.

“Suho-ya.”

It came out smaller than he meant. A threadbare whisper dressed in formality.

Suho didn’t turn at first. His jaw flexed, just slightly. The way it used to when he was angry. Or trying not to be.

Then, slowly, he faced him. “Seja-jeoha.”

The title struck like a knife.

Sieun flinched. “Do not call me that.”

There was a pause. “I am not permitted to call you anything else.”

The ache that had dulled for a few hours now came rushing back, fierce and unrelenting. Sieun stepped closer, though he did not dare breach the distance between them. The space felt sacred now, dangerous even, as if one more step would tear them both apart.

“I saw you earlier,” Sieun said, voice steady, though it trembled at the edges. “Outside the chamber.”

Suho’s eyes darkened. He didn’t deny it.

“He was just… helping,” Sieun added, though he hated himself for explaining. “I did not ask for it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Suho replied, gaze unreadable. “It is not my place to question your comfort.”

Something in that word, comfort, made Sieun want to weep.

“I am not comfortable,” The prince said. “Not with this. Not with you standing so far away.”

Silence stretched between them like glass.

“You are to be married,” Suho said at last, softly. “It is not my place to be near you.”

“But you were once.”

“And look what became of us.”

Sieun stepped forward then, all the way. “Do not say that. Don’t pretend this was nothing. You—” His voice broke. “You saw me. You knew me. And I know you still do.”

Suho’s eyes flickered, the only crack in his composure. “I did not ask to return here, Sieun.”

The name. Finally, the name.

“Then why did you come?”

“To keep you safe.”

“From whom?”

“From yourself.”

The words landed like a wound. And yet, Sieun did not move away. “Do you believe I regret us?”

Suho didn’t answer.

Sieun’s voice dropped, hoarse. “Do you regret me?”

A long breath. Then, quietly, almost inaudibly, Suho said, “I regret nothing except that I cannot have you without consequence.”

It was everything and nothing all at once.

Sieun stepped back. Just one step.

Then he nodded, lips pressed into a line. “Then I will learn to live with your absence. Even while you stand near.”

He left before Suho could speak again, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the wind.

Suho remained rooted to the floor, eyes shut, fingers curled into fists behind his back, as if that might stop him from reaching out again.

As if restraint might somehow protect them now, when nothing else could.

The sky, moments ago pristine with pale sunlight, darkened without warning. A wind sharp with the scent of wet earth swept through the valley, scattering the sounds of the royal entourage like birds from a branch. By the time the first drops began to fall, the procession had already split; servants rushing to gather silks and parasols, guards herding nobles toward the covered path.

Only two figures remained behind, delayed by a sloped footbridge and a miscommunication.

Suho had reached the pavilion first, steps silent but tense, his jaw clenched as he turned to see who followed. There he was, Prince Sieun, rain catching on his cheekbones, running beneath the ancient wooden beams just as the sky gave way.

Thunder cracked once, then again, like the heavens clearing their throat to warn of the storm’s descent.

They stood alone, soaked in quiet. The space between them felt like a blade.

Suho turned his eyes to the distance, watching the veils of rain blur the trees beyond the courtyard. The downpour was thick and ceaseless, as if the sky itself grieved something.

Sieun, breath still uneven from the rush, said nothing. He removed his outer robe; drenched and heavy, folding it neatly despite the tremor in his hands. Water slid down the nape of his neck and over the hollow of his throat.

Suho looked away.

Time passed slowly, marked only by the sound of rain colliding with tile and stone. Somewhere in the silence, Sieun moved. He sat down on one of the worn wooden benches by the pillar, drawing his knees up, his damp sleeves gathered in his lap like wounded wings.

“Why do you hate me now?”

The words were spoken gently. So gently they might’ve floated away, mistaken for wind.

Suho stiffened, the muscles in his back locking into stone.

“I don’t,” The warrior said finally.

Sieun’s head tilted, lips parted, not in surprise, but in something softer. Hope, perhaps. Or its crueler cousin.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he asked.

Suho remained silent.

Outside, the rain persisted like a truth no one wanted to accept.

“You used to look at me like I was…” Sieun trailed off, the last word too dangerous to touch. He smiled faintly, bitter and self mocking. “Never mind.”

Suho turned to him slowly, eyes unreadable in the gray wash of light. “You don’t know what I’ve heard,” he said. “You don’t know what I believed.”

“And you didn’t ask,” Sieun said quietly.

A silence stretched between them, taut and breaking. 

“I waited for you.”

It was said so simply that Suho flinched.

Sieun’s voice did not waver. “I waited. Even when I knew you would not come. Even when I thought the gods had taken you from me. And then you returned, and you were no longer mine.”

Suho’s fists curled against his sides.

“I was never yours,” The warrior said, too coldly, too quickly.

“I know,” Sieun whispered. “But you were once something. And I…I am still that same thing. Even now.”

Thunder echoed again, closer this time, as if even the sky recoiled from the truth laid bare. Their breaths filled the space where touch could not.

“I’m not asking you to love me,” Sieun murmured. “Just don’t hate me. Please. That alone might be enough to live with.”

Suho could not speak. He feared what voice might break free if he did.

So instead, they sat; two fractured men beneath a shelter not built for love, but for survival. The rain fell like mourning. The wind whispered all that was still unsaid.

In that fragile stillness, they remained. Not as prince and guard. Not as forsaken lovers.

But as two people who once knew what it meant to belong to one another, and who now lived in the shadow of that knowing.

The storm outside did not ease. Rain sang on the roof tiles with the cadence of old grief, and thunder rolled in the hills like drums mourning a war already lost.

Inside the pavilion, the silence between them deepened, not a peace, but a stalemate, brittle and trembling.

Suho sat, unmoving, his gaze fixed on some distant shape in the mist beyond the rain. His knuckles were white where his hand rested on the wood beside him. He looked carved from stone, resolute, but breaking.

Sieun lowered his legs, sandals wet, the hem of his robes clinging to his ankles. For a long while, he only watched him.

The warrior who once held him like a vow, now refused to even meet his eyes. But the ache inside Sieun had long since shed its dignity.

He moved quietly. Hesitantly. One small shift at a time, like a tide returning to shore after a storm.

When he reached him, he sank down beside Suho without asking. Close, but not touching. He sat with his palms on his lap, fingers trembling only slightly.

“I never wanted you to suffer for me,” Sieun whispered, voice hushed by the rain. “I only ever wanted to be near you.”

Still, Suho said nothing. But his throat moved, a shallow swallow.

Sieun turned his head slowly, eyes searching the side of Suho’s face; the familiar angle of his jaw, the scar beneath his ear, the furrow that had not left his brow since the day they were torn apart.

“Suho-ya,” The prince called out softly. “If I reach for you now… will you push me away?”

His words were the barest thing, a flicker of breath, a trembling hope.

Suho didn’t answer, so Sieun did the unthinkable.

He reached out.

His hand, gentle as a spring leaf, found Suho’s fingers resting against the bench. He did not grasp them, not yet. He merely placed his hand atop them, a quiet offering of presence. Warm, human. Trembling.

Suho flinched, just slightly. But he didn’t pull away.

In that stillness, something shattered. Not aloud. Not visibly. But deep within him, in the place where he had buried every moment he ever wanted to remember.

“I missed you,” Sieun said.

That broke Suho.

His breath caught, a sound escaping his throat like something broken trying not to cry. His shoulders trembled, his lashes low, jaw clenched tight.

Still, he did not speak. Sieun closed his fingers slowly around Suho’s hand, and for once, Suho let him.

They stayed like that; two hands clasped between them, the only warmth in a world grown cold. Not lovers, not guards, not princes.

Just two people whose longing outweighed their fear.

Outside, the storm began to wane, but they did not move. Not yet. Inside that shelter, time folded. Though neither of them said the word they both feared, it lingered unspoken between their joined palms like a ghost; grief-shaped, love-born.

What once was broken might never be whole again but for this breath, this still moment, they were not alone.

When the rain finally ceased, it did so without ceremony. The storm softened to a hush, like a curtain being drawn. Raindrops slowed their rhythm on the tiled roof, and the clouds above began to pull apart; gray into gold, dusk filtering through like the soft opening of an old scroll.

Sieun did not move and Suho hadn’t pulled his hand away.

They remained that way for some time, their joined fingers resting between them, their silence more tender than any words they might have spoken. The prince’s robes were still damp at the hem, but the cold had left his limbs. Suho’s presence, even without his voice, warmed more than his skin.

Eventually, it was Sieun who stirred first.

“The others will wonder where we’ve gone,” The prince murmured, voice so quiet it barely disturbed the air.

Suho didn’t look at him. “Let them.”

The words weren’t sharp, just tired. Like someone who had run too far from something he never truly wanted to leave behind.

Sieun offered a faint smile, worn, yes, but real. He slowly withdrew his hand from Suho’s, though his fingers lingered just a breath longer than they should have, like they had forgotten how to let go.

Outside the pavilion, the forest shimmered with rain, everything slick with silver. Birds began to return to their branches. The world resumed its breath.

They stepped out together.

Suho fell into step beside him, as he once had so often, before the reassignment, before the silence, before everything. But now, something had shifted. He didn’t walk a full step behind. He didn’t bow his head as low.

It wasn’t rebellion.

It was memory.

Neither of them spoke as they made their way back toward the palace grounds. Wet leaves brushed their sleeves. The sky was still heavy with mist. But the quiet that hung between them no longer suffocated. It pulsed with something unfinished.

As they reached the edge of the garden path, lantern light flickered from a distance, the glow of palace torches just beyond the gate.

Suddenly, reality returned—duty, expectations, and watchful eyes. Sieun paused at the archway. He turned to Suho, gaze steady, voice soft.

“Will you speak to me tomorrow?”

Suho didn’t answer right away. His face was unreadable.

“If I do… I cannot pretend.”

The words landed like thunder in Sieun’s chest.

“Then don’t pretend,” The prince whispered back.

A breath passed.

Suho’s eyes met his and for once, they did not turn away.

Morning broke gently. The light that poured over the palace rooftops was golden and pale, filtering through the high windows of the prince’s chamber like water over silk. The court stirred slowly; servants sweeping rain slicked walkways, the scent of wet earth mingling with incense, and the low murmur of palace life resuming its daily rhythm.

But Sieun sat still, wrapped in robes of deep blue, he sat beneath the open lattice, a scroll unrolled in front of him, untouched. His ink brush rested idly by his side. There were no words for what pressed against his chest.

Suho had not left his thoughts.

Not since the moment the rain had stopped. Not since his fingers were warm around his. Not since the silence had broken just enough to breathe again.

He hadn’t dreamed, but when he’d opened his eyes, he swore he could still feel Suho’s presence lingering like the scent of petrichor in his bedchamber.

Today was just another day. And yet, Sieun felt something shifting beneath the skin of routine; fragile, like the tightrope between duty and yearning had begun to fray.

He rose, composed himself, and stepped out into the day.

At midday court, Sieun fulfilled his prince’s duties with practiced grace. He stood beside his father, listened to ministers speak of taxes and trade routes, nodded when he should, bowed when required.

But across the hall, beyond layers of ceremony and gilded walls, stood Suho. Not by his side anymore, but stationed among the outer guards. His figure was stiff, expression unreadable, gaze forward.

Yet every now and then, Sieun felt it; the weight of Suho’s eyes. Not staring, but watching. Always watching.

When the assembly ended, Sieun passed by him in the corridor. They said nothing. But their shoulders nearly brushed, and for a heartbeat, Sieun’s breath caught in his chest.

That evening, as dusk painted the skies in bruised violets and fading orange, Sieun made his way to the lotus pond in the east courtyard. It had always been a quiet place, somewhere he once went alone, and then later, somewhere Suho would follow. Not always close. Sometimes only within reach.

Tonight, he wasn’t sure who he hoped to find.

But Suho was there, leaning against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed, half lit by the lantern’s glow. His sword hung at his side, untouched, as though he had only come here with the intention to wait.

He didn’t straighten when Sieun approached and didn’t bow.

“Was this intentional?” Sieun asked softly, halting just a few steps away.

“No,” Suho said. “But I didn’t leave.”

They stood in silence. The water behind them rippled, fireflies drifting over the surface like sparks from a dream.

“I was going to leave,” Sieun admitted, voice small. “Before you came back, I was going to run. To the outer courts, to the borders… anywhere.”

Suho turned his head, his profile sharp in the dim light. “You would have been found. Dragged back. Punished.”

“I know,” the prince said. “But I would’ve gone anyway.”

Suho’s eyes met his then, sharply, painfully “Why?”

Sieun held the stare. “Because you weren’t here.”

A breath. A pause. A tremble in Suho’s jaw he didn’t hide fast enough.

Then he looked away.

“I don’t know how to be near you,” Suho said, quietly. “Not now. Not after what she said. After what I read.”

Sieun’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

But Suho only shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sieun stepped closer—closer than propriety allowed. Close enough that he could feel the edge of Suho’s restraint quake beneath his skin.

“It matters to me.”

For a moment, Suho looked as if he might shatter. But then he breathed deeply and turned back to the water.

“I can’t afford to feel everything anymore,” he said. “But I never stopped… being yours.”

Sieun said nothing, only reaching out, fingers ghosting against Suho’s sleeve, barely touching.

It began with a chill. A quiet shiver at dawn that he dismissed with a tighter robe and an extra cup of warm jujube tea. But as the morning wore on, the palace halls began to tilt ever so slightly beneath his feet. The world pressed in, thick and weighty, and his limbs moved slower than they should.

He tried to hide it. Of course, he did. The King was in court that day, and Lady Hwayeon had summoned him for final arrangements on their impending union; robes to be tailored, guests to be seated, silk patterns to approve. Sieun smiled, nodded, made polite remarks.

But his hands trembled when he signed the ceremonial scroll. His lips were pale by the time he returned to his quarters.

By mid-afternoon, the fever had begun to burn. It rose quietly, not like a storm but like a mist; slow, suffocating, unrelenting. His breath shallowed, eyes glassy, vision doubling the sunlight against the latticework of his chamber windows.

He tried to reach for his brush to write again, to send a final letter, perhaps, but his arm wouldn’t lift.

He collapsed, not in dramatic silence, but like a flower folding at dusk—gentle and graceless. 

Yeongi was the first to find him. She had only stepped out to fetch a new jar of medicine for the prince’s thinning appetite. When she returned, she nearly dropped the porcelain jar at the sight of him curled upon the floor, face flushed red, skin slick with cold sweat.

“Jeoha!” She cried, rushing to him.

His eyes opened just barely.

“Suho… tell him—”

“Shh,” She whispered, pressing her palm to his fevered brow. “Don’t speak. Don’t.”

But he murmured something again, not a name this time, but a sound, the kind that didn’t belong in a prince’s mouth, hoarse and pained.

A soft moan of someone who had carried too much.

Yeongi summoned the court physician, and soon the room was filled with hushed panic; servants rushing, herbs boiled, water fetched, silk sheets changed. But nothing drew the fever out fast enough.

The rain had returned to the capital like a quiet mourning song, draping the palace rooftops in soft gray sorrow. Mist clung to the eaves, and the air carried with it a stillness that felt like waiting. The kind of silence that held its breath, as though something, someone, was slipping away.

Within the prince’s quarters, the air had grown cold despite the layers of brocade and silk. The incense had long burned out. The windows had not been opened for days.

Sieun lay in his bed, pale as morning frost, limbs curled beneath heavy blankets that could not warm him. His hair, usually brushed and tied with care, hung loose across the pillow, damp with sweat. His breath came slow, uneven, and his skin, once kissed by light, had dulled like paper left out in the rain. Even in sleep, his brows were drawn, furrowed with unspoken ache.

The court physicians spoke in whispers outside the screen, words like “fever” and “decline,” but Yeongi knew what they dared not say; he was not merely ill. He was unraveling.

“He’s burned himself out,” The physician said gravely. “Grief does not always weep. Sometimes it hides in the marrow.”

A soul untethered.

A heart emptied of its other half.

He had not eaten. He no longer asked for anything. Even when spoken to, his eyes did not quite meet theirs. As though he were waiting for someone or had already given up waiting.

And in the thick of this silence, Suho came. It had not been permitted. He had not been summoned. He came because he heard. Because the moment the rumor reached his ears, that the prince had collapsed, he felt something sharp and ancient tear loose inside his chest.

He ran, ignoring every command, every barrier. Stormed through guards. Shoved aside servants. Until at last, he reached the door he once knew like his own skin.

There, he hesitated. His knuckles hovered near the wood, rain dripping from his sleeves, heartbeat heavy like hooves against stone.

He stepped inside.

The light was dim. Only a single lantern burned near the bed, casting flickers of gold against the prince’s too still frame.

“Sieun-ah,” Suho breathed, the name trembling on his lips like prayer. He approached slowly, eyes tracing every hollow of the prince’s cheeks, the feverish flush blooming beneath his skin, the bruises of sleepless nights beneath his lashes.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, and in that moment, all the anger, all the pride, all the walls he’d built in bitter defense crumbled to dust.

“You foolish, foolish thing,” Suho whispered, voice cracking as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Sieun’s damp brow. “What have you done to yourself?”

Sieun stirred faintly at the touch, a breath catching in his throat. His lips parted, dry and colorless.

“Suho-ya?”

“I’m here,” Suho said, hand trembling where it touched the prince’s cheek. “I came.”

The prince blinked slowly, and though his gaze was heavy with exhaustion, it was the first time in days that it held any light. He reached for Suho’s sleeve, fingers weak, but desperate, and held on like it was the last thing tethering him to the world.

“I thought…” Sieun’s voice was barely there. “You hated me.”

Suho pressed his forehead against the back of Sieun’s hand. “I never did. I only forgot how to forgive. I should never have left you.”

A silence fell then, broken only by the crackle of the lantern flame and the soft rattle of Sieun’s breath.

In that silence, Suho remained. He sat beside the prince all through the night, changing his cloths, cooling his fever, refusing to leave even when servants pleaded. His sword lay abandoned in the corner.

Here, he had no need to fight.

Only to stay.

Only to keep warm the one thing he could not bear to lose again.

Dawn came not with fanfare, but in quiet trickles of pale gold. The rain had passed in the night, leaving the palace soaked and hushed, like the world itself had exhaled after holding breath far too long.

Within the prince’s chamber, the stillness had softened.

The fever had broken sometime before the sky began to bloom with morning, and Sieun now slept with a less troubled breath. His lips, though still pale, were no longer cracked. The curve of his brow had eased, as if some terrible weight had finally been set down.

Suho sat where he had all night—on a low stool beside the mattress, back bent in quiet vigil. His cloak had been draped over the prince when the blankets grew damp, and his sword remained untouched by the wall.

His hand, calloused and strong, rested near Sieun’s. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth returning.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Outside, a bird cried once and then fell silent again.

Suho’s eyes were fixed on Sieun’s face, as though trying to memorize it anew. The long lashes. The faint shadows of past tears at the corners of his eyes. The slight curve of his mouth, often restrained, but in sleep, vulnerable.

He looked like he was made of porcelain and poetry.

A breeze slipped through the cracked window and lifted a strand of Sieun’s hair across his cheek. Without thinking, Suho reached forward and brushed it away gently, fingers lingering for the barest of seconds on his temple.

His eyes fluttered open, drowsy and unfocused. He blinked into the morning light, disoriented, until his gaze settled on the figure before him.

“Suho-ya,” he murmured, barely audible.

“I’m here.” Suho leaned in closer, voice quiet, steady. “You’ve slept through the night. The fever’s gone.”

Sieun’s eyes glistened, not from pain, but from something older. Something that had no name and yet was full of meaning.

He reached weakly toward him, and this time, Suho didn’t hesitate.

He took his hand in his own.

Sieun’s voice cracked. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Suho gave a soft, broken laugh, the kind that comes only when grief has begun to thaw.

“Then I will stay,” The warrior said, brushing Sieun’s knuckles with his thumb. “So you’ll know I’m not.”

For a while, they didn’t speak.

The morning unfolded slowly around them. Distant sounds of servants stirring, a rooster’s cry beyond the outer wall. But in this chamber, time did not move. There was only the quiet between them, the kind of quiet that needed no words.

“I’m sorry,” Sieun whispered at last, voice fragile as spring frost.

But Suho only shook his head. “Not now. You must rest. There is time still.”

“Is there?” Sieun’s gaze searched his face, frightened and hopeful in equal measure.

Suho paused, then leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing Sieun’s. “If there isn’t, I’ll make it.”

In that slant of gold morning light, with his fingers intertwined with the only hand that ever steadied him, Suho allowed himself to breathe for the first time in weeks.

It was not forgiveness. It was not yet healing.

But it was something sacred.

Something soft, and warm, and still.

Like the feeling of coming home.

By the time sunlight had pooled like melted gold across the wooden floorboards, the chamber had warmed with the hush of returning life. Birds chattered faintly in the palace trees, and the scent of damp earth crept through the window, mixing with the faint medicinal aroma that still lingered from the fevered night.

Suho had not left his place.

Sieun remained curled beneath the blanket, eyes half-lidded as he dozed in and out of shallow sleep, hand still loosely wrapped in Suho’s. There was color in his cheeks again. The tremble in his lips had stilled. And though he had not spoken much since waking, his fingers would now twitch faintly when Suho shifted, as though he were holding on.

The room was so still that the sound of a soft knock seemed almost too loud. It came once, then twice, measured and polite.

Suho tensed, instinctively retracting his hand from Sieun’s and straightening his spine. His face closed back into the guarded mask he wore so well now, like a warrior returning to duty.

The door opened with a sigh.

Yeongi stepped in with a lacquered tray balanced in her hands. On it sat two small bowls of medicinal tea, steam curling like threads of silk into the cool morning air. Her eyes immediately found the prince, and softened with relief.

But then she saw the stillness between the two men.

Saw Suho, pale with exhaustion, seated at Sieun’s bedside with eyes that lingered far too long.

Saw Sieun, cheeks flushed and body leaned ever so slightly toward the man who once guarded him like breath itself.

Something flickered behind her gaze.

“I thought tea might do His Highness good,” she said gently, setting the tray down by the side table. Her voice was even, but she did not look at Suho when she spoke.

“Thank you,” Sieun murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep and sorrow. He tried to rise, but Suho was quicker, he reached to support him, hands firm but careful, helping him sit without a word.

Yeongi watched the quiet coordination between them. The way Suho steadied Sieun’s back with one hand while placing the warm bowl in his other. How he looked down at him, not with longing, no, not anymore but with something older. Something bruised. Something still tethered.

She folded her hands in front of her, carefully composed.

“I’m glad the fever passed,” Yeongi said, this time meeting Suho’s eyes. “It must’ve been a long night.”

Suho inclined his head, not saying anything. His expression remained unreadable.

But Yeongi had served Prince Sieun since he was a boy. She had seen every glimmer of grief that boy had ever hidden in silence. And she had seen enough of men like Suho to recognize the ache that remained even in someone trained to hide it.

The tray’s second bowl of tea remained untouched.

Sieun took a small sip, wincing at the bitterness, and gave a breath of dry laughter. “Still awful.”

“It’s medicine,” Yeongi replied with the ghost of a smile. “It isn’t meant to be kind.”

Her gaze flicked back to Suho.

“You should rest as well, Master Ahn,” she added, voice lighter now, polite. “There are cushions in the outer room, if the prince no longer needs your presence so urgently.”

Sieun flinched at that.

It was subtle, but Suho noticed it, and so did Yeongi.

The prince lowered his bowl.

“He may stay,” Sieun said, barely audible. “If he wishes.”

Yeongi’s mouth pressed into a thin line, unreadable. But then she nodded, bowing with grace before stepping toward the door. Her voice was quieter now, addressed to neither of them in particular, though it carried the weight of knowledge only the loyal dared hold:

“Some comforts, Your Highness… are not easily found twice.”

With that, she slipped through the doorway and closed it softly behind her.

The chamber fell silent again. Only the sound of Sieun’s quiet breath. Only the steam rising from the untouched bowl of tea.

Suho did not reach for it.

He remained seated beside the prince, gaze downcast, the memory of Yeongi’s words lingering like incense in the air.

The silence after Yeongi’s departure settled like snow; quiet, gentle, heavy. Neither man moved for a long time, as though even the breath between them was sacred.

Sieun held his tea with both hands, his eyes low. Steam curled around his lashes like smoke rising from the remnants of a fire.

Suho remained beside him, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the edge of the mat. He looked like he might rise, like he might excuse himself, step away before the moment could soften him. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly.

“I’ll get the comb,” The warrior said quietly.

Sieun blinked, confused. “The comb?”

“Your hair…” Suho’s eyes flicked up to him for only a moment. “It’s tangled.”

Only then did Sieun notice the way loose strands had fallen down the side of his face, tucked haphazardly behind his ears. His braid had loosened in sleep, and the fever had left the rest matted and damp.

He opened his mouth to protest, to say it wasn’t necessary but Suho had already risen.

The wooden box on the side table opened with a quiet creak. Suho retrieved the ivory comb nestled within, the same one Yeongi always used, its teeth fine and polished with age. His footsteps returned, soft as falling leaves, and when he knelt behind Sieun, something shifted in the air.

“Turn,” he said, more softly now.

Sieun did.

His back faced Suho, his body a breath’s length away, and his pulse quickened, not from fear, but from memory. From the nearness of what once was, and the ache of what could no longer be.

Suho began carefully, untangling the outer strands first, combing with the gentleness of someone afraid to touch too much. His fingers, calloused from swordsmanship, barely brushed Sieun’s skin. Yet each graze felt like thunder beneath Sieun’s ribs.

There was no need for words. The sound of the comb moving through his hair, slow, reverent, filled the silence.

It was an intimacy different from touch. A memory reawakened through motion. A kind of love that did not name itself, for to name it would break it.

Suho gathered the strands slowly, beginning to weave them with the same precision he once used when preparing Sieun for long ceremonies or travel. The braid he formed now was neater than Yeongi’s, tighter, perhaps too tight but it held. It held as though Suho needed it to.

When it was done, he tied it off with a silken cord. His hand lingered at the base of Sieun’s neck, unmoving.

“Why are you doing this?” Sieun whispered, voice so low it might have disappeared with the wind.

Suho didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quiet, firm but something inside it frayed.

“Because I still remember how.”

Sieun turned then, slowly, to look over his shoulder. Their eyes met briefly, impossibly.

The look was the sum of everything unspoken—nights spent apart, letters never received, lies dressed as truth, and a love that had survived the grave of silence.

“I don’t need you to remember,” Sieun said, voice shaking. “I need you to want me still.”

His words landed like a wound.

Suho stood before he could respond, gaze breaking away. “Your wedding is in four days, seja-jeoha.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It is what you are now.”

“You never used to care,” Sieun murmured, voice trembling. “When it was just us, you never said those words like they were a wall between us.”

Suho looked at him then, sharply. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him; dark, anguished.

“I care now,” Suho said hoarsely. “Because I must.”

Sieun’s breath caught. His fingers clutched the braid Suho had just tied. “And what of what I want?”

Suho hesitated.

“What you want is no longer mine to give.”

He turned toward the door, spine taut with restraint. His hand reached for the panel, then stopped.

Behind him, Sieun whispered, voice small, aching, young. 

“Even if all I want is you?”

Suho didn’t turn back. He stood there, unmoving, as though any shift would shatter something too fragile to hold.

“Then you must forget me,” he said, his voice no more than a breath. “For your sake, Sieun. Not mine.”

With heavy footsteps, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving behind the quiet, the braid, and a prince still sitting on his mat, fingers curled into longing.

The corridors of the Eastern Pavilion were hushed that morning, veiled in a thin mist that clung to the stone like breath refusing to leave the body.

Warrior Woo Do-whan had returned earlier than expected from the stables, his training robe slightly dusted with straw and the cold sweat of morning drills. As he made his way up the steps, he saw Yeongi standing outside the prince’s chamber door, her face pale, eyes wet, hands twisted in the hem of her sleeve.

She did not speak as he passed her. Only bowed her head.

It was quiet inside.

Too quiet.

When he entered, he found the prince alone, seated on the mat with his head bowed low, his shoulders drawn in tightly  like a reed bent in storm. His hair was neatly braided, but his hands trembled where they rested upon his knees. The tea beside him had gone cold.

Do-whan’s chest tightened at the sight.

He stepped forward silently, knelt at a respectful distance, and whispered, “Seja-jeoha.”

Sieun did not lift his head.

It was not his place to ask what had transpired  but it was not difficult to guess. Not when he had passed Lord Ahn Suho moments ago on the stone path, walking with the air of a man dragging chains.

Not when the prince’s grief hung so thickly in the air, it might’ve drowned every lantern flame in the room.

Do-whan did not speak further. He merely rose, gently adjusted the blanket draped across the prince’s shoulders, and stepped outside with an expression as composed as a stone soldier.

But his heart stirred.

He found Suho standing in the courtyard, beneath the gnarled persimmon tree whose fruit had yet to ripen. The older guard was staring at the far hills, where the mists had begun to lift.

Do-whan’s footsteps were heavy with purpose.

“Lord Suho,” He called out, his voice calm but low.

Suho turned, surprised, but said nothing.

Do-whan studied him. The man before him looked the same; tall, broad-shouldered, every inch the elite warrior he was known to be. But there was a weariness in his gaze now, a haunted slope to his brow.

Still, Do-whan did not flinch.

“I do not speak on titles,” He began. “Only as a soldier who serves. As one who has eyes.”

Suho regarded him with quiet caution.

Do-whan continued, “I don’t know what passed between you and His Highness, nor is it my place to judge. But I will not allow him to suffer because of your silence.”

A flicker of something like guilt or anger passed through Suho’s expression.

“He is the Crown Prince,” Suho replied quietly. “He will endure.”

“That may be so,” Do-whan said. “But just because he will does not mean he should.”

Silence.

The two men stood like shadows of opposing pillars, both loyal in their own ways, both shaped by duty, both drawn toward the same star.

Do-whan’s voice lowered, gentled only by the grief he’d glimpsed in Sieun’s chamber.

“He has suffered more than you know. And if you have no intention of holding him again, then I ask you—no, I warn you.” He stepped closer, gaze steady.

“Do not come near him. Do not look at him the way you do when you think no one is watching. Do not touch him only to walk away again.”

Suho stiffened, jaw tight. “You presume much.”

“I see enough,” Do-whan replied. He looked away then, toward the prince’s chamber.

“He clutches at threads now, anything to make sense of why the one who once protected him now walks past him like a stranger. If you mean to keep your distance, then do it properly. If you mean to stay… then stay.”

His voice darkened, quieter still.

“But if you keep tearing at him like this… I swear by my sword, I will not let it continue.”

Suho did not reply. Not for a long while. His face remained unreadable, but his fists clenched at his sides. It was not anger that stirred there.

It was the agony of choosing between what he wanted… and what he feared would destroy them both.

Finally, Suho spoke, “He was never mine to keep.”

Do-whan gave a slow, deep bow. “Then stop acting as though he still is.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his boots echoing down the stone path like the quiet toll of a distant bell, leaving Suho beneath the persimmon tree, alone, with the weight of his heart sinking like fruit never given time to ripen.

Chapter Text

Palace of the Yeon Kingdom, early spring. The halls breathe in silence. The hour was deep in the night, when the sky outside had dimmed to a color darker than ink, and even the cicadas had gone to sleep. Only the wind stirred, dragging softly along the stone eaves and whispering through cracks like an old friend mourning

Prince Sieun had not slept.

He slipped out of his chambers quietly, each step on the wooden floorboards calculated, weightless, practiced. The long white sleeves of his robe trailed like mist behind him, his hair loose and uncombed from tossing. Grief did not tire him, but it made everything feel unbearably loud in stillness, even the way his heart beat in his throat.

The kitchen was warm. The scent of roasted barley lingered, and the faintest smoke from the day’s fire still clung to the clay walls. A few embers glowed in the corner of the hearth like sleepy eyes. It surprised him to find a single lantern lit, even more so to find Suho there.

He was crouched by the brazier, cradling a small iron kettle in his hands, sleeves rolled, his hair tied low and loose. The firelight played across his cheekbones. He looked like someone halfway between shadow and memory.

For a breath, neither spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Sieun asked, voice soft, hoarse from disuse.

Suho only glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the tea. “It’s quiet here,” he said, his voice a low hum, not unkind, not warm but controlled.

Sieun lowered himself onto the worn mat opposite him. The silk of his robe pooled at his knees. He tucked his hands under his sleeves and watched as steam began to rise from the kettle. The silence wrapped around them not like distance, but like shared sorrow.

Suho poured them both a cup. The smell of ginger and dried jujube filled the room.

Sieun held the cup carefully, letting the warmth press into his palms. “You remembered how I like it,” he said, not quite a question.

Suho didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered briefly to Sieun’s hands, the same hands he had once stitched a robe for, once held in battle, once brushed trembling in the dark.

They sipped in silence for a while.

Then, without looking up, Suho reached into a small clay jar and pulled out a single preserved plum. He dropped it into Sieun’s cup with quiet finality.

“For the bitterness,” The warrior said simply.

Sieun stared at it. The plum floated like a tiny red sun, barely disturbing the tea’s surface.

A part of him wanted to cry.

Instead, he smiled, not the kind he gave to courtiers or to the King, but a tired, aching one. A smile born from the absurd cruelty of still loving someone who had become a stranger.

“You’re late,” Sieun murmured.

Suho blinked. “For what?”

“For this,” the prince whispered, raising the cup slightly between them. “For sitting with me like this. For tea. For quiet. For not being someone else.”

For a moment, a sharp, silent moment, Suho’s expression broke. His eyes dropped. His throat worked as though something in him had caught and refused to move.

But then he stood.

“I should go,” 

Sieun stood with him, gently touching his wrist, a hesitant brush, a ghost of what once was bold.

“Stay,” 

Suho looked at him, and his eyes were dark, full of something unspoken. But he only nodded, slowly, and sat down again but this time closer, their knees almost touching.

The lantern flickered low. Outside, wind chased across the rooftops. In the kitchens, the world stilled.

And somewhere between sips and silence, between stolen glances and warmth that hadn’t fully died, something softened again, not healed, not forgiven, but remembered.

Something that, for a while, had a name.

The plum dissolved slowly in Sieun’s cup, its sweetness unfurling like a secret. Their silence no longer felt like distance, it became something alive, a breathing space where grief and want could sit side by side without shame.

Sieun held his cup but didn’t drink. Instead, his eyes wandered over Suho’s profile, tracing the lines he’d memorized once under a different moon. The hard set of his jaw had softened. His hands, calloused and sure, rested on his knees, still and present.

“I used to sneak into the kitchens often,” Sieun murmured, voice nearly lost to the crackle of dying embers. “When I was a child. I’d pretend I was someone else. A boy with no crown. No father to disappoint. Just someone hungry for sweets.”

Suho said nothing, but Sieun felt his gaze on him, felt it like an anchor, like heat from the hearth. It made something tremble inside him.

“I want to sneak out tonight,” The prince said suddenly, glancing sideways. “Just past the outer gate. I won’t go far.”

“You shouldn’t,” Suho said immediately but his tone lacked force. There was no fire behind it, only habit.

Sieun tilted his head. “Will you come with me?”

Suho, after a long breath, nodded.

The night air was cool and carried the scent of pine and damp earth. The moon hung low, swathed in mist like a watchful guardian. They moved quietly, cloaked and careful, down narrow servant paths and through shadowed halls until the outer gate came into view, unmanned at this hour.

Suho stayed close. Too close, and yet not close enough. His hand hovered near the small of Sieun’s back, as if to guide, to guard but it never touched. Still, Sieun felt it. Felt him.

They slipped beyond the gate.

Outside, the world opened. A small hill behind the eastern garden stretched into a clearing where wild chrysanthemums bloomed, and the stream that bordered the outer forest trickled with moonlight. Here, the palace felt far away. Here, they were not prince and guard. Just two men who had once known each other’s breath.

Sieun crouched beside the stream and dipped his fingers into the water. It was cold and quick, like laughter too long forgotten.

Suho stood behind him, silent as ever, arms crossed.

“You can sit, you know,” Sieun said, glancing up. “Or has the palace broken even that in you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Suho’s features; faint, fleeting.

“I’m still me,” Suho said quietly.

Sieun’s smile turned sad. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” Suho confessed.

For a while, the only sound was the stream. Then, Suho finally sat beside him, close enough for their shoulders to nearly touch.

“You changed,” Sieun whispered.

“You did too,” Suho said, his voice low. “You learned how to endure.”

The wind stirred Sieun’s hair across his cheek. He made no move to fix it. Instead, he turned to Suho, the moonlight softening his sorrow-lined face.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” The prince asked. “That I would forget you because they told me to?”

Suho closed his eyes. “No, I was afraid you wouldn’t. And that you’d suffer because of it.”

For a moment, Sieun said nothing. Then, quietly, he reached for Suho’s hand. It was rougher than he remembered. More scarred but warm and familiar.

“I don’t want to endure,” Sieun said. “Not like this. Not without you.”

Suho didn’t speak, but his fingers curled gently around Sieun’s, just once, like a secret promise, like something too fragile to name.

Under the whispering pines, with nothing but the moon to bear witness, they sat side by side; two men who had been broken by duty, stitched back together by longing, and who, even now, had no idea if they were allowed to want this.

The quiet between them was no longer stiff, but tender; the kind of quiet that wrapped around them like mist on a still river. Their hands, loosely entwined, lay between them like the smallest act of rebellion.

Sieun didn’t look at Suho when he spoke next.

“Sometimes,” He whispered, “I dream of another life.”

Suho glanced at him, but Sieun kept his eyes on the water.

“In that life, I’m not a prince,” he continued, voice faraway. “I’m just a student. Ordinary. I do well in my studies. Perhaps too well that I’d be called arrogant for it.” He smiled faintly. “And you… you’d still be by my side. Not as my guard, but as a boy who eats too much and works too hard. Everyone would know your name because of how fast you run and how fiercely you protect your friends.”

Sieun turned then, and in his eyes was a softness that ached.

“You’d walk me home after classes. I’d pretend I hated it, but I’d wait for you by the gates every day. We’d argue over silly things like whose rice bowl is bigger, or whether I should get more sleep.”

Suho’s throat bobbed with a swallow, but he didn’t interrupt.

Sieun leaned back onto his palms, eyes turned toward the moon.

“We’d be two boys growing older without crowns or swords. I’d write you poetry and hide it in your books. You’d scold me for skipping meals.” His voice caught a little. “And we’d grow up knowing how to love each other without fear.”

Suho looked at him as though the words were too precious to breathe near. Then, finally, he spoke, low and aching.

“What else happens in that life?”

Sieun turned to him, his lashes damp with dew or perhaps not dew.

“In that life,” he whispered, “no one would tear us apart. Not kings. Not duty. Not lies.”

Suho’s fingers tightened around his just slightly.

Sieun continued, softer still, “And you wouldn’t have to pretend to not want me.”

A silence deeper than the river passed between them, the kind that hums with all the things unsaid.

“I never stopped wanting you,” Suho said finally, his voice raw.

“But you stopped looking at me like you did,” Sieun replied, not with anger, but with quiet sorrow.

A wind stirred the trees above them. The moonlight dappled Suho’s face, illuminating the storm in his eyes.

“I had to,” Suho murmured. “If I didn’t, I would’ve burned the world to keep you. And that would’ve destroyed you.”

Sieun’s gaze fell to their joined hands.

“Maybe I would’ve let you,”

They sat like that for a long while, boys no longer, but not yet men free to choose their fates. Only hearts aching beneath stars, clinging to a dream that might never be.

Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called, its cry hollow and lonely like a longing that had learned to live with itself.

”Will you still love me if I was a nobody?” 

“I will love you in every lifetime, my jeoha.”

The walk back to the palace was slow and quiet. Sieun’s head leaned gently against Suho’s shoulder, their hands brushing now and then, though never fully held, as though even the night could not grant them that much grace. The air was cooler now, and the grass held the scent of dew. Each step felt too loud, each breath too precious.

When they reached the outer edge of the prince’s quarters, Sieun turned, eyes searching Suho’s face.

“Will you be all right?” The prince asked softly.

“I’m not the one being torn apart,” Suho said, attempting a quiet smile, but it was broken around the edges.

Sieun hesitated. He reached up, fingers brushing the front of Suho’s robe, not holding him back, only touching the fabric as though to remember it.

“Goodnight, Suho.”

Suho bowed slightly. “Goodnight, seja-jeoha.”

It stung, the formality but they both knew why it had to be said.

Sieun disappeared beyond the threshold, the faint glow of lanterns swallowing his silhouette. Suho stood for a moment longer in the corridor, staring after the door.

When Suho turned, his blood ran cold, and his body stiffened. 

In front of him was Beomseok, leaning casually against a pillar, arms folded, eyes shadowed with something too sharp to be called a smile.

“How touching,” Beomseok said, voice smooth like lacquer, “the way you walk him back like a dutiful dog.”

Suho froze for only a breath before continuing his stride. “Get out of my way.”

But Beomseok fell in beside him, footsteps light, voice low.

“Does he know?” He asked, tone deceptively soft. “That while he clutches onto fairytales beneath the moon, you’re the very reason his heart was broken in the first place?”

Suho’s jaw clenched.

Beomseok tilted his head. “You played your role well. So cold, so cruel. You had him believing you didn’t care. And now look at you, chasing after crumbs of the very thing you threw away.”

Suho stopped walking, the air between them thick.

“Don’t mistake my silence for weakness, Beomseok.”

Beomseok smiled, all teeth. “No, I mistake it for guilt.”

Suho’s fists tightened at his sides.

“He looked at you like you were his whole world,” Beomseok went on, his voice darkening. “But you crushed that devotion beneath your boots, all because some noble lady whispered a lie. You didn’t even fight for him, Suho. You believed what you wanted to believe.”

Suho’s breathing turned shallow.

“Do you know what I see?” Beomseok’s smile disappeared. “A man who let fear choose for him. And now you follow him around like a ghost, hoping your presence might undo what your absence already ruined.”

Something in Suho cracked but he didn’t let it show. He turned fully toward Beomseok, face blank as a drawn blade.

“I will protect the Prince. No matter what it costs me.”

Beomseok took a step forward. “Even if it means standing beside him while another man marries him?”

Suho didn’t answer.

“You think you’re noble,” Beomseok murmured. “But you’re just a coward who abandoned the only person who ever truly loved you.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the corridor’s darkness, leaving Suho alone beneath the flickering lanterns, the night now too quiet to bear.

Suho stood there for a long time, every word echoing inside him.

And when he finally moved again, it wasn’t toward the barracks, but into the black silence of the gardens, where no one could see him crumble.

The morning came not with light, but with stillness.

It was the kind of morning that hovered; pale and heavy, as though the sun itself did not wish to rise over the palace roofs. Mist clung to the stone pathways, curling like breath held in grief. The air was cool, but not cold. Just enough to make one feel the absence of warmth.

Prince Sieun stirred from uneasy sleep, his body sore from the restless dreams that had plagued him. His bedding was tangled, silk sheets twisted around his limbs like threads of memory he could not shake loose. In his dreams, he had stood in a garden that would not stop blooming, searching for a man who always stood just out of reach.

He sat up slowly, his breath catching on a pain that had nothing to do with his body.

It was something in the air.

Something had shifted.

He dressed quietly, wordlessly, declining breakfast and waving off the maids who fussed with his hair. His mind was elsewhere; in the garden last night, in the weight of Suho’s touch at his back, in the half-smile he’d given him beneath the moonlight.

Though today, there was nothing. No knock at his door this morning. No familiar shadow following at a respectful distance.

He should not have expected it. But still… he had.

Sieun made his way through the corridor with practiced grace, pausing at a small corner balcony to breathe. From there, he could see the lower courtyard where the guards trained.

And there he was.

Suho.

He stood at a distance, watching as Woo Do-whan sparred with two others, sweat glistening down his bare back. A court lady on the terrace nearby was whispering with a fan pressed to her lips, eyes not-so-subtly fixed on the new guard.

Sieun watched Suho instead.

He was unmoving, arms crossed, face unreadable. But something in the rigidity of his stance betrayed him. Suho wasn’t watching the training. He was watching him, Sieun realized. Even from afar.

But when Suho finally turned, their eyes met for a fleeting moment.

Sieun gave him a faint smile; small, uncertain, hopeful. But Suho merely nodded once and turned away.

No warmth.

No flicker of the man who had walked him home beneath the stars.

Sieun’s throat tightened, a quiet ache forming behind his ribs.

“Your Highness?”

Yeongi’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. She approached gently, concern in her eyes.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not,” Sieun replied, though he was.

She placed a shawl over his shoulders anyway and looked down into the courtyard where Suho had already disappeared into shadow.

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.”

Yeongi watched him carefully. “You seemed happier last night.”

“I was.”

She didn’t press further. She didn’t need to.

The day passed slowly, with Sieun fulfilling ceremonial duties, meeting with tailors, nodding through tastings of dishes for the wedding feast. He said little. He smiled when he had to. But his mind wandered back to the garden, to Suho’s hand guiding him through the rain. To the words they didn’t dare say aloud.

Now, this silence.

A silence too deliberate, too rehearsed. As if someone had built a wall again overnight, brick by brick, while Sieun slept dreaming of another life.

By dusk, Sieun found himself walking alone in the garden once more. Not to meet anyone. Not to be found.

Just to breathe and wonder if the boy who once held him in the dark had truly vanished, or if he was simply hiding behind duty, behind lies, behind the ache of his own heart.

The night air carried a quiet dampness, clinging to the silk of Prince Sieun’s robe as he stepped beyond the threshold of his quarters. Moonlight washed over the stone pathways in pale silver, outlining the lattice of shadows cast by the trees. The palace had long gone quiet. No footsteps. No whispers. Only the sound of cicadas and the soft hush of a restless breeze.

He walked swiftly, breath shallow with anticipation. With ache.

There were no guards outside Suho’s temporary quarters, perhaps intentionally. Perhaps cruelly.

He knocked once.

Then twice.

No answer.

But the door gave when he pushed gently.

Inside, the chamber was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that flickered low and gold against the walls. Suho stood near the window, armor removed, still half dressed in his training robes, as though he hadn’t expected to rest.

He didn’t turn to look.

Only said, quietly, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” Sieun answered, just as quietly but he stepped in anyway, sliding the door closed behind him.

Suho finally looked at him. His face, even in dim light, was unreadable, the face of a man who had been wounded too many times and taught not to show it. But his eyes flickered the moment they met Sieun’s.

“What are you doing?” Suho asked, voice low, strained. “What is it that you want from me now?”

Sieun took a breath. Then another. And with the softest trembling in his voice, he said, “You, Suho-ya. It’s always been you.”

Suho’s jaw clenched. He turned away again, gripping the window frame, as though the wood alone could anchor him to reason.

“You shouldn’t say such things.”

“And yet I’ve said them,” Sieun whispered, stepping forward, barefoot on the wood floor. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you tell me not to. Even when it hurts.”

“Don’t,” Suho said sharply. “Don’t speak as if— as if you didn’t—”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Sieun interrupted, voice cracking. “I didn’t throw you away. Whatever they told you, whatever that letter said, it wasn’t mine.”

Sieun’s voice softened. “You think I could’ve ever used you? After everything… after how I’ve needed you, longed for you—”

“I saw you,” Suho snapped, finally turning, voice trembling with rage and something far more fragile. “I saw you smiling in the garden with that new guard. I saw the way he looks at you. I thought—I thought maybe…”

His words trailed off, bitter and unfinished.

“I smiled,” Sieun said. “But not like I did for you.”

Suho said nothing.

The prince moved closer, slowly and step by step, until only a breath of air separated them. The flickering lamplight danced across Suho’s features, the tension in his brow, the tightness in his mouth, the fury and grief storming behind his eyes.

“I would’ve given up the throne,” Sieun whispered. “Had you asked. I would’ve left it all.”

“You can’t,” Suho breathed. “You shouldn’t.”

“I would’ve.”

The prince reached for him then, gently, his fingertips brushing Suho’s wrist, then traveling up to his shoulder, his collar, until his palm pressed flat against Suho’s chest.

His heart was still beating hard beneath it.

“I don’t want to belong to anyone else,” Sieun said. “Not in name, not in duty, not in a temple scroll. Just let me belong to you. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

Suho’s restraint cracked, not with a kiss, but with a soft sound in the back of his throat. A plea, a surrender. He pulled Sieun in at last, mouth seeking his with trembling urgency, years of longing blooming and shattering in the space between their breaths.

They kissed like boys who had never been taught how to want in secret. Like men who had never been given permission to love. Like souls who remembered each other across lifetimes.

Suho’s hands trembled where they cupped Sieun’s jaw, as though even now, he could not believe the prince was real. And Sieun, all breathless grace and quiet devotion, clung to him as though he’d drown without the contact.

And between the rustle of robes and the hush of skin meeting skin, nothing else mattered. Not titles. Not thrones. Not the kingdom poised to take Sieun from him.

Only the whisper of Suho’s name on Sieun’s lips.

Only the echo of Sieun’s gasped “I’m yours.”

Only the stars, bearing silent witness outside the window as two hearts, once torn apart, found one another again in the fragile dark.

Their kiss was slow, not hungry, but aching. Mouths meeting as if they were relearning the shape of forgiveness. Sieun’s fingers curled into the fabric of Suho’s robe, tugging it loose with tentative grace, while Suho undid the sash of the prince’s garment with a soldier’s precision, though his hands trembled like a boy’s.

There was no rush. Only the sound of breathing  of fabric rustling against skin, of sighs shared between mouths and collarbones.

The bed welcomed them like memory.

Suho’s hands were calloused and warm, tracing the line of Sieun’s back with care, like mapping familiar constellations. He touched him not with possession but with prayer, as if Sieun were something fragile he’d been gifted once more.

Sieun’s breath caught as Suho kissed the hollow beneath his throat, his chest, the ridge of an old bruise he remembered placing there in a moment less gentle. This time, there would be no haste. No claim. Just presence.

“Tell me,” Sieun murmured, lips brushing Suho’s skin. “That you still want me.”

Suho’s fingers tightened at his nape. “I do. Even when I tried not to. I do.”

Pulling back, Sieun straddled Suho on the edge of the bed. With his glistening eyes that never seemed to leave Suho’s pair, and raw lips, he let his fingers untie the top of his robe, slipping from his shoulders and stopping on his waist. Beneath, his skin was exposed, new bruises from Suho’s lips painting his flesh. 

Suho’s breath hitched, drinking up the sight of his lover on top of him wearing nothing but the slipping robe. 

“Ruin me, Suho-ya,” Sieun breathed out, bucking his hips and creating friction between his and Suho’s clothed bulge. “Make me see stars and let me forget everything but your name.” 

In a snap, Suho reached out to curl his fingers around Sieun’s long locks, tugging him down and crashing his lips into the prince. This time, the kiss was rough and filled with longing. Their tongues were wet and warm, sliding and moving with hunger. 

A moan escaped the prince when Suho sucked on his tongue. His hardened member stood between the folds of his robe, already glistening and aching to be touched. 

His whole body went still the moment Suho wrapped his hand around Sieun’s member, pumping slowly and agonizingly. His thumb glided over the tip, sending the prince into a world of pleasure.

The kiss broke as Sieun arches his back, lips ajar and head tilted back. His fingers were gripping Suho’s hair, tugging on it as if to convey the pleasure his body was feeling. 

“Suho-ya, please,” The prince, who never backed down nor pleaded to anyone else, begged like a starved man. “More, please.” 

Beneath him, Suho wore a smirk on his face, still moving his hand on Sieun’s member. He said nothing but attached his mouth on Sieun’s nipple, swirling his tongue and nibbling the bud. 

The prince could only sob out as his body responded to the continuous wave of pleasure the warrior was giving him. His buds were perky and hardened under Suho’s tongue, sensitive and tender. 

“I want you inside me, Suho-ya,” Sieun begged again, feeling his hole clench at nothing and with want. The need to be filled and to be as one with Suho was becoming stronger. 

Suho looked up, smiling lazily at Sieun. “Wait for a moment, my jeoha.” 

The warrior reached out from beside the bed, pulling a bottle of unscented oil. With watchful eyes, Suho slicks his fingers with oil. 

“I will open you up first,” Suho rasps out, holding Sieun by his waist and reaching from behind to circle the rim of Sieun’s hole with his oil coated finger. “Gonna get you ready to take me.” 

Sieun shuddered at the feeling, a broken gasp leaving his body the moment Suho inserts a finger. 

“Suho-ya!” 

The warrior groans, feeling his hard member strain against his cloth. He thrusted his finger inside the prince, curling it and fastening its pace. 

By now, the prince was an incoherent mess. Sweat had dripped all over his body and he was flushed out. His cheeks were a shade of pink, lip between his teeth, and eyes fluttered close from pleasure. 

“You look like a doll, jeoha.” 

Sieun shook his head, “No more teasing, Suho-ya. I can feel myself falling apart.” 

The warrior inserted another finger, widening the width and curling it deliciously. Above him, the prince writhed like he was possessed, moving his hips to meet the fingers that were buried in him.

”So impatient, my jeoha.” 

Pulling his fingers away, Suho adjusted Sieun before his own robe falls to the floor. His member slapped to his stomach, red and angry and just ready to be touched. 

“You’re so big,” Sieun moaned out, reaching out a hand to touch the member. 

Suho oils up his length before guiding the prince on his member, aligning it. 

Sieun’s lips parted the moment he sunk down on Suho’s length, even the tip was too much for him to take. It stretched him out to the core, and his own member twitched as he welcomes the sting that comes. 

Once he bottomed out, sitting on Suho’s lap with his member inside him, Sieun was panting like a rabid dog. He moved slowly, hips moving back and forth. 

“Look at you, Sieun-ah,” Suho groans out, tugging on the prince’s hair. “Even I can see myself in your stomach.” 

True to his words, Suho’s member bulged in Sieun’s lower abdomen. He can see the way it moved inside him, loving how erotic it looked like at the moment.

”You’re so big, Suho-ya,” Sieun was now babbling incoherently as he bounced on Suho, head thrown back and his chin had his own saliva coating his skin.

As he continued to move, Suho was biting his lip, leaned back and relaxed. He could write poetry and prose about how Sieun looked utterly beautiful and devastatingly erotic on top of him. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and his whole body was on fire. 

They moved together like an unfolding poem, bodies pressed close, movements slow and reverent, as if each stroke and sigh could stitch the wounds between them. Suho entered him with a quiet inhale, forehead resting against Sieun’s, the world reduced to breath, warmth, the press of skin against skin.

Neither of them spoke, there was nothing left to explain. Only the ache of too many unsaid words, now rewritten in the language of touch.

Sieun’s legs were tired but he wanted to please the warrior. He snaps his hips up, then back down. He continued to do so until he could finally angle his hips in a way that Suho’s member rams on his sweet spot. 

“Oh!” His moans were getting louder as he manages to bounce again and again on Suho.

Immediately, Suho clamps as hand over his mouth. “We must be quiet, jeoha, or someone else will hear you falling apart for me.” 

All of a sudden, Sieun’s eyes widened and his lips opened. Suho had snapped his hips up, doing all the work at this point. His body stilled, falling forward into the other’s chest. He had become pliant, letting Suho consume him with everything. 

“Wouldn’t you want that though, my jeoha?” 

Suho hammered into him, movements so fast and with such vigor. It left the prince speechless, with just tears falling from his eyes and lips still covered by Suho’s hand. 

“You’d like it when someone sees you like this crying over getting railed with a commoner like me.” 

By now, Sieun was sobbing, grabbing tightly onto Suho as the latter moves inside him, with every drag of his member sending him into another dimension of pleasure. 

“Now,” Suho breathed out, thrusting sloppily as he feels himself getting close to his peak. “Be a good prince and let me use you.” 

At that command, Sieun cries out, his untouched member painting Suho’s chest with hot streaks of white liquid. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his hair sticking to his body from sweat. 

A few more thrusts and Suho was coming inside the prince, burying himself deeper into him. His high came strong, probably making up for the time they were away. 

“I love you always, my jeoha.”

Afterward, Suho gathered him close, curling protectively around his prince. Their limbs tangled once more, not for heat, but for home.

Sieun whispered, his voice barely audible in the hush between heartbeats: “If only we were born differently. I’d be a scholar, always ahead in class. You’d be the boy who sleeps a lot and ate too much.”

Suho huffed a soft laugh against his hair. “And I’d carry your books and fight anyone who mocked you.”

“I’d love you freely. Not like this.” Sieun’s voice broke, but he buried it into Suho’s chest.

Suho kissed the crown of his head. “You already do. And I already do. Even if we cannot say it.”

The candle sputtered beside them, casting long shadows that tangled on the wall like their bodies.

In the quiet after, there was peace, not because their world had changed, but because for a moment, they had found each other again within it.

Dawn crept in slowly, spilling honey-gold light across the wooden floor and silk sheets. Outside, sparrows chirped in quiet intervals, as if mindful of the sleeping figures curled together inside.

Prince Sieun awoke to the steady rhythm of Suho’s breathing against the crook of his neck; slow, deep, and entirely at peace. The weight of his arms around him had not lessened in the night, as though some part of Suho feared that even in sleep, Sieun might vanish.

Sieun did not move. He simply stayed there, letting the moment root itself deep in his chest.

The world, for once, was still.

His body was sore in the gentlest of ways, a lingering ache that felt like a reminder not of pain, but of closeness, of being held tenderly. He remembered the quiet reverence in Suho’s touch, the way they had breathed into each other’s mouths like lifelines.

It had not been rushed, nor ravenous. It had been a confession,  one they could not afford to say aloud.

Suho stirred softly behind him, brow brushing against Sieun’s shoulder.

“You’re awake,” The warrior murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Sieun gave a faint nod. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I didn’t want to stop holding you,” Suho admitted. His grip tightened for a moment, protective.

Sieun turned in his arms then, just enough to see him, the faint shadows under his eyes, the softness to his gaze that Suho tried so hard to hide in daylight. He reached up, brushing a thumb over Suho’s cheekbone.

“I used to imagine this,” Sieun whispered. “You beside me when I opened my eyes. I didn’t think it would ever happen again.”

Suho leaned into the touch, lashes lowering. “Nor did I.”

They lay there in silence for a while, tangled together like ivy and stone; Sieun’s head nestled against Suho’s chest, listening to the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat. It grounded him.

“You’re quiet,” Sieun said after a while.

Suho was quiet for a breath longer, then said, “I’m afraid.”

Sieun’s brows drew together faintly. “Of what?”

“Of waking up alone,” Suho said, honestly. “Of this being the last time.”

Sieun didn’t know what to say. So instead, he rose on an elbow and leaned in, brushing his lips against Suho’s, barely a kiss, more of a promise.

“Then stay,” The prince whispered. “For as long as you can.”

Suho smiled, tired but real. “I’ll stay until the end, Sieun-ah. Even if I must do so in the shadows.”

He sat up after a moment, rubbing a hand over his face. “Someone will be looking for you soon.”

Sieun nodded, reluctant. “We should go before anyone sees.”

As Suho stood, Sieun watched him gather their scattered garments with a kind of quiet reverence, watching the way the morning light traced the muscles of his back, the nape of his neck where Sieun had once pressed his lips.

“Let me,” Sieun said softly, taking Suho’s outer robe from him. He stepped forward and helped him dress, fingers smoothing out fabric, tying the knots gently. It felt like a goodbye, though he didn’t say so.

When it was Suho’s turn, he lingered as he adjusted Sieun’s belt, hands ghosting over his hips, gaze downcast.

“You’ll walk me back?” Sieun asked.

“Always,” Suho replied.

The corridors of the East Pavilion were still dappled with morning light when Lady Hwayeon stepped into the veranda, a scroll of bridal offerings tucked beneath her arm. Her maids trailed behind in silence, their slippers brushing against the polished wood with practiced grace.

She had been awake long before the sun crested the hills, as all good brides-to-be should be.

But her mind had not been on silk samples or ceremonial incense. No, it had been on a certain pair of eyes she’d caught lingering the night before. Eyes that belonged to a man who, not long ago, had stood at her side like a loyal dog. Now, they watched her betrothed with a hunger she recognized too well.

Suho.

He had changed since returning to the palace; his discipline intact, his expression unreadable, his loyalties… blurred. She had known he would come back under her command. She had offered him that place. But she had not expected him to look at Sieun that way again.

This morning only confirmed her suspicions.

She saw them from afar, through the lattice of her chamber window, hidden behind veiled silk and patience.

Suho stood near the arch of the south garden, where the magnolia trees had begun to bloom. The prince, her future husband, had emerged from a side corridor in his ceremonial under robe, hair uncombed, cheeks still touched by sleep.

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world beneath them stilled.

She saw it then. The softness. The way Sieun slowed in his steps, like a boy caught between dreams. The way Suho’s hand hovered near his side, not touching, but longing to.

The prince whispered something she could not hear. But Suho’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Their intimacy was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was something worse.

It was old.

It was familiar.

Lady Hwayeon turned from the window then, heart calm but mind ablaze. She poured herself tea with practiced ease, each motion silent. She had grown up in a court of women who knew how to smile while sharpening knives.

And she was not about to lose.

A soft knock echoed at the door.

“Enter,” She called.

The door slid open, and in stepped Beomseok, polished as always, his robes pristine, his bow low but eyes shrewd.

“My lady,” He said smoothly. “You summoned me?”

She gestured toward the cushion across from her. “Have tea. It’s jasmine.”

He took a seat without protest, posture perfect. The mask he wore was charming, easy but she saw past it. She saw the unrest in the way he curled his fingers against the rim of the porcelain cup.

“You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?” Lady Hwayeon asked, but it was more of a state rather than a question.

Beomseok didn’t ask what. He simply sipped.

“They’ve gotten close again,” She continued. “The prince and your old friend.”

Beomseok’s lips thinned. “Suho has forgotten himself.”

“Or perhaps,” She said with a thin smile, “he’s remembered what he wants.”

A beat passed. The silence hung between them like a coiled string.

“Why summon me?” Beomseok asked finally.

“Because you, like me, have been wounded by the way he chooses his affections. And because unlike the others, you’re smart enough not to act on emotion alone.”

Beomseok’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

She leaned in, her voice low, intimate like silk over a blade.

“Help me sever what still binds them. Not with steel. Not with blood. But with betrayal.” She slid something toward him, a folded piece of fine parchment. Blank for now.

“A lie,” Lady Hwayeon continued. “Dressed as a truth. And you will deliver it.”

“And in return?” Beomseok asked, though part of him already knew.

“You will remain close to him. Suho will never trust me fully but he still thinks of you as kin. Use that. Feed the fire of doubt. Of jealousy. And in time, he’ll forget that he ever looked at the prince with longing.”

Beomseok was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Consider it done.”

Lady Hwayeon smiled. Not warm. Not cruel. But final.

“Good. Then let’s show them both,” She said, lifting her teacup, “what happens when people forget their place.” 

Chapter Text

Morning broke gently over the palace, not with fanfare, but a pale wash of gold that kissed the tiled rooftops and slipped like silk through paper doors. The palace was thick with anticipation. Servants bustled through the halls like shadows, arms filled with ivory robes, golden tassels, and trays of offerings. Musicians rehearsed quietly in the courtyard. Even the air seemed perfumed with something sweet and final, as if the palace itself were preparing to wed its crown prince off like a lamb to fate.

But in a quiet chamber behind drawn screens, time lingered like incense in the folds of rumpled bedding.

Prince Sieun stirred first. He didn’t open his eyes immediately. He remained still, letting his senses reach for the warmth beside him, and it was there, solid and steady. A familiar chest rose and fell beneath his cheek, and a strong arm was looped around his waist, anchoring him to the present.

Still here, The prince thought.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He only listened to Suho’s slow, sleeping breath, to the sound of morning doves beyond the lattice windows, and to the ache inside his ribs, the kind born not from pain, but from having loved too fully, too briefly.

Eventually, he lifted his head and looked at the man beside him.

Suho looked younger in sleep. Less of a soldier and more of the boy who used to wait in the shadows of pillars, who had once carved Sieun’s name into a stone and kept it hidden in his sash like a secret vow. His hair was tousled from sleep, a faint bruise marked his shoulder, a souvenir of passion, and his lips were parted slightly, soft with unspoken words.

Sieun reached out and brushed his fingers along Suho’s cheek, barely touching. As if more pressure would break the spell.

“You’re still here,” He whispered, almost to himself.

Suho’s eyes opened slowly, as if drawn back from a distant dream by the sheer gravity of Sieun’s voice. His gaze met the prince’s and held no words, not at first. Only breath. Only aching silence.

“I told you,” Suho murmured, voice husky. “I wasn’t planning to leave.”

Sieun swallowed, eyes flickering over Suho’s face as if memorizing him anew. Then he shifted, crawling up slightly, so their foreheads touched.

“I had a dream,” Sieun whispered. “You and I, we were just boys. No palace. No titles. You were always beside me. You always sleep during classes, I helped you with your studies. You fought off the other village boys who tried to tease me.”

Suho smiled faintly. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

“You were always late,” Sieun added. “And always hungry. You said I was the only one who scolded you sweetly.”

“You do scold sweetly,” Suho murmured, brushing his lips against Sieun’s temple.

“I think I loved you there too,” Sieun said softly. “Even in that life.”

Suho closed his eyes at that, as though the words hurt more than they healed.

“I would chase you across lifetimes,” The warrior whispered softly like feather and silk. “Even if we never meet in time. Even if fate pulls us apart again and again.”

Sieun pressed a hand over Suho’s heart, feeling its quiet rhythm. “Would you remember me, even if I had a different name?”

“I’d know you by your silence,” Suho whispered. “By the way you say everything without speaking.”

A tear slid down Sieun’s cheek. He didn’t brush it away. They lay like that for a while; skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, while the world outside prepared to dress him in royal red and wed him to someone he didn’t want.

Eventually, Suho rose from the bed, moving carefully, as if leaving the warmth would shatter something fragile between them. He pulled on his inner robe and turned to Sieun, who sat up slowly, the blanket falling around his waist. His hair was unbound, messy from sleep, and his skin still glowed with the warmth of last night’s love.

“Come here,” Sieun said softly, holding out a hand.

Suho returned, kneeling beside the bed. He took Sieun’s hand in both of his and pressed his cheek against it.

“I should leave before someone notices.”

“I know,” Sieun said. “But not yet, please.”

So Suho stayed a little longer, long enough to brush Sieun’s hair gently with a wooden comb, to tie it half up with a ribbon of soft gray silk. The same ribbon Sieun had once hidden a poem in.

“I remember this,” Suho said, fingers lingering.

“It still suits you,” Sieun replied, voice barely above a breath.

A knock came, sudden and sharp, on the outer screen.

Sieun tensed. In an instant, Suho stood swiftly, straightening his robe. With silent precision, he slipped into the alcove behind the divider, hidden.

A maid entered. “Seja-jeoha,” she bowed. “The Queen Dowager requests your presence. The tailors must remeasure you for tomorrow.”

Sieun nodded slowly. “I’ll be there shortly.”

When the maid left, Suho stepped out. His eyes met Sieun’s, and for a second, neither moved.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Sieun asked.

“If the gods allow it,” Suho replied.

Their hands met one last time, a fleeting touch and then Suho was gone.

Sieun sat in the quiet that remained, staring at the morning light on the floor. Already, the world was shifting again. But for a few hours, they had been only boys. Just hearts, just hands, just two people who had dared to love in a world built to crush it.

The sun rose gently over the palace grounds, casting a warm, golden sheen through the silk panels of Prince Sieun’s chamber. A breeze fluttered the sheer curtain, trailing through the room like a ghost’s sigh. The prince had long awakened, but he remained in bed, curled within the rumpled layers of his blanket, a hand resting on the empty space where Suho had once laid.

It had only been a few hours since the guard had slipped away before sunrise, murmuring a quiet promise to return. They had said little, words felt too small for the ache in their chests but Sieun remembered Suho’s lips against his shoulder, his fingers brushing hair behind his ear, his silence heavy with yearning.

He hadn’t meant to fall again, and yet he had; softly, foolishly, completely.

The palace stirred with preparations for the wedding, now merely two days away. Lady Hwayeon had sent an embroidered scroll suggesting a final fitting this afternoon. The Queen Dowager had summoned the prince for tea. But Sieun’s mind strayed elsewhere—Suho. His Suho.

After breakfast, dressed in muted silk robes with only Yeongi accompanying him, Sieun went to the Queen Dowager’s residence. He offered her his quiet affection, held her hand as she asked after his health. She smiled, and for a fleeting moment, Sieun saw her as she was before the weight of the crown and age; warm, sharp, still burdened by the sorrow of losing her youngest son.

When he left her quarters, his thoughts were already drifting back. Where would Suho be now? Had he returned to his post? Was he resting? Would he meet him at the west garden again, under the fig tree, where they had kissed like boys starved of time?

With a flutter in his chest, Sieun dismissed Yeongi and wandered alone through the corridors.

He didn’t expect to find Suho near the lotus pond, beneath the shade of the old ginkgo tree. Nor did he expect to see Suho smiling.

She was beautiful, that was undeniable. A court lady in crimson silk, standing too close, her voice lilting with practiced sweetness. Suho stood still, arms crossed, offering the barest of replies but he did not step away. He looked patient.

She leaned in, her fingers ghosting his sleeve as she laughed at something he hadn’t said.

Sieun froze behind a pillar, heart cracking in quiet, imperceptible places.

He shouldn’t feel it. Not now. Not when he knew better. Not when it had taken all of them every whispered night, every stolen moment to rebuild what was once shattered. But the sight of Suho’s form beside another, even just standing there, tore through him like a blade honed too well.

He waited just a moment more, hoping Suho would turn, pull away, walk off.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the girl smiled again and this time, she touched his hand. It was brief, barely there, but it was enough.

Sieun turned. His fingers trembled beneath the sleeves of his robe as he walked back toward the direction he came, each step heavier than the last. Around him, the birds still sang. The summer breeze still carried the scent of ginseng blossoms. The world remained unchanged, only he had cracked.

He should have confronted him. Should have spoken. Should have laughed it off like the crown prince he was.

But what could he say?

That his heart was breaking from the mere proximity of another?

That he had given himself, twice now, to a man who never even saw the woman beside him?

That he loved?

No.

No, he would not say that. He could not.

In the shade of a quiet corridor, he stopped and leaned against the wooden beam, chest rising in shallow breaths. He clenched his jaw, wiping at his eyes before tears could fall. And when Yeongi returned minutes later, breathless and confused, Sieun only said, 

“Take me back to my chambers.”

“Seja-jeoha, are you—?”

“Please,” Sieun whispered. “I am just tired.”

By the time Prince Sieun returned to his quarters, his footsteps had grown soft and slow, as though the air itself grew heavier with every step. The day had warmed, but he felt none of it. Not the sun on his skin, not the wind threading through the silk layers of his robe. All he could feel was the echo of what he had seen; that girl, that fleeting touch, and Suho’s silence in the face of it.

He did not cry. He would not, not for a man who had once promised to fight the heavens to stay by his side.

He entered the chamber with quiet grace, nodding to the waiting attendants before waving them away with a single flick of his hand.

“That will be all.”

But not all had gone.

One man remained in the courtyard just beyond the chamber threshold; broad-shouldered, tall, vigilant. His silhouette stood half in shadow, half in gold, framed by the branches of the juniper tree that curled like old fingers above the palace eaves.

Woo Do-whan.

The new assigned guard who had stayed respectful, always at a distance. But today, his eyes met Sieun’s not with formality, but concern.

“Seja-jeoha,” Do-whan greeted, stepping closer. “You seem… unwell.”

Sieun hesitated. Something inside him wanted to send him away too but something else, deeper and lonelier, needed to be seen.

“I’m fine,” The prince murmured, voice hoarse from emotion held too tightly in his throat.

Do-whan studied him for a breath longer. “You are not.”

Sieun looked away, folding his arms before him, fingers curled loosely against the inner lining of his sleeve. “It’s nothing that can be mended,” he said. “Not by soldiers or swords.”

Do-whan’s voice gentled. “Still, if your heart is burdened, I would carry it if I could.”

The words stopped Sieun cold.

He turned to him, startled by the sincerity and the softness in Do-whan’s gaze. Not longing. Not desire. But devotion. A kind of unwavering, loyal warmth that made Sieun’s eyes sting all over again.

He let out a breath. “You are kind,” he said. “Too kind for this place.”

Do-whan gave the faintest smile. “Kindness is not weakness, Your Highness. At least… not to me.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, broken only by the soft sound of branches swaying overhead. And then, without thinking, Sieun stepped forward, seeking not comfort, but stillness.

Do-whan noticed. He did not move, did not speak. But his presence remained; solid, steady. A pillar where everything else had begun to shake.

Sieun did not see the figure watching from behind the stone wall of the outer courtyard.

Suho had come looking for him. After leaving the court lady, after growing uneasy at the silence Sieun left in his wake, he had followed quiet instinct and arrived just in time to see him with another man.

His breath caught.

Do-whan was standing too close. His head slightly bowed, as though listening to something only the prince could say. And Sieun, Sieun was looking at him with parted lips, eyes dark with something unreadable. Hurt? Gratitude?

Suho felt something curl hot and sour in his chest. He had not touched that girl. He had not smiled at her. But the prince had turned away anyway. And now, now he stood before another man like he belonged nowhere else.

Suho’s jaw tightened, the scar on his cheek twitching with the strain. His hands balled into fists at his side. He had wanted to explain. To tell Sieun what he had not said aloud. That it was nothing. That it was always him.

Now the prince had found someone else to lean on. He turned, his heart loud in his ears, and walked away without a word.

The moon had risen; full and pale, casting its silver light upon the palace tiles like spilled milk across a lacquered tray. The night breathed softly, wind skimming over roof ridges and rustling silk curtains half drawn against the world.

Inside his chambers, Prince Sieun sat at his writing desk, though the brush in his hand had long since stilled. The paper before him remained untouched save for a single ink blot, his thoughts too scattered, his chest too heavy.

He hadn’t seen Suho all day and he hadn’t explained. He should have. He should have said something the moment he turned that corner and found Suho with that girl, her hand on his sleeve, her eyes bright with intent. But the words had withered on his tongue. He had fled like a boy who feared pain instead of facing it like a prince.

And now, now it was too quiet. Too late.

A knock, sudden and soft, brushed the door. He rose slowly, approaching the door without calling for a servant. The screen slid open, and Suho stood there, his expression unreadable in the low light, his eyes shadowed but sharp.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Then Suho stepped inside. He shut the door behind him with a gentle thud, the air between them stretching taut and trembling.

“I saw you,” Suho said first, his voice low, scraped raw with restraint. “With him.”

Sieun’s throat tightened. “And I saw you,” he answered quietly. “With her.”

Silence fell again.

“I didn’t invite her,” Suho said. “It was a trap. I left as soon as I could.”

“I know,” Sieun said, too softly. “I knew even then.”

Suho blinked. “Then why—”

“Because I was scared,” Sieun admitted. “Because I hate this helplessness. Because we keep returning to each other, Suho, even when we know the end is written.”

Suho stepped closer. “Then let it be rewritten.”

Sieun laughed, brittle and bitter. “By who? The stars? The King? The gods who turned their faces away the moment I looked at you too long?”

“By us,” Suho said simply.

Sieun looked at him then, really looked. His eyes glistened, not from tears, but from the ache of everything he could not say. That he was two days from marriage. That his name was already half buried under duty. That he would give up his throne, his blood, even the air in his lungs, if it meant he could wake beside this man without shame.

And in that breath, he reached for Suho. The kiss that followed was not frantic or rushed. It was quiet and heavy like the silence after a storm.

Suho kissed him like he was still trying to understand him, like each touch might tell him something the world had hidden. Sieun melted under it, into it, against the armor-stiff chest, hands tangled in Suho’s collar as though anchoring himself to something real.

They undressed without speaking; hands roaming reverently, fingers brushing places they already knew but always longed to rediscover. Suho’s touch was gentler this time, less desperate, more worshipful. He cupped the prince’s face as though afraid he might disappear, brushed hair from his cheek with knuckles that once wielded blades.

The prince lay beneath him, bare in every way, looking up at the man who had stolen his soul before he’d even known it was missing.

When they came together, it was not a claiming but a communion; bodies moving in slow rhythm, eyes never breaking, breaths shared like prayers.

Sieun whispered his name like a secret.

Suho murmured his like a promise.

After, Sieun lay against Suho’s chest, his fingers tracing the faint scar over his heart.

“We never have enough time,” The prince whispered.

Suho’s hand slid down his back. “We will. In another life.”

Sieun closed his eyes. “In another life,” he repeated. “You’ll be just a boy with a smile too wide. I’ll be the quiet one who studies too much. And you’ll follow me everywhere. Even when I pretend I don’t want you to.”

“And I’ll carry your books,” Suho said softly. “And give you snacks, and punch boys who make you cry.”

Sieun smiled, barely. “And when the world forgets us… we’ll remember.”

Suho kissed his temple, holding him tighter.

“I’ll find you in every world.”

And for a moment, beneath moonlight and borrowed time, the weight of destiny seemed like something they could outrun.

The oil lamp had long since burned low, and the wind brushing past the lattice was cooler now, carrying the scent of pine and dew. Beneath the canopy of his bed, Sieun lay with his head pillowed against Suho’s bare shoulder, their legs tangled beneath silken sheets, breath moving in the same rhythm like two tides drawn to the same moon.

The stillness between them was not empty, it pulsed, lived, hummed with the weight of what was to come.

Sieun was the one to speak first. His voice was soft, muffled by skin and sleep and something more fragile.

“Two nights left.”

Suho’s hand, warm on Sieun’s back, stilled for a moment before moving again in slow circles.

“I know.”

Silence again, but not peace.

“Have you thought,” Sieun began, slowly, “how you’ll stand there when the procession comes? When I walk past you, dressed in red and gold that isn’t for you?”

Suho’s breath caught. He shifted only slightly, enough to pull Sieun tighter against him.

“I’ve thought of little else,” Suho murmured. “Every time I blink, I see you beside her. Every time I breathe, I wonder how I’ll bear it.”

Sieun exhaled shakily. “I wish I could disappear that morning.”

“I wish I could take you far from here,” Suho said, voice heavier now, bitter with the helplessness he had always worn quietly but never shed. “We could run to the northern border, live as no one. I’d build us a place by the river, and we’d wake to birdsong instead of royal decrees.”

Sieun smiled faintly. “You hate the cold.”

“I’d endure winter a thousand times over,” Suho said, tilting his head to rest his cheek against Sieun’s hair, “if it meant waking with you beside me.”

“I used to dream of such things,” Sieun whispered. “But I was raised to stand still while the world chose for me. Now I’m too old for dreams.”

“No,” Suho said, firmer now. “You were just too young when they taught you to give up.”

Sieun didn’t reply right away. He only reached for Suho’s hand, threading their fingers together slowly.

“I don’t want to forget you.”

“You won’t,” Suho said, almost angrily, and sat up just slightly, gazing down at him. “Don’t talk like this is the end. The wedding may happen but my heart… it will not bow to ceremony. Nor to crowns. Nor to her.”

Sieun turned his face, lips brushing Suho’s wrist.

“And when she touches me?” The prince whispered. “When she tries to claim me in the dark?”

Suho’s eyes dimmed, his jaw tensed.

“I will die a little each time,” Suho said hoarsely. “But I will wait. I will wait for every moment you can steal away. Every look you send when no one else sees. Every word you write when you cannot speak. I will take what the world allows and call it enough, if it means I can still have you in some form.”

Sieun blinked rapidly. “And if I break? If I lose myself in all of this?”

“Then I will remind you who you are,” Suho said. “Again and again, until the world bends or we do.”

They lay there in the quiet again, skin to skin, the weight of the wedding pressing on them like a second gravity.

Sieun closed his eyes.

“Maybe in the next life, I’ll choose you before they choose for me.”

Suho kissed his temple, his shoulder, the curve of his spine, lingering, reverent.

“And I’ll come running,” The warrior whispered.

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a pale watercolor wash across the latticed windows; soft blues bleeding into silvery gold. The incense had long faded from its holder. The sheets still held the warmth of two bodies pressed close through the dark.

Suho rose before the bells did.

He always did.

He dressed in silence, careful not to disturb the figure still half wrapped in linen and moonlight. Prince Sieun lay curled toward the center of the bed, his arm tucked beneath his cheek, brow slightly furrowed even in sleep like he was already bracing himself for the day.

For the world.

Suho stood by the window and looked at him. There were bruises on the prince’s neck, faint like smudges of longing. His hair was unbound, spilling across the pillow in loose waves, some strands clinging to the thin sheen of sweat on his temple. He looked too young, too human like this.

Not a royal heir.

Not the soon-to-be husband of Lady Hwayeon.

Just the boy Suho loved, and that made it hurt more.

Suho’s hand hovered over the silk curtain rope but did not pull. He didn’t want light to touch the prince’s bare back yet. He wanted to keep this—this hour, this silence, this hidden place in the world where they still belonged to each other.

Behind him, Sieun stirred.

“You’re leaving?” The prince’s voice was gravel soft, laced with sleep and something quieter—fear.

Suho turned, and a small smile touched his lips.

“I have to. The maids will come soon. If they find me here—”

“They won’t,” Sieun said, lifting himself slowly on one elbow. His hair fell into his eyes, his voice steadier now. “Just… stay a little longer. Just until the sun touches the floor.”

Suho hesitated before he sat back beside him, slowly easing onto the mattress, leaning against the wooden post of the bed as Sieun scooted closer, resting his head on Suho’s thigh.

“I dreamt we were farmers,” Sieun murmured.

Suho arched a brow.

“You? In the fields?”

Sieun smiled faintly. “You were the one in the fields. I stayed in the shade and wrote poems.”

“Of course you did.”

Sieun’s laughter was breathy, barely there. “I’d hand you a towel and make you tea. And you’d complain about your back.”

“I already do.”

“I know,” Sieun whispered, closing his eyes again. “But in the dream, I kissed you in front of everyone and no one flinched. No one looked.”

Suho didn’t answer. He only reached down to brush his fingers through the prince’s hair; slow, reverent strokes from brow to nape, like it hurt to touch, but it would hurt more not to.

“I would have liked that life,” Suho finally said. “Even with the sunburn and the aching joints. Even if we were poor.”

Sieun exhaled. “Would you still have followed me?”

“In every life.”

The room quieted again. A dove cooed somewhere near the courtyard, and faint footsteps stirred in the distant hallways.

Sieun sat up slowly, letting the sheet fall from his shoulder, but he didn’t reach for his robe yet. His bare skin glowed faintly in the morning light.

“I hate that the world is waking up,” he said softly.

Suho’s gaze lingered on him, on the curve of his collarbone, the red impressions on his skin from Suho’s grip, the wistfulness in his eyes.

“I do too.”

They dressed in silence.

It wasn’t cold, but they moved like men bracing against something, not the weather, but the weight of what they had to become again.

As Suho reached for the door, Sieun stopped him with a quiet, “Suho-ya.”

He turned.

Sieun stepped close and straightened his collar with gentle hands. “When I walk down the aisle in tomorrow, will you look at me?”

Suho’s throat bobbed.

“I will,” The warrior replied, “but only because you’ll be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sieun blinked rapidly. Then, as if not to cry, he forced a small smile. “And afterward?”

Suho didn’t smile, “Come to me. Even just once. I’ll be waiting. No matter what name you wear.”

Then, without another word, he slipped out into the hall, vanishing like a shadow before the sun could catch him.

Sieun remained, unmoving, his fingers still curled where Suho had stood.

The sun had begun to rise in earnest, stretching golden limbs across the courtyard, dappling the flagstones in warmth. Yet Suho walked through it as though wrapped in winter, his mind still tangled in linen sheets and the breathless hush of Sieun’s voice against his throat.

He didn’t head back to the barracks just yet.

Instead, he lingered by the eastern pavilion, a quiet, shaded place where the lanterns still flickered dimly in the corners. From there, he could see the outer gardens; lush and blooming, a painter’s dream come to life.

And there, framed by a willow’s gentle sway, was Prince Sieun. Freshly bathed, dressed in pale morning robes, hair bound neatly at the nape, he looked every bit the royal son of heaven. But to Suho, he still looked like his, the boy who curled into his side when no one watched, who whispered silly daydreams about farmland and ink-stained hands.

He was smiling now. Not the half-smile he wore at court, but something real, small, tired, but real.

He was crouched low, cupping something in his palm. A butterfly had landed there. Even from this distance, Suho could see the way Sieun stilled, careful not to breathe too loudly, as if the tiniest shift might shatter the moment.

God, Suho thought. He’s still so soft.

He didn’t deserve this life of silks and sacrifices. He should have been in a world where his tenderness wasn’t a liability. A world where a boy like Suho could take his hand in front of the whole court and not be met with swords or scandal.

But Suho didn’t move. He only stood there in shadow, watching as Sieun released the butterfly, its wings fluttering like a farewell.

All of a sudden, someone approached. Tall, broad shouldered, and confident strides cutting through the dew wet grass.

It was Woo Do-whan, the newly appointed palace guard.

Suho’s gaze darkened. He hadn’t thought much of him before. He seemed capable enough. Loyal, even. But now, seeing him approach Sieun with too easy a smile, the kind reserved for boys who think they’re charming, and it made something hot and sour stir beneath Suho’s ribs.

Do-whan knelt beside the prince. They spoke. Sieun smiled again, too easily, Suho thought.

Do-whan said something, and Sieun looked away shyly, the faintest flush creeping up his neck.

Suho’s hands curled into fists. He knew that look. That bashfulness; that sweet, uncertain vulnerability that only surfaced when Sieun felt seen.

He turned away before the ache could settle deeper. Before he could catch himself storming across the lawn and dragging the prince away like a jealous fool. He wasn’t allowed that privilege. Not here. Not with the wedding so close and the world so unforgiving.

Despite the growing fire in him, Suho knew that the prince only has his eyes set on him. He trusted Sieun enough to know that the prince will only love him in this life, and that alone settles the pain in his heart. 

The evening bell tolled low, echoing through stone and corridor like the beat of a dying heart.

Suho stood in silence beneath the eaves of his quarters, his armor stripped, his hands raw from practice he could not remember. The missive in his hand was simple, unadorned, and ink barely dried.

It was brought by a page in midnight blue garb, eyes lowered, voice tight as though he feared the wind might carry the message to the wrong ears. He did not linger. He bowed once and left.

Suho waited until the page was gone before untying the red silk cord and unrolling the parchment with calloused hands. The words stared back at him in stark, black brushstrokes. 

“Escort the northern envoy. You leave at dawn. —By Royal Command.”

That was all. No date of return or mention of the prince. No need for one. The silence said more than ink ever could.

He read it once. Then twice. Then again until the shape of the letters blurred and ran like blood in water. His breath had caught somewhere in his throat, too tangled in his ribs to escape. The ache that followed was not sharp. It was dull and heavy, like the weight of armor after a day’s march, dragging down the spine, seeping into the bone.

Suho folded the scroll wordlessly and pressed his fist to his mouth.

Outside, the palace exhaled the last breath of day. Shadows stretched long across stone courtyards and curled at the corners of closed doors. In the barracks, the sound of sword practice had ceased. Even the wind had quieted.

He stepped outside his chamber, bare arms crossed tight against the cold that wasn’t quite physical.

His thoughts raced, desperate to remember the way Sieun looked that morning—tucked beside him, hair a silk curtain against Suho’s shoulder, smile half asleep and childlike. They had not spoken of the wedding. Not then. Not with the sheets tangled between them, and the warmth of skin too honest to waste on lies.

They had only held each other. As if time might break if they acknowledged it. And now, he would leave. Without word. Without goodbye. Without even the chance to carve one more memory into the fragile wall they had built between themselves and the world.

It was then that he saw him.

Prince Sieun.

He was walking slowly through the courtyard garden, draped in the soft white of his morning robe, though the hour had long turned. His steps were unhurried and thoughtful. As if even the ground itself did not deserve his rush.

He paused beneath the plum blossom tree, hand rising to gently touch a branch that had not yet bloomed. In his fingers, he held the fan Suho had once gifted him, folded, worn with time, but cherished.

The sight of it pierced something in Suho’s chest.

He took one step forward. Then another. But just before he could call out, he stopped. His feet rooted in shadow. His breath caught again.

What would he say?

“I am leaving tomorrow.”

“I won’t be there to see you wed.”

“Forgive me, I cannot watch you be taken.”

What cruelty was that, to place such weight on Sieun’s heart when it was already being pulled in every direction?

Suho’s throat tightened.

If he told him now, Sieun might beg him to stay. If he did, Suho would fall to his knees. He would abandon the royal order and choose him. Again. As he always had. But the consequences, they would not only burn Suho but they would consume Sieun.

And Suho would rather vanish into exile than be the one who ruined him.

So he stayed hidden, half shrouded by the stone pillar, watching the prince as though this moment might be his last glimpse.

Sieun tilted his face to the wind, eyes closed. His profile, lit faintly by lantern glow, was heartbreak in its most beautiful form. Fragile. Proud. Grieving.

In that stillness, he looked as if he were waiting.

For someone who would not come.

Suho’s nails dug into his palm. He would leave before the sun touched the palace tiles. Before the drums were rolled, before the guests arrived. He would ride northward, sword at his side, grief bound like a second scabbard.

Prince Sieun would stand before the court with his crown and mask and say the vows that would bind him to someone else. He would become the perfect royal son.

And Suho, he would become nothing but a shadow again.

The moon rose above the palace walls, pale and indifferent.

Suho turned away and walked back into the dark.

The halls of the Eastern Palace were quiet—quieter than they had any right to be on the eve of a royal wedding. Torchlight flickered against wooden pillars, and the stone corridors beneath Suho’s boots felt colder than usual. Maybe it was the hour, or maybe it was what he was about to do.

He shouldn’t be here.

The King had summoned him earlier that afternoon with a sealed scroll and three cold words “Leave by dawn.” An urgent errand to the southern border, a message to deliver in person, something that could’ve waited a week, a day, even a few hours. But the meaning behind it was clear.

You are not meant to witness him become another person’s husband.

The pain had dulled into something quieter now. Not less sharp, only less visible.

But here he was; standing outside the Crown Prince’s doors, where the guards had already changed shift. He waited for the opportune moment and slipped through the side entrance, where Yeongi had long ago taught him the hinge that didn’t creak.

Sieun’s chamber was dim, a single oil lamp burning on the far table. And there, curled into his bedding, lay the prince.

His prince. 

Hair soft against the silk pillow, lashes trembling faintly though his eyes were closed. His breathing was slow, steady. Suho stood still for a long moment, letting the sight of him sink in. Letting this be something he could carry tomorrow, and the day after, and all the years beyond that he would live without him.

Sieun stirred then, sensing him the way only he could.

“Suho-ya?”

His voice was quiet, already raw with emotion. Suho stepped forward and knelt beside the bedding.

“You’re dreaming,” The warrior murmured, pressing his lips to the prince’s knuckles. “Go back to sleep.”

Sieun let out a breath. “I knew you’d come.”

Suho’s chest clenched. “You always know.”

Sieun pulled him down without ceremony, arms wrapping around Suho’s waist as though he’d been waiting for this all evening. And Suho allowed it, allowed himself to fall beside him, to curl up into the warmth he wasn’t meant to touch anymore.

He didn’t tell him about dawn. About the scroll. About the silent steps he’d be taking away from this palace when the sky was still dark. Because if he said it aloud, it would become real.

If he said it aloud, Sieun would cry, and  Suho wasn’t strong enough to bear it.

Not tonight.

Not when he only had this left.

They kissed like men who knew time was slipping from their hands. They held each other like survivors of a fire they couldn’t name. When they came together, it wasn’t urgent, it was reverent. Suho buried his face in the crook of Sieun’s neck as their breaths tangled, his hand splayed over the prince’s ribs, feeling the quiet rise and fall, memorizing each detail with aching precision.

Afterward, Sieun curled toward him, their fingers laced loosely between them.

“What if we weren’t who we are?” Sieun whispered into the dark. “What if we were just two men in a small village somewhere?”

Suho kept his gaze on the ceiling beams. “Then I’d wake up early to cook us rice. You’d complain I burnt the soup.”

“And you’d forget to bring our child home from the monastery again,” Sieun added, giggling through a shaky breath.

“I’d run barefoot to fetch them, and trip over a chicken.”

Sieun’s laugh this time was real, soft and fluttering against Suho’s chest. “And we’d be poor.”

“But happy,” Suho finished. “So terribly happy.”

The silence that followed was too heavy. It pressed into his ribs, made it hard to breathe.

He thought of telling him then. I’m leaving at dawn and this is our last night.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he cupped Sieun’s cheek and tilted his face upward, brushing their lips together once, then again, slower.

“If we were born again,” Suho whispered, “I’d find you sooner. Love you earlier. And never let you go.”

Sieun nodded, eyes glassy but calm. “And I’d choose you even if the stars forbade it.”

Suho stayed until Sieun drifted off, his breath growing even once more. He stayed longer than he should’ve, watching his sleeping face, memorizing each small flutter of his brow, the way his lips parted in slumber.

As the first sliver of gray light touched the horizon, he rose. He tucked the blankets back around Sieun’s bare shoulder. Smoothed back a strand of hair. He bent forward and pressed one final kiss to the curve of his brow.

“I’ll come back to you,” Suho whispered, though he didn’t know if it was a promise or a lie.

With an aching heart and wounded soul, he turned his back and left without a goodbye, because some goodbyes are too cruel to speak aloud.

Moonlight pooled like melted silver across the polished floors of the quiet pavilion.

Lady Hwayeon sat with a grace she had long since perfected; back straight, fingers loosely curled over her lap, the faint rustle of her silk hanbok the only sound between them. Across from her, Oh Beomseok stood still, shadows carving lines into his face, making him appear older, colder, more unreadable.

“You’re late,” Lady Hwayeon murmured.

Beomseok stepped into the room, unbothered, the edge of his mouth curling ever so slightly. “Forgive me. The palace is full of ghosts tonight.”

“Not ghosts,” She said, voice brittle. “Fools. All of them. Especially that Prince.”

At that, Beomseok let out a quiet laugh. “Still jealous?”

Lady Hwayeon turned to face him then, eyes narrowed. “I could accept being married into royalty, but not to a man who gives his heart to a soldier. That’s not a prince, it’s a coward.”

Beomseok poured himself a small cup of wine, his hands too steady for a man with clean intentions. “He’s not just a coward,” he said. “He’s a threat.”

Her brow lifted in curiosity, eyes gleaming with calculation. “You speak like a man with something to gain.”

Beomseok finally looked at her, truly looked at her with that peculiar glint he reserved for moments like this. “Because I do.”

He let the silence sit for a moment before stepping closer, lowering his voice.

“My mother was the King’s concubine. Eighteenth in line, barely mentioned in records. She was cast aside, her name erased when she died giving birth to me. I was raised in the shadows of the court, trained, discarded, and reminded every day that I did not belong.”

Lady Hwayeon blinked, realization dawning slowly. “Then you…”

“I am of royal blood. Not by law but by blood. And with no legitimate heirs after Sieun, who do you think the ministers would turn to, when all that’s left is rot and shame?”

She was quiet for a moment, then turned away again. “You’d never gain the people’s favor.”

“I don’t need it,” Beomseok said, his voice low, almost amused. “I need power and legitimacy. I already have the army’s favor in the border provinces. I’ve earned my place through steel and sweat, not powdered silk.”

Lady Hwayeon looked back at him, assessing, her thoughts spinning like wheels behind her fan. “And what do you need from me?”

“You’ve already done half the work,” Beomseok replied with a smirk. “You had Suho removed. Clever, the prince is exposed now. Vulnerable but not for long. The palace will be watching him after the wedding. That’s why we move before it.”

Her voice sharpened. “You mean to kill him before the wedding?”

“I mean to make it look like an accident,” Beomseok replied coolly. “A garden mishap, a misstep in the royal pond, perhaps a poisoning no one will trace. Once he is dead, the ministers will scramble. But they’ll come to me, eventually. Who else would be left? You’ll be the grieving widow, tragic and obedient, and I will be the crown.”

Hwayeon tilted her head, considering. “And if I say no?”

Beomseok’s smile turned razor sharp. “You won’t.”

She didn’t answer but she didn’t object either.

Outside the paper doors, the wind rustled through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried. The palace slept. But within its walls, treason bloomed quietly, petal by petal.

Chapter Text

The sun rose like it did every morning, but Sieun wished it hadn’t.

Its golden light spilled like lacquer across the wooden floors, inching into his room with a quiet persistence that made the silks on his bed gleam. Everything around him looked delicate, beautiful, as if the palace itself was holding its breath, waiting to crown its prince with red and gold.

Though, Sieun did not move. He lay there for some time, eyes half open, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The silken blanket still bore the faint scent of sandalwood and warm skin, a trace, a ghost, of someone who had been beside him just a few nights ago. He could almost feel Suho’s weight behind him again. The quiet pressure of his chest against Sieun’s back, the calm rhythm of his breath where it had warmed the nape of Sieun’s neck.

He reached out instinctively to the other side of the bedding.

Cold.

Empty.

Gone.

A quiet knock stirred him from the memory. Then the rustling of doors, and Yeongi’s voice, soft as if she knew he hadn’t truly slept.

“Seja-jeoha, it is time.”

Sieun didn’t respond, just blinked at the ceiling.

Yeongi padded to his side, her expression carefully arranged, but her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeves. She looked lovely today; her hair wound into a tall ceremonial crown of braids, the fabric of her jeogori embroidered with lotus and willow. But there was a sadness in her eyes, the kind that mirrored his too perfectly.

“The Queen Dowager is already in the East Hall,” Yeongi said gently. “The court awaits your bath. You must be ready before the drums begin.”

He sat up slowly. His limbs felt heavier than usual, weighed down by the invisible ache that had lodged itself in his bones the moment Suho left his side. Each movement felt rehearsed, like he was playing a role someone else had written for him; the docile prince, the obedient son, the polished husband to be.

He did not know how to be those things when his heart had already been given away.

“Is Suho…” The prince began, then stopped. The question lingered between them like smoke.

Yeongi’s hesitation was brief, but it burned. “I haven’t seen him this morning, seja-jeoha.”

Sieun turned away, jaw tightening. Another voice followed, deep and composed, Woo Do-whan, his personal guard, entering the room in full uniform.

“Your Highness,” The warrior said, bowing deeply. “Your ceremonial bath is drawn. I’ve been instructed to remain by your side until the procession begins.”

Sieun gave a small nod but did not look at him. Do-whan had been kind, quiet, loyal, attentive  but he was not the man Sieun wanted standing beside him today.

That, too, felt like a betrayal.

As they passed through the corridors, servants bowed with reverence, scattering petals and preparing long scrolls of red silk across the courtyard. Music faintly drifted through the morning haze, the gentle plucking of a gayageum, the deep hum of a haegeum’s bow. Courtiers busied themselves with banners and offerings, their faces lit with excitement, unaware of the storm brewing beneath their prince’s ribs. 

Sieun followed quietly, walking through a palace dressed like a groom, while he himself felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

The bath was warm, perfumed with chrysanthemum and mugwort, but it brought him no comfort. He sat still as his attendants scrubbed and washed his body in silence, their hands respectful but distant. His skin, too, felt like it did not belong to him, merely a canvas being prepared for someone else’s story.

Afterward, they clothed him in ceremonial layers. Red over white. Gold thread embroidered with twin phoenixes. A belt of silk woven so tightly he could hardly breathe.

A servant approached and knelt beside him.

“A message, Your Highness,” He said, head bowed. “Master Ahn Suho departed at dawn. He was summoned to the Eastern province on royal errand.”

Everything in Sieun stilled. The words echoed hollowly in his chest.

“Under whose order?” Yeongi asked sharply, stepping forward.

The servant lowered his gaze. “His Majesty, the King.”

A long silence fell.

Sieun said nothing.

He only turned to the polished mirror before him, staring at the prince reflected back, dressed in the richest garments of the kingdom, lips tinged with rose, hair gleaming like ink under the sunlight, and realized he could no longer see himself.

Suho had left and he hadn’t said goodbye. No letter. No sign. No reason.

Only silence.

Only the aching memory of hands that had once held him as if the world might fall apart if they didn’t.

Yeongi stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Perhaps, he could not bear to see you go.”

Sieun’s fingers trembled over the silk on his lap.

“Or perhaps he already has,” He said, voice raw.

They guided him out of the chamber and into the waiting hall, where the Queen Dowager’s entourage had gathered. Yet? Sieun barely heard their greetings. He barely saw the sea of familiar faces waiting for him, smiling, congratulating, praising his poise and grace.

Do-whan was beside him again, silent and solid as ever. He turned to look at Sieun.

“You are brave,” The warrior said, unexpectedly. “But even the brave are allowed to hurt.”

Sieun’s throat tightened.

“I do not need your pity,” The prince replied, though the words lacked conviction.

Do-whan said nothing more, only offered his arm as they walked through the hallway toward the main pavilion, where the final preparations awaited.

Outside, the air was already heavy with incense and sunlight. Inside, Sieun’s heart beat hollow in his chest.

As they passed through the corridor lined with white lanterns, he glanced to the sky, to where the mountains curved beyond the palace walls, and wondered if Suho, wherever he was, had thought of him at all.

If the morning wind carried the same scent.

If the ache was mutual.

If he, too, was mourning something no one else could see.

The courtyard was loud with celebration. Drums beat like a heart grown too big for its chest. The palace walls, painted with joy, knew nothing of the grief threaded through the prince’s silence.

For a single moment, all of it faded when a familiar voice cut through the corridors like a blade cloaked in silk.

“Seja-jeoha.”

Sieun turned, startled.

There stood Oh Beomseok, clad in his formal guard attire; the blue sash of ceremony tied tightly around his waist, his dark hair slicked back, his mouth curled into something too soft to trust.

“Oh Beomseok?”

He bowed just deep enough to be respectful. “Forgive my intrusion. I was told you were preparing to walk toward the Eastern pavilion. But, I thought you might want to know.”

Sieun narrowed his eyes slightly. “Know what?”

Beomseok stepped closer, dropping his voice.

“Ahn Suho has returned.”

The world tilted.

Sieun blinked once, then again, heart stuttering inside his chest like a startled bird. “What did you say?”

“He came back not half an hour ago. They say he argued with a royal messenger along the gates. But he’s here. He refused to speak to the court, only asked for you.”

Sieun took a breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs. “Where is he?”

“Follow me,” Beomseok said, with a crooked smile. “He’s waiting in the southern storage wing. It’s quiet there. He didn’t want anyone else to see.”

Sieun didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think to question why Suho would choose such a hidden place, or why Beomseok, of all people, would be the one to deliver the message. All he knew was that the ache that had hollowed out his chest was suddenly alight with impossible hope.

They walked swiftly past the painted lanterns and gilded archways, down a narrow hall servants rarely used, where moss clung to the lower stones and the air grew colder with each turn. The noise of celebration faded behind them like a dream, replaced by silence.

Beomseok led him through a low gate. They reached the old ceremonial warehouse, long abandoned since the fire last spring, half cleared but still marked for restoration. A crumbling place of shadows and soot-stained beams, where no wedding procession would ever dare stray.

Sieun stepped forward. “Suho?”

No answer.

He turned but Beomseok’s expression had changed.

Gone was the polite mask. In its place, something else. Something bitter and gleaming beneath the eyes. Like a secret he’d finally stopped hiding.

“You shouldn’t have taken everything from me,” Beomseok said quietly.

Sieun froze.

“What?”

“Everything was supposed to be mine,” Beomseok whispered, stepping closer. “You think just because your mother was the one the king married, you deserve this life?” His mouth twisted. “And did you really think Suho would want you? It was pity. It was duty. You were a burden tied around his throat.”

“Where is he?” Sieun demanded, the edge of panic curling into his voice. “Where is Suho?”

“Far from here,” Beomseok cruelly smiled. “Exactly where I sent him.”

Sieun moved to run but it was too late. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind him with a clang that echoed through the hollow space like thunder. He rushed to them, pulling hard at the iron handle but it was locked.

From the other side, Beomseok’s voice came muffled, but clear.

“You should never have been born heir. The King knew it. The court knows it. And soon, all of Hwangdo will know it too when the prince they adore burns before the hour of his wedding.”

The smell came next—oil.

Sieun’s breath hitched. “No!”

The first spark hissed like a whisper. Then flames kissed the outer door.

Sieun stumbled back, heart thudding so loud it drowned the world. Heat rushed in like a living thing, licking the floor, climbing the walls, catching on the ancient drapery and dry wood with terrifying speed. The air turned thick, sharp with smoke, choking with betrayal.

He backed away, coughing violently, sleeve pressed to his mouth.

“Beomseok!” Sieun shouted, voice hoarse. “You’ll die for this!”

A low laugh from beyond the flames. “I’ll be reborn in your place.”

The fire roared louder. Sieun turned, eyes darting in desperation, there had to be a way out. A back door. A broken panel. Anything.

But the smoke was thickening. His vision blurred. He stumbled to the back wall, pushing past old shelves and unused crates. His lungs screamed. His knees buckled.

Was this how it would end?

Alone, buried beneath fire and forgotten prayers, while the palace celebrated a marriage that would never come to pass?

In the haze of heat, his mind called for only one name.

“Suho-ya.”

The palace was quieter than usual. Too quiet for a morning of such ceremony. The courtyards should have been buzzing with musicians tuning their instruments, ladies giggling behind silk fans, ministers pacing with scrolls tucked in their sleeves. But Beomseok walked through the eastern veranda without much interruption, the hush of anticipation mistaken for reverence. A wedding day, yes. But one not everyone celebrated in spirit.

Especially not him.

He adjusted the lapels of his official robe with deliberate calm. His hands were clean, nails trimmed to perfection. Not a trace of ash. Not a trace of blood. Only the faint scent of pine smoke clung to his sleeves, disguised as the incense burned earlier in the temple, he had prepared for this.

Two eunuchs passed by, bowing in haste. Beomseok inclined his head with an unreadable smile. Then, like a good soldier and loyal courtier, he stepped into the main pavilion where several ministers were gathered in hushed confusion.

“I bring urgent news,” Beomseok announced, his voice grave.

The court turned to him. The King himself, clad in golden robes, eyes already weary from delay, turned sharply.

“Where is the prince?” His voice sliced through the hall. “He was to be ready by the hour of sin.”

Beomseok dropped to his knees, eyes lowered but glinting with rehearsed sorrow. “Jusang Jeoha, forgive me. There has been a fire.”

Murmurs erupted like a gust of wind through dry leaves.

The King stood abruptly. “Where.”

“An old storage compound near the outer grounds. I was on patrol when I saw smoke too thick to ignore. We rushed to investigate but the flames had already devoured most of the structure.”

“Why would the prince be there?” One of the ministers cried out.

“I—” Beomseok bowed lower, as if stricken. “I don’t know. But… we found a robe. His ceremonial robe.”

Silence fell like a stone.

Beomseok slowly pulled from his sleeve the scorched fragment of Sieun’s embroidered robe, the phoenix sigil still faintly recognizable despite the blackened edges. He had made sure it would be the first thing anyone found.

The King stared at it, face blank for a long, breathless moment. Then his voice dropped to a tremble. “And…?”

“There was something beneath the rubble. A charred figure. We—” Beomseok clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze. “There was no face left. Only the prince’s hairpin nearby, bent and burned.”

“No,” Someone whispered.

“Send for the physician!” the Queen Dowager cried out from behind her screen.

“Is it confirmed?” the King asked, voice strained, vulnerable. “Is it truly the prince?”

“We cannot confirm yet,” said Beomseok, eyes lowered to hide the satisfaction that threatened to bloom too brightly. “But there were no other signs of struggle. The fire was set from within. Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps he… could not bear it.”

The suggestion, subtle as silk, hung in the air.

“No,” came a trembling voice, Yeongi, pale as snow, stumbling in, breathless. Her eyes found the robe in the King’s hand, and her knees gave out beneath her. “No, he would never. My prince would never—he,” Her voice cracked like ice. “Where is he? Where is he?!”

Beomseok watched her crumble with a carefully pained expression, approaching her slowly, hand extended as if in pity. “I’m sorry, Lady Yeongi…”

“Liar!” Yeongi spat, trembling. “Where’s Do-whan? He was with him!”

At this, Beomseok feigned surprise. “Do-whan? I… I haven’t seen him around too.”

More whispers.

“Could they have run away together?” a minister asked.

“Enough,” the King said, raising a hand. “Until we find truth, none shall speak ill of the dead.”

Dead.

Beomseok bowed once more, hiding the smile that curled inside him like smoke. Everything was in motion. The prince was “dead.” The wedding canceled. The crown in limbo.

And now, all Beomseok needed was time. The court would mourn, the people would grieve, and once their tears dried, someone would need to step in to stabilize the throne.

After all, wasn’t it only right for a true son of royal blood to return balance?

Yes.

Let them mourn.

Let them weep.

The sun bled crimson over the stone walls of the palace, and from a distance, the scent of ash still clung to the wind like a whispered omen. The wedding had been called off. The Queen Dowager had retreated into silence. Ministers huddled in corners like startled birds. All that remained was the smoke, the rumors, and a void shaped like a prince.

Lady Hwayeon waited in the tucked away garden behind the servants’ hall, veiled beneath a silk parasol, her white ceremonial gown stained faintly by the day’s ruin. Her fingertips were cold despite the summer heat. Her thoughts, colder still.

Beomseok arrived without a sound, his boots barely scuffing the stone. The hem of his uniform was neat, unsinged, betraying none of the havoc he had just helped unleash. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture perfect, like a man delivering a mission report, not news of a royal death.

“You look far too calm for someone who lost a prince,” Hwayeon muttered, voice taut.

Beomseok tilted his head. “You wanted him gone. He’s gone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I wanted Suho out of the way. Not this. Not fire. Not death.”

“You knew what had to happen,” he said, softly now. “It was never going to be clean. He wouldn’t have walked away willingly, not with Suho gone. He would’ve waited. Fought. Delayed the marriage until he found a way to ruin it. He was too soft to play king but not soft enough to lie down.”

Hwayeon turned her face, trying to hide the unease tightening her jaw. “There was no body.”

“There was enough,” Beomseok said. “The robe. The ring, burnt beyond recognition. No soul could’ve survived that blaze.” His expression flickered, not regret, but certainty.

“He’s dead.”

Silence lapsed between them. Hwayeon stared down at her lap, fingers curled against her silk skirt.

“He was supposed to be mine,” She whispered.

“And now he’s no one’s,” Beomseok said, voice flat.

She looked up sharply. “You speak of it like it’s victory.”

“It is,” He said, stepping closer. “You mourn a fantasy but I see clearly. The Crown Prince is dead. The line is fractured. And you, soon to be a royal bride without a groom, still hold political favor. You still have worth.”

She stared at him. “Worth to you, you mean.”

“Yes.” Beomseok did not flinch. “Because the court is panicking. There is no heir. But there is me.”

She blinked. “You?”

“My mother wasn’t just a concubine, she was also the late King’s cousin. Her name was buried beneath scandal, but her blood was pure. Royal.” His voice lowered. “I’ve lived in shadows. I’ve worn the uniform of obedience but I’ve bled for a kingdom that never once looked at me as a son.”

He leaned closer. “And now, with the Crown Prince gone, someone must step forward. Someone who knows war. Who commands the troops. Who understands what sacrifice looks like. Me.”

“You believe they will crown a soldier?” Hwayeon asked, half mocking, half in awe. “You believe you can sit on that throne?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t believe. I know, and when I do, I’ll need a queen who already knows the palace. Who stood closest to the Crown. You.”

She stared at him, silent, breath short. A shiver of wind stirred the willow leaves.

“Unless,” He added softly, “you want to crawl back to your father’s house in shame. Betrothed to a ghost. A bride in mourning for a man who never loved you.”

Her expression tightened.

“You killed him,” Hwayeon whispered. “And yet you speak of him like a stone in your shoe.”

Beomseok’s eyes darkened. “Because that’s what he was. You think this was about love? About Suho? No. This was about watching that boy sit on a throne that should’ve been mine. About watching him waste everything.”

“And Suho?”

“Gone,” Beomseok said, with a shrug. “Far from court. Far from war. Far from him. That chapter is closed.”

A moment passed.

Then, carefully, Hwayeon reached up and closed her parasol and nodded.

Not out of trust. Not out of alliance.

But because she had no other move left to play.

As Beomseok stepped away, the smoke from the earlier fire still lingered faintly in the breeze, acrid, heavy. But beneath it, something else stirred. A change in the wind.

The palace looked the same from afar. The red-lacquered gates still shimmered in the morning light. The walls stood tall, unscorched, silent, and proud. There were no banners of mourning, no tolling of the bell, no wind that howled of grief. It was as though the world had moved forward without him.

Suho dismounted wordlessly, his boots touching the stone with a quiet thud. His limbs ached from riding through the night, twice the distance in half the time, but none of it mattered now. He had returned. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t stopped, not once since he’d defied the King’s errand and turned back.  The ache in his chest had grown too sharp to bear, so he’d turned his horse around, abandoning his post under the cover of darkness. 

He hadn’t even packed a proper goodbye. He had left in haste. He had thought he could still make it. That if he returned fast enough, if he apologized properly, if he looked Sieun in the eyes and begged him to wait just a little longer, he would still be here.

He would still be his.

But as the palace gates creaked open to receive him, something felt different. It was too quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of dawn, but something colder. Something breathless.

The guards who once greeted him with casual nods now stared, rigid and watchful, their eyes following him like shadows on a battlefield. No one spoke. No one bowed. A few lowered their gazes. One crossed himself beneath his robes.

“Where is he?” Suho asked the nearest guard.

The man flinched. “Who, sir?”

Suho’s voice dropped into ice. “The Crown Prince.”

A pause.

Then a trembling voice answered, “I… I believe Lady Yeongi is still in the eastern quarters. She may know.”

The corridors he used to know like breath now felt foreign, like walking through a house someone else had died in.

He passed a once vibrant garden. The lotus pond had dulled. Weeds curled around the stone lanterns. No flowers had been offered at the shrine. The wind carried no music, no hum of courtiers rushing to prepare for a royal wedding.

Just silence.

As Suho turns, he finally saw her. 

Yeongi was kneeling in the center of the courtyard, her body folded forward in a pose too still to be prayer. Her hair was unbraided, ribboned in white. Her robe, once crisp and orderly, sagged at the shoulders. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

His voice cracked, low and desperate as it escaped him.

“Yeongi.”

She flinched as if struck.

Her head rose slowly, like it was made of stone. Her eyes, swollen and red rimmed, locked onto his. At first, disbelief flickered across her face, followed by something far heavier; horror, grief, and guilt.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Suho rushed toward her, boots echoing across the quiet courtyard. The moment felt unreal, like moving through a bad dream, where the world had grown soft and distant, where something monstrous waited behind every corner.

“Where is he?” His voice was sharper now, strained with urgency. “Where’s Sieun?”

Still, she said nothing. Only the wind answered, brushing cold fingers between them, stirring the hem of her robe.

Suho dropped to his knees before her. His hands gripped her shoulders, not roughly, but as if trying to shake the truth free from her silence.

“Yeongi, please. Answer me!” His voice cracked again, hoarse with fear. “Where is he?”

Her chin quivered, and her eyes welled. With a breath that sounded like it had been torn from her ribs,  “You… you didn’t know?”

He stilled.

The courtyard fell utterly silent. Suho’s grip loosened. His brows drew together in dawning dread.

“Know what?”

A long, awful pause. Her voice broke into a whisper, raw and trembling. 

“The prince is dead.”

The world tilted. The air emptied from his lungs.

“No.” He said it before he could think.

A denial. A plea. A prayer.

“No, what are you saying?”

Yeongi collapsed forward, burying her face in her hands as sobs wracked her small frame.

“The wedding day, there was a fire. He was inside. No one—no one could get to him in time. They only found his robe. They said—” Her voice choked off.

“They said there was nothing left.”

But Suho couldn’t hear anymore. Not clearly. The sound around him had gone muffled, distant, like the palace was underwater. He stood on legs that barely held him.

His gaze drifted toward the eastern sky. The sun had begun to rise, casting light over a palace that had moved on without its prince. The world had kept turning. The birds were still singing. But somewhere, something inside Suho had gone still forever.

The palace blurred around him; its winding corridors, its cold stone arches, the quiet rustling of morning servants avoiding his shadow. He walked like a ghost among the living, his footsteps heavy, but his breath light and ragged in his throat.

He found a place no one would look, the empty pavilion near the lotus pond, where Sieun used to sit in springtime, scribbling thoughts into a leather bound journal. The place was quiet now. Too quiet. The breeze had no warmth. Even the water lilies seemed to bow in mourning.

He stood still for a moment, his back straight, arms at his sides, like a soldier awaiting orders. But no command would come. No war to march toward. No prince to protect.

Slowly, he broke. His knees gave in first, hitting the wooden floor with a crack that echoed across the still pond. His shoulders trembled. Then, the breath he’d been holding like it could somehow keep the truth from being real, spilled out in a raw, guttural sound he didn’t recognize as his own.

“Sieun-ah,”

It was barely a whisper.

He covered his face with both hands, trying to hold himself together but the grief wouldn’t be held. It tore through him like a storm without mercy. He had failed. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in love.

He hadn’t protected him.

He hadn’t even been there.

The last time he saw Sieun, the boy had been smiling. Smiling, and clutching his wrist beneath the sheets, telling him foolish little dreams about a life with a garden and children and growing old by a fireplace.

And now?

Gone.

Ashes.

The agony carved through his ribs like a blade, leaving nothing behind but silence and the phantom weight of Sieun’s last embrace. He gripped the wooden post beside him until his knuckles turned white, as if the world would collapse if he let go.

He wanted to scream. To curse the gods. To tear down the sky and demand why. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the floor and sobbed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, his body curled in grief like something dying. The sun had moved slightly. The pond shimmered gold, and from a distance, gentle footsteps approached.

Yeongi.

She said nothing as she stepped onto the pavilion, her face streaked with salt and sleeplessness. She looked older now. Like the last few days had taken years from her.

Quietly, she knelt beside him, holding something in her hands. A wooden box, weathered and familiar.

“Before the wedding,” Yeongi said, her voice barely above the wind, “he kept writing letters. Every night. Even when his fingers hurt. He… he never knew if you’d come back but he kept writing anyway.”

Suho lifted his gaze slowly. The box sat between them like a relic of another life.

“He told me to give it to you if anything ever happened.” She swallowed. “I prayed I never would.”

Suho reached out, hands trembling, and took the box. His fingers brushed the edge, where Sieun’s name was carved softly into the wood, by someone who had taken their time. Just below it, in a shaky, familiar hand, were the words. 

For Suho, in case I cannot wait.

The box felt heavier than it looked. Not in weight, but in presencec like it carried something sacred, something final. Suho sat alone in the corner of his old quarters, the wooden box resting in his lap like a secret he was not yet brave enough to learn.

For a long while, he simply stared at it. His thumb brushed over the carved words again. Sieun’s handwriting. The familiar tilt. The careful spacing. It made his throat tighten.

The air around him felt still, like the world itself was holding its breath. At last, he opened it.

Inside, neatly stacked and tied with a faded blue ribbon, were dozens of folded letters, each sealed with the prince’s private mark. Some ink was smudged. Others were written on scrap parchment, as though Sieun had written them late into the night, unable to wait for proper stationery.

With a reverence usually reserved for prayer, Suho reached for one, dated only three days after he’d been reassigned.

He broke the seal.

My dearest Suho,

I am writing this with foolish hope.

You probably won’t read this. Or perhaps you will but far too late. Still, the words keep begging to be said, and I’ve never been good at keeping them inside when it comes to you.

Tonight, I sat alone in the pavilion. The one with the climbing wisteria. You remember? You told me once it smelled like freedom. It doesn’t tonight. It smells like rain and regret.

I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see you walking toward me like always, your brow furrowed, your steps too stiff from that terrible habit of standing guard even when I told you not to. I hated how much I loved that. I think I miss that more than I can bear.

The palace feels colder without you. And I feel colder inside it.

Do you know what I remembered today? The first time you let me braid your hair for battle. You scowled the entire time and said it was unnecessary. But you didn’t stop me. I think, even then, you knew you were mine. 

No one tells me where you are.

They say you are serving elsewhere, but I know what that means. It means I will not see you again. Not without disobedience. Not without consequence.

And yet, what is consequence, compared to losing you?

I wish I were braver. Brave enough to run. Brave enough to drag you with me into the woods and never look back. Just you, me, and the wind behind us.

But I cannot leave, and you cannot come. So I write. Because writing is the only rebellion left to me.

Wherever you are, Suho, I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re still stubborn. I hope your hands remember the shape of mine.

And if I never see you again, then let these letters be proof that I waited for you.

That I still am.

Always yours,

—Sieun

He sat frozen, staring at the parchment in his hands, lips parted in disbelief as if reading it again might bring Sieun back from the ashes.

But Sieun wasn’t coming back.

He clutched the letter to his chest, curling over it like it was a lifeline, like if he just held it tightly enough, he might hear his voice again. That quiet, arrogant, loving voice calling him foolish. Calling him mine.

Tears fell freely. No shame. No composure. Only love, and grief, and all the words he never said.

In his arms, the letter rustled softly. And beside him, the box sat patiently, filled with words he wasn’t yet strong enough to read.

But he would.

One by one.

Every single one.

Because it was all he had left of the boy who waited and the life they were never allowed to live.

The box sat untouched for hours after Yeongi had gone. Its edges bore the prince’s seal, faintly smudged by time, as though his fingers had trembled pressing wax to paper. Suho could not bring himself to lift the lid again, not after the first letter had nearly split him open.

But night had fallen, and grief, like a cruel hand, pressed harder in the quiet.

So he opened it.

His fingers, calloused and trembling, unfolded another letter, the parchment soft and worn at the creases. The scent of sandalwood still clung faintly to it, Sieun’s chambers. The ink had bled in one corner, as if touched by a tear long ago.

My dearest Suho,

Do you remember that morning by the pavilion? The air smelled of plum blossoms and my sleeves were damp from the mist. You walked three paces behind me, always three. I hated it.

I wanted you beside me. I wanted to say, “Walk with me,” but I didn’t. Because I didn’t know if it was allowed. Or worse… if you would.

I don’t know what frightens me more: the world’s punishment, or your indifference.

But then I remembered how your eyes looked when you touched my hair that night. Gently, as if I would shatter. You held me like I was something you’d prayed for.

So even if you are far now, even if I must go on without your voice behind me, I’ll keep pretending you’re still near.

I’ll write to you as though you’ll read these someday. As though fate will soften, just this once.

Always yours,

—Sieun

Suho pressed his lips together, the words swimming before his eyes. He clenched the paper to his chest, as if by holding it close, he could summon the boy who once penned it.

But Sieun was gone.

Gone, and the world was too cruel to give him back. Still, Suho whispered, brokenly, to the silence. 

“I would have walked beside you. Always.”

The letter crumpled lightly in his fist, still warm from his palm, though its writer had long gone cold. Every breath he took since hearing the words “The prince is dead” felt like dragging air through ash.

The silence of his quarters pressed down like a burial cloth. Outside, the cicadas sang as if the world hadn’t changed, as if the sun hadn’t fallen from the sky.

But for Suho, the palace had become a mausoleum.

He had fought in battlefields. He had buried comrades, slain men, stood ankle deep in blood. But nothing had prepared him for the sound of Sieun’s name spoken in the past tense.

He pressed the letter to his forehead and let his eyes close, as if the nearness of Sieun’s words could replace the boy himself. But it was nothing like his voice. It was not his laughter. It was not the warmth of his wrist when Suho pulled him behind during sudden rain.

He was gone, and the worst part, the cruelest agony, was that Suho had not been there. He hadn’t held him in his final breath. Hadn’t whispered farewell. Hadn’t kissed his shaking fingers one last time. Hadn’t shielded him when the flames came. Hadn’t kept his promise.

His knees gave out quietly beneath him. The floor was cold, and Suho stayed there, hunched like a man unraveling. He clutched the letter as though it were a lifeline. But all he could see was Sieun’s face, not the noble crown prince, not the boy who stood behind veils of silk and duty, but the Sieun only he knew.

The Sieun who giggled when he tried to braid his hair and failed. The Sieun who reached for his hand in the dark. The Sieun who once whispered, “I wish the world was smaller, so I could run to you quicker.”

His throat tore with a sound no soldier should make; a raw, broken sob that scraped its way up from somewhere buried beneath armor and pride and the years he had spent hardening himself.

He cried like he’d never be whole again. He cried as if love had a body, and it had just died in his arms. In the quiet between those sobs, something deeper trembled. The kind of grief that made gods cruel, a love too strong for this world.

He rocked slowly on the floor, back against the empty bed, letter pressed to his chest like a prayer offered too late.

“I would have walked beside you,” Suho whispered again, voice hoarse, “through fire, through exile… I would have followed you into death.”

The candle flickered beside him, and no Sieun was there answer.

Only the quiet rustle of letters remained, waiting in their box, a conversation between the living and the dead.

Chapter Text

They always told him he was born to serve.

A bastard son of a discarded concubine, raised behind folding screens and veiled lies, Oh Beomseok had never known the sweetness of a name spoken with pride. Not when his mother bore the King’s face in her womb, only to be cast aside like a wilted flower the moment she dared to hope for more.

The palace never spoke of her. Not in court, not in hushed corners of the inner court. But Beomseok remembered. He remembered her scent of wild chrysanthemums and the way she trembled when he asked why no one called her “consort.” She died with his father’s name on her lips, and Beomseok was left with nothing but a secret lineage and a bitterness that never stopped blooming.

He became a soldier.

Not out of pride, nor love of sword or country but because the world had left him with no other path that did not choke. In the military, no one asked for your name if you bled hard enough. No one cared for the story of your birth if your blade was faster than theirs. In the barracks, he carved out his place in silence, one bruise, one calloused knuckle at a time. He learned to survive by folding his anger into obedience, sewing it into the seams of his uniform, until it looked like loyalty.

But beneath the armor, the boy who once begged his mother to tell him who his father was still lived; small, sharp-eyed, and burning with questions.

Every scar on his body bore the weight of restraint. Every time the court praised Crown Prince Sieun for his wit and beauty, Beomseok bowed with a stiff smile, feeling the bile of inheritance denied rise in his throat.

Every time Suho was commended as the palace’s brightest warrior, the King’s favorite, Beomseok gritted his teeth and endured, wondering what it might have been like if his birth had come with the same privilege of recognition. He flinched, not from jealousy, but from the ache of invisibility.

He memorized the etiquette of silence. The choreography of lowering his eyes. The art of biting his tongue until it bled.

They whispered behind him; how his manner was too refined for his rank, how his features bore a strange echo of the royal family, how he walked like someone bred for power but stripped of title. Though, they never dared speak it aloud. Not where it could stain court records or demand truth from the King’s mouth.

And so he bore it like a blade sheathed in velvet, waiting for the day it could finally be drawn.

Now, at last, he stood beneath the golden throne, before the man who had given him life and stolen it all the same. No longer nameless. No longer patient. No longer begging for acknowledgment.

Beomseok had arrived not to ask but to take.

The throne room was silent save for the low hum of cicadas beyond its shuttered windows, heavy with heat and omen. The King sat beneath the emblem of Joseon’s divine rule; his back tall, but his face drawn with fatigue. He did not look surprised to see Beomseok kneeling at the base of the steps, flanked by guards who did not dare touch him.

The King sat upon the high throne of jade, his brow creased as if wearied by war and age, though no blade had ever drawn blood from his body. Court officials flanked the room, tension coiled like smoke, but Beomseok saw only him. Only the man who let his mother die nameless, who watched his firstborn rise while his other son stood in shadow.

“I was told,” the King said coldly, “you were the one who found the Crown Prince’s robe in the fire.”

Beomseok lifted his eyes, no longer the boy who bowed in blind obedience, but a man who had buried his loyalty in ash.

“I did,” He said. “And I reported it as you commanded. Dutifully.”

The King’s gaze narrowed. “Then why do you return now, like a shadow at my heel, with neither grief nor guilt in your eyes?”

A bitter smile cracked across Beomseok’s face. “Because I mourned that boy years ago.”

Lady Hwayeon stiffened beside the dais. Draped in wedding silks darkened by mourning protocol, she looked like a bride abandoned at the altar of power. Her fingers curled at her side, nails digging into the embroidered hem of her sleeve.

“Mind your tongue, soldier,” the King warned, voice dipping. “You speak of the Crown Prince.”

Beomseok’s voice did not rise but every word trembled with restrained venom. “I speak of a title, not a brother. A throne, not a son.”

The room grew still.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Beomseok stood now, stepping forward before the guards could stop him, “that I am done biting my tongue for a king too cowardly to name his own bastard.”

Lady Hwayeon gasped, her fan dropping to the marble with a clatter.

“You dare—!” the King’s hand twitched toward the armrest, as if ready to call for the royal guards. But Beomseok was already kneeling again, reaching into the folds of his robe.

“I dare,” He said, pulling free a silk wrapped scroll, aged and sealed in wax. “Because you once dared, too.”

The seal bore the Queen Dowager’s insignia.

The King stared at it with an unsettling expression. Beomseok laid it at his feet like a blade unsheathed.

“You think I set that fire to bring down your heir,” Beomseok said softly, “but I was only clearing the way. For someone more deserving. Someone with your blood, even if you never dared to call him son.”

The King’s face had gone pale.

“You were the mistake I was never allowed to make,” He whispered.

Beomseok smiled, broken and triumphant. “And now I am the consequence you can no longer escape.”

Lady Hwayeon stood frozen. She had long known Beomseok was ruthless but not this. Not someone who could speak to the King with fire in his chest and paper proof in his hands.

“You helped me rid the court of Suho,” Beomseok murmured to her without turning. “Now you will help them accept me.”

She looked at him then, not as an ally, but as something monstrous. “You lied to me.”

Beomseok finally turned, his face cold. “You lied to yourself.”

The King’s trembling hand reached for the scroll but did not touch it. His voice cracked through the silence.

“And what now? You think the court will accept you? You think blood is enough?”

“No,” Beomseok replied. “But fear is.”

He bowed again, this time not in reverence, but as a warning.

“You should have given me a name, Jusang Jeoha. Now I will take one for myself.”

The scroll lay unopened at the foot of the dais. For minutes, maybe hours, the King did not move. He sat alone in the throne room now, the guards dismissed, the doors shut tight behind Lady Hwayeon’s fleeing form. Only the sound of his own breath, shallow and uneven, remained to fill the emptiness.

That boy.

That bastard boy.

The King lifted his trembling hand to his chest, as if the sudden ache might be quieted by pressure alone. But the pain pulsed deeper, something ancient and festering, now unearthed like a blade pulled from old flesh.

Oh Beomseok.

He had known. Of course, he had known. The Queen Dowager’s voice from decades ago echoed through his mind. 

“If you will not claim the child, at least give him a place. Let him live in the shadow of your name, if not the light.”

But he had refused; out of fear, out of cowardice. Out of love for the Queen, for the image of a clean lineage unmarred by scandal.

Instead, Beomseok had grown in silence. A shadow given sword and rank, obedient, quiet, and waiting.

Until now.

The King exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching toward the sealed letter but never daring to touch it. He knew what it would say. The Queen Dowager’s hand. Her seal. Her grief.

And her threat.

“He is your son, no less than the Crown Prince. You think a throne can bury blood?”

He rose, not as a monarch but as a man cornered by his past.

“Summon the Left State Councillor,” he said hoarsely to the eunuch just outside the chamber. “And the War Minister tonight. No court record.”

“Jusang Jeoha,”

“I said tonight!” The king thundered, his voice cracking across the walls like a whip. “In secret.”

The eunuch scrambled away.

The King remained still for a moment longer, then slowly descended the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. When he reached the scroll, he stood over it, watching it as though it might speak.

It didn’t need to.

He knelt, just barely, and pressed his hand to the wax seal. Then, before he could change his mind, he turned from it.

No one could know, not yet. Not the ministers. Not the court. Not the people.

His footsteps echoed in the chamber as he left, dragging the burden of a legacy that had finally begun to bleed.

Lady Hwayeon had never been afraid of men.

Not of the nobles who sneered behind silk fans. Not of the generals whose power clung to their armor like stench. Not even of the King, who once cupped her chin and promised her a crown in exchange for silence.

But tonight, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She stumbled into her quarters, the door shutting behind her with a hollow thud. The sound echoed too loud, too final. She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to quiet her breath to anchor herself. But Beomseok’s voice still rang in her ears.

“He gave me his blood and left me to rot in it.”

She had believed him useful, obedient, hungry, but containable. Not once had she thought him capable of staring down the King and winning.

Her maid scurried forward to remove her cloak, but Hwayeon slapped the girl’s hands away, retreating to her own mirror. In the polished bronze, she looked pale, no, not pale but hunted.

How had it unraveled so quickly? She had agreed to the prince’s death, yes, but not out of malice.

Sieun had never loved her, and she had never truly loved him. What she loved was her place. Her future. Her name carved into history beside a throne. But now the fire they lit to snuff out a boy had stirred something much larger. A storm wrapped in flesh.

She poured herself wine with trembling fingers and took a long, burning gulp.

“He’s the King’s son,” Lady Hwayeon whispered aloud. “That bastard.”

And if it were true,if Beomseok truly bore royal blood, then everything changed.

He could claim the throne.

He could ruin her.

He could kill again.

She remembered the way he looked at her before entering the throne room. Not as an ally. Not even as a lover. As someone beneath his boot, one misstep away from being crushed. He had smiled when she faltered.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Beomseok had said. “We’ll get what we deserve.”

She slammed the wine cup down too hard; it cracked.

The maid jumped. “My lady?”

“Leave,” Hwayeon snapped, her voice cutting sharp through the room.

The girl bowed and fled.

Hwayeon turned to the fire, its embers low and flickering. For a brief, harrowing moment, she imagined Sieun’s face in the flames, delicate and ruined. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

If Beomseok could kill once, he could kill again. She would not go down with him. Not like the prince. Not like the forgotten bastard of a King.

She would find leverage. She always had, even if it meant betraying the very monster she helped create.

At least, on the surface.

New soldiers rotated posts as if nothing had happened, their boots tapping along stone paths that still smelled faintly of smoke. Courtiers resumed their daily routines, heads bowed over documents, lips murmuring false prayers for peace. Envoys from distant provinces sent letters sealed in gold and red lacquer, asking politely for news of the prince while already preparing condolences beneath their silken sleeves. The court painters had quietly taken down his last portrait. The scribes had stopped writing his name.

The Queen Dowager, her face drawn, her back straighter than ever, had begun the funeral preparations.

There was no body to bury. Only soot-stained earth and a half burned robe retrieved from the wreckage, folded now with reverence and stored in a small white box no one dared to touch. No royal banner had been raised. No temple bell tolled.

The court, ever skilled in the theater of grief, whispered of fate, of omens, of tragic youth, yet, not one soul dared utter his name aloud. As if the very syllables might summon a ghost too furious to rest.

The halls where he once walked stood painfully quiet. The plum tree in the southern courtyard had shed its petals in one night, as though mourning too. Not even the birds dared sing near it.

And so, they pretended. They pretended not to notice the empty chair at morning council. Pretended not to flinch when someone passed by his former quarters. Pretended the prince had been nothing more than a chapter; brief, bright, and now closed.

But grief clung to the palace like smoke that refused to lift. For those who loved him, the silence was not peace. It was punishment.

Grief had many forms. Some wept, some raged, some fell to their knees and begged the earth to take them too.

But Ahn Suho simply disappeared. Not from sight; he was still seen, at times, moving through the palace like a shadow wearing the shape of a man. His steps made no sound. His eyes held no light. He answered when spoken to, bowed when required, saluted when duty demanded. But there was nothing behind the gestures. No spark. No breath.

The man who once stood like a wall beside the prince now sat in silence, his back pressed against the cold wall of his quarters, untouched food growing stale beside him.

A single candle burned low at his side, casting gold against the dried blood on his knuckles, earned not in battle, but in solitude, when grief became too loud and the walls too quiet.

He had returned two days after the fire, shoulders sore from the saddle, still rehearsing the words he would say upon seeing Sieun again. He’d even picked a flower on the way back; some wild thing that reminded him of the prince’s sleeves in spring and pressed it carefully between his fingers.

But Yeongi’s face had met him at the gate, eyes swollen, voice breaking, and the world had collapsed without warning.

Now, a week later, Suho had become something less than a man; hollow, sunken, held together by the thinnest thread of memory.

He hadn’t taken off his uniform. Hadn’t washed the soot from his skin. Hadn’t moved the box of letters Yeongi had wordlessly handed him, still wrapped in the blue silk Sieun once used for his winter haori.

His hair was unkempt. His cheeks sunken. The once unshakable warrior now looked like a man carved from grief, not bone. He hadn’t eaten in days. He didn’t sleep unless the exhaustion knocked him unconscious. Even then, he woke with a gasp, reaching for a voice that would never call his name again.

He didn’t cry, not properly. The pain hadn’t allowed it. Instead, it nested beneath his ribs like a blade, sharp and cruel. Every breath was a wound.

At night, he whispered to the letters, not to read them but to feel the shape of Sieun’s name in the air.

The room still smelled faintly of him; from the scarf Suho had stolen before he left, folded and hidden beneath his pillow.

He was gone.

He was gone.

And Suho, loyal, stupid, foolish Suho, hadn’t even said goodbye.

The room was dark; curtains drawn, windows shuttered, the brazier long since cold. He sat slumped in the corner, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the wooden box that still sat unopened at his feet. 

Sieun’s letters.

Letters Yeongi had given him days ago, saying, “He wrote them all for you.” And yet, Suho could not bring himself to read more than one. He feared that each letter would be another knife, each word a reminder of everything he had failed to protect.

A soft knock echoed from the door. He didn’t answer. It creaked open, slow and hesitant, and a familiar voice whispered,

“Suho?”

Yeongi.

She stepped into the room with a lantern in hand, her eyes immediately adjusting to the gloom. What she saw made her heart crack. The man before her was no longer Suho, but the ruins of him.

“Suho,” Yeongi tried again, gentler, kneeling before him.

His eyes flicked to hers, red rimmed and vacant. No fury. No fire. Only emptiness.

“You have to eat,” She coaxed, placing a tray beside him. “Even if just a little. Please.”

He didn’t respond, only glancing at the box again, fingers twitching but never daring to touch it.

Yeongi looked down at the box too, then back at him. Her voice trembled. “Do you want me to read one to you?”

For a moment, Suho didn’t move. Then, a nod. Barely there but enough.

Yeongi reached into the box and picked a letter sealed with a soft blue ribbon. She unfolded the parchment slowly, hands shaking not from fear but from the heaviness that clung to every word yet unread.

Her voice cracked as she began.

“It rained again today. You would’ve hated it. The sky was grey and ugly, and the guards slipped in the mud during training. But I kept thinking, if you were here, you would’ve made some sarcastic remark about it, and I would’ve laughed like a fool. That’s what you do, don’t you? You make even the worst days bearable. I miss you. I miss you terribly.”

Suho’s breath shuddered, a silent tear slipping down his cheek.

“I keep waiting to turn a corner and find you there, scolding me for sulking. I keep leaving space beside me when I eat. I even dream of you; sometimes I wake up and reach out, forgetting that you’re not here. I know it’s foolish. I know we’re not children. But longing makes fools of even the wisest men, doesn’t it?”

Yeongi looked up to find Suho’s hands trembling now, pressed against his mouth to silence the sob building in his throat.

“Come back to me, Suho, please. I’m still here. I’m still waiting.”

But he wouldn’t come back. Not now. Not ever.

Suho broke. His chest heaved as the first guttural sob tore through him, and Yeongi reached out, pulling him into her arms without hesitation. He didn’t fight it, didn’t speak. He clung to her like a drowning man to driftwood, gasping through tears he could no longer hold back.

“I promised him,” The warrior whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I promised I’d protect him.”

Yeongi wept with him, holding him tighter.

“You loved him,” She whispered.

Suho, whose hands had once held swords steadier than any man alive, shook with the fragile ache of that truth.

“I still do.”

The sun had long dipped behind the mountains, but Suho’s chamber remained dim, lit only by the dying flicker of a candle and the low creak of the wooden floor.

Suho sat on the floor with his back against the wall, legs drawn close, eyes unfocused. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the candlelight, like he was watching a memory replay over and over again, and losing it each time.

“They’ve begun to gather in the western hall,” Yeongi said softly. “The Queen Dowager has ordered a private ceremony.”

No answer.

“They’ll read his name aloud before the court,” She continued, voice strained, like she was afraid of it breaking. “His titles will be honored. Incense will be offered. His soul—”

“There is no soul left to honor.” Suho’s voice cut through the quiet like a dull blade.

Yeongi’s heart twisted. She took a slow breath. “He would want you there.”

“You don’t know what he would want.”

“I do.” Her tone sharpened, just barely. “He waited for you every day back when you were reassigned. Every letter he sent, every time he turned his head at the sound of boots in the corridor, he hoped it was you. He believed you would come.”

Suho’s eyes shut tightly, as if the words burned.

Yeongi stepped closer, kneeling down a few paces away. “You owe it to him.”

“I owe him everything,” Suho whispered. “And what good did that do?”

Yeongi flinched.

Suho looked up then, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with darkness. “He died alone, Yeongi. Trapped and burning. And I—I was gone. Because of an order. Because of duty.”

He pressed a hand against his chest as though trying to hold something inside from spilling. “If I walk into that hall, and hear them speak of him like he was just another name in history, I won’t survive it.”

Yeongi’s throat tightened. “You already aren’t surviving.”

The candle wavered between them.

Suho finally looked away, eyes sinking back into the dark. “Let them light their incense and chant their rites. I will mourn him where he was real to me, not in front of strangers who never knew how brightly he shone.”

Yeongi’s lip trembled. “Then at least, open the letters. Let him speak. Let him come back to you, even if only through ink.”

But Suho didn’t move, not a muscle in his body ached to move. Even breathing was hard for him. And Yeongi, with tears welling, stood slowly and left the room in silence.

Behind her, the candle finally died.

Suho remained where he was on the cold wooden floor, spine against the wall, knees drawn close, heart beating in a rhythm that no longer felt human.

The silence wasn’t quiet. It hissed. It whispered.

He could still hear it; the sound of crackling fire, like phantom embers biting at his ears. The imagined screams. The charred scent he couldn’t wash off his skin. His prince, his light, his love reduced to ash and silk.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that. Minutes bled into hours, or maybe lifetimes. But then, at last, he looked toward the box.

Wrapped in blue silk, tied with the neatness only a prince like Sieun possessed. Every time Suho touches it to read another letter, he feared that each letter would be a nail into a coffin not even whole. That Sieun’s voice, in ink, would become the only one left.

Now, Suho couldn’t bear the silence either. With trembling hands, he crawled forward. Each movement felt heavy, like dragging himself through the ash that must’ve smothered that warehouse floor. When he finally reached it, his fingers hovered over the knot, then slowly, carefully, undid it.

The silk slipped away. Inside, letters. Dozens of them folded with care, sealed with wax, dates scribbled in Sieun’s delicate script.

Suho’s throat constricted. He took another on, a week after he was reassigned and cracked the seal.

Sieun’s handwriting danced across the page, neat but warm, every curve familiar like the trace of a fingertip on his skin.

My dearest Suho,

I know you won’t read this yet but I am writing anyway, because my heart feels too full and too empty all at once. Because if I do not put these words somewhere, I think I will begin to vanish without you here.

Today I sat alone in the garden. Do you remember the corner where the white peonies bloom? They’ve come early this year. I picked one, thinking to give it to you. And then I remembered.

You are gone.

You are gone, and I am left with silence.

But I will wait. I will wait until the earth forgets how to turn, if I must.

Suho’s breath cracked in his throat. He clutched the paper to his chest, curling over it as though shielding it from a wind that didn’t exist. And without warning, a sound tore out of him; raw and low, like a wounded animal. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in the palace, or in a soldier’s throat.

He bent over, shaking. Tears spilled onto the floor, silent at first, and then louder, gasping sobs that broke through the fortress he had built over the past week.

He wept until his body ached. Wept until there was nothing left in him but longing.

“Why didn’t I come sooner,” Suho whispered into the dark, into the page, into the shape of a name that still pulsed beneath his skin. “Why didn’t I hold you when I still could?”

There was no answer.

Only the letter.

And the next one waiting.

And the next.

Each one a thread tying him back to the man who had loved him through absence and silence and waiting. Each one a piece of a ghost Suho could no longer hold, but would never, ever let go.

The sky was gray the morning of the funeral, not with rain but with a breathless kind of stillness, as if the heavens themselves mourned in silence, unwilling to weep lest they disturb the dead.

Yeongi stood beneath the eaves of the ceremonial hall, her hands clasped before her in stillness she did not feel. Her court robes were black and severe, too large for her frame, the silk brushing cold against her wrists as incense curled like mourning ribbons into the sky.

There was no body, only a half burned robe laid upon a pale pine coffin, adorned with white chrysanthemum and folded silk. The mourners bowed. The priests recited scripture that seemed to echo endlessly against stone pillars. But it felt like pantomime. A play meant to soothe the nation, nothing more.

Because he was not truly here.

Because he should not be gone.

Yeongi’s fingers curled tighter, nails nearly pressing into flesh.

She had spent years by his side, following, listening, learning. Prince Sieun had been many things to many people; delicate, reserved, brilliant, strange. But to her, he had been light. Not the warm kind that comforts, but the kind that cuts through a dark room and shows you exactly who you are.

She could not breathe in this hall. She could not look at that empty coffin without remembering the sound of his voice, the way he would speak with no softness but somehow with kindness hidden between syllables. His silences had always meant more than others’ words.

And now, there was only silence.

Only one person had not come.

Her gaze slid toward the far pillars, toward the doorway that remained empty.

Suho.

She had gone to him again that morning, found him seated on the stone steps behind the barracks, his eyes hollow, his hands trembling as though blood still clung to them.

“You must come,” Yeongi had said. “If not for the court, then for him.”

But Suho had not moved. His voice had broken somewhere between denial and despair. “He’s not in that coffin.”

Now, he was gone from sight again. A ghost refusing to mourn the man he could not accept as lost.

Yeongi turned her head away. She understood. Gods, she did. But still, it hurt.

She blinked hard, straightening her back as the officiants stepped forward, lifting the coffin for ceremonial procession. A breeze stirred through the open courtyard, cold as death.

The chrysanthemums trembled. The white silk fluttered once, and for a single breath, it felt like Sieun was walking past them all, expression unreadable, gaze lingering only for a moment on the boy who had not come to say goodbye.

Yeongi bowed her head, and she let herself cry.

The palace had returned to its rhythms like a wound scabbing over; tight, quiet, waiting to break open again.

Suho moved through it like a ghost. He had not spoken during the funeral, had not wept, had not bowed. He had stood behind the ceremonial walls, where no one could see the way his fingers dug crescent moons into his palms. He had not seen the empty coffin lowered into the earth but he had heard the final prayer echo, cold and hollow, through the marble corridors.

Now, he stood in the eastern courtyard, where the wind no longer reached. Only silence. Only the scent of old incense clinging to his sleeves.

His blade hung at his hip like a sleeping beast. His eyes were hollow, dark with nights of no sleep and a grief so consuming it had eaten his rage and left only ruin. 

“Warrior Ahn.”

The voice coiled behind him, soft as silk, sharp as wire.

He turned.

Lady Hwayeon stood beneath the withering archway, her mourning robes pristine, as if untouched by death. The veil had been lifted, but her eyes remained veiled by fear. Or guilt.

They regarded one another in silence.

“You never looked at me properly,” She said at last. “Even when I stood beside him as his bride to be.”

Suho’s jaw did not shift. His gaze remained fixed, calm in the way a frozen lake is calm before it cracks.

“And now?” The warrior snarled. “You want me to look at you?”

She flinched. “I want you to know the truth.”

He took a step toward her. “Say it.”

Her breath hitched. “It was Beomseok. He sent the letter. He led the Prince to that warehouse and he planned the fire.”

Suho didn’t speak. His hands remained at his sides, too still.

“I thought it was just a warning,” Hwayeon continued, voice trembling. “To frighten him. That’s all he said. That was the plan. I—I didn’t know until the flames had already—”

“You helped him.”

A statement cold and final.

“I tried to stop it,” Lady Hwayeon whispered. “I tried, Suho, I swear, I didn’t know he would—”

The sound of a blade being unsheathed sliced the air like lightning through still skies.

In one fluid movement, Suho’s sword was out, its gleaming edge catching the last light of the dying day. He raised it, not wildly, not with wrath, but with an eerie, surgical calm, and pressed the blade to her throat.

Hwayeon gasped, stepping back until her spine met the stone column. Her hands flew up, trembling.

“You should not be alive,” Suho said, voice quiet, barely above a breath. “You, who watched a good man walk into fire and did nothing.”

Her eyes widened, chest heaving. “Please—”

“Was he afraid?” Suho asked again, but this time there was something raw in it. Not fury but despair.

“When the smoke filled his lungs. When he realized no one was coming. When he thought of me, maybe, and the letter I never sent. Did he scream for help, or did he accept it like a lamb led to slaughter?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Suho, I begged him to stop, Beomseok threatened me too—”

But he knew it was a lie. He knew it was just to save face. 

“You chose power.”

His blade pressed closer, drawing a single bead of red just beneath her jaw.

“You chose ambition and he chose me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She saw it now, what lived behind Suho’s eyes. Not madness. Not grief. Devotion. That kind of grief only existed in those who had once loved with their whole being.

“You speak his name with filth in your mouth,” Suho murmured. “You helped burn a man the heavens cherished. I should scatter your bones beside the ashes you helped create.”

Hwayeon sobbed, her legs buckling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I didn’t want to die.””

“And yet he did,” Suho whispered.

He stared down at her crumpled figure for a long time, the edge of his blade gleaming inches from her throat.

He withdrew. The sword lowered with the grace of a falling star. He turned from her, disgust curling in his shoulders like smoke.

“You should run,” Suho said. “Far from this court. Far from me.”

Without another glance, Suho disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, his sword still unsheathed, his hands still shaking.

He had spared her.

But there would be no mercy for Beomseok.

Not anymore.

The world had turned red. Not just the sky, nor the dust, nor the horizon bleeding at the edges, it was Suho’s vision that had soured, clouded with something deeper than rage, older than pain. It was grief sharpened to a single, shivering point.

His feet, cracked and blistered from days of wandering, left faint trails of blood along the dirt path. But he moved like a revenant, no, like something less than a man. No flesh, no soul, just the echo of a purpose too cruel to carry.

More shadow than soldier now, more ghost than warrior. He had forgotten how to speak, except for the name he kept whispering with every ragged breath. Not spoken like a soldier mourning his prince, but like a man dying from thirst; parched, delirious, and desperate.

Sieun.

Each syllable scraped his throat raw. He whispered it when the wind changed direction. When the sun sank behind the mountains. When he closed his eyes and saw that half burned robe crumpled beneath the smoke.

Sieun.

It wasn’t a name anymore.

It was the thread holding him together.

He’d followed the trail east, through woodland paths worn soft by deer and dust, past frozen rivers where he refused rest. Every villager he passed recoiled. His face had hardened into something hollow. He hadn’t eaten in days. His lips were cracked and blackened. But he didn’t care. He didn’t sleep.

He hunted, and at last, he found it— the old garrison. Once a strategic outpost, now forgotten by the Crown. Its gate leaned crooked, its stone walls weathered by age. But within, men littered around; loud, lounging, drunk on stolen wine and power.

They did not wear uniforms. They bore no banners. Only knives tucked into belts, and mouths made for cruelty.

Beomseok’s allies.

They played dice with blood on their hands. Told jokes too cruel to repeat. One of them sharpened a blade while humming some familiar court tune.

Unbothered. Untouched. Unpunished.

Their laughter was the sound of rot of a world where Sieun’s life had meant nothing.

Suho stood at the edge of the clearing, his silhouette stretched long by the dying sun. He didn’t reach for his sword.

Not yet.

Instead, he simply stepped forward. One foot, then another. Limbs loose, posture straight, eyes blank. His presence struck first like a change in air pressure, like the stillness before a landslide.

Heads turned.

A few men stood.

Suho didn’t speak, nor move. His eyes didn’t waver. He walked like a man with no past left to return to, and no future left to fear.

Only a grave to fill and a name to avenge.

Sieun.

The first man to speak was the ugliest kind of brave. A crooked smile pulled at his scarred mouth as he stood, cracking his neck and swinging a rusted blade idly in his palm.

“You look lost, warrior,” He sneered. “Looking for your little prince? Shame no one found his head.”

Laughter rippled through the camp; coarse, cruel, and wrong.

Another chimed in, “Heard he screamed before the fire took him. Maybe he begged for you.”

And another, louder still, “Maybe he burned thinking you’d come. Poor thing.”

Suho didn’t flinch.

He didn’t move.

He listened.

He let them talk. Let them spit on the last remnants of the boy he had loved. He let the words burrow into the hollow of his chest, where his heart once beat.

When they waited for a reaction, expecting a broken man, a desperate cry, a tear,  Suho drew his blade.

Not with grace. Not with ceremony.

But like a butcher reaching for a cleaver.

The steel caught the light of the dying sun, briefly. The next instant, it caught blood. The first man didn’t even scream. His throat opened wide, spilling warmth across the grass, and he collapsed like a sack of bones.

By the time the second raised his weapon, Suho was already moving; silent, swift, merciless. A dance of death, not born from training, but grief.

They came at him in twos, then threes, shouting orders, but their coordination crumbled.

Suho didn’t fight like a man. He fought like something already dead. His blade sang as it cut through flesh, the song of mourning; every swing an elegy, every thrust a requiem. The garrison became a slaughterhouse. Limbs fell. Blood painted the walls, the grass, his face. The air choked with iron and the stink of panic.

And through it all, Suho never spoke.

Not once.

Not as one man fell to his knees, clutching his gut, begging for mercy.

Not as another tried to flee and Suho brought him down with a thrown blade to the spine.

Not as a trembling youth, barely old enough to fight, whimpered, “Please—I didn’t know—I didn’t touch him—”

Suho paused.

Just for a breath.

Then drove his sword through the boy’s chest, slowly, with a terrifying quietness. His eyes never left the boy’s.

Sieun didn’t beg either.

That was the only mercy he offered.

By nightfall, thirty lay dead, each one he killed brutally. Suho stood among their bodies, soaked to the elbows in red, the breath in his lungs ragged and uneven. His body trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the quiet after.

The rage had passed. Now, in its place only the silence. The kind of silence that followed the death of something sacred.

He dropped his sword and fell to his knees. The blood soaked into his robes, his skin, his bones. As the stars broke through the night sky, he whispered it again, this time not in fury, but in ruin.

“Sieun-ah.”

As if his name could raise the dead.

As if it could make him whole again.

The forest did not ask questions. It welcomed him in silence, as if the trees themselves had known grief, and had long since forgotten the language of comfort.

Suho wandered until the sky dimmed into a bruised violet until the ground softened beneath him with pine needles and loam. His robes were stiff with blood, his hands trembling but steady where it mattered,  clutching the only things he had managed to retrieve from the palace before vanishing; a folded blue robe, untouched by fire, and a strip of silk with Sieun’s name embroidered in the neat, delicate script of court maids.

He found a clearing, half swallowed by ferns, cradled by crooked trees. There, alone beneath the weeping sky, he began to dig, not with tools but with his bare hands.

Each claw of earth beneath his nails tore skin and memory apart. He bled onto the soil, mixing it with tears he refused to name.

“I’m sorry,” Suho whispered, voice hoarse from disuse, from screaming in his sleep, from killing men who had worn their laughter like armor.

“I should’ve taken you away. I should’ve—” His breath caught.

There was no one to answer.

He laid the robe into the hollow, pressing it gently into the earth like it were still warm. He placed the silk beside it, folding it once more as if tucking a blanket around someone too precious to be cold.

Then he sat beside the grave and said nothing. No rites. No incense. Only silence, raw and unholy. The wind moved through the leaves like the hush of a departing soul.

Suho closed his eyes, imagining a thousand things; Sieun standing barefoot by a river, smiling at the clouds. Sieun curled beneath palace blankets, scribbling poetry he’d never share.

Sieun, the last time he ever touched him, trembling and flushed, whispering Suho’s name like it was the only truth he knew.

“I wasn’t enough,” Suho murmured.

The wind didn’t disagree.

“I tried. But I—”

His voice broke, and Ahn Suho wept like a man undone. No longer a soldier. No longer a protector. Just a boy who had failed to save the only soul he would have died for.

He remained there, drenched by rain, knees caked in dirt, lips cracked from cold prayers and regrets. 

Yeongi had followed no map, only the thread of something faint, something aching, something wrong. She had felt it since the fire, the absence of Prince Sieun stretching wide and cold through the palace like a cracked mirror, impossible to piece back together. But more than that, she had felt him, Suho, vanish too. Not in body but in soul.

She found him deep in the woods, where no trail remained and only ghosts would dare to linger. A clearing opened before her, soft with moss, where the earth had been freshly turned. The forest held its breath.

And in the middle of it, knelt Ahn Suho. He did not flinch at the sound of her footsteps.

Not even when she whispered, “You dug it.”

Suho didn’t speak. His hands rested on his knees; filthy, scabbed, blood still crusted beneath his nails. His face looked older than she remembered, gaunt in the cheeks, shadows where light should’ve lived. Rain had matted his hair to his forehead. He looked like a statue, carved from grief and left in exile.

Yeongi stepped closer.

“Is that?” She choked, unable to finish the question. Her eyes fell to the grave. The robe, the folded silk. The name that didn’t need to be spoken.

Suho finally nodded. “I had nothing else to give him.”

Her knees gave out, and she collapsed beside him, pressing trembling fingers to her lips.

“I couldn’t even say goodbye,” Yeongi said. “They wouldn’t let me see his robe. Wouldn’t even let me touch what was left. They acted like he never—”

“I know,” Suho said quietly. “I killed them.”

Yeongi’s gaze snapped to him, wide and stunned. “Who—?”

“Beomseok’s men. All of them. Thirty or more. I stopped counting.” His voice was flat. Almost calm. “They laughed, said he screamed when he burned. One of them spat on his name.”

Yeongi felt bile rise in her throat.

“I didn’t think. I didn’t need to. I made them bleed. I made sure they’d never laugh again.”

She stared at him, not in fear but in sorrow.

“And Beomseok?” Yeongi asked, her voice small.

Suho’s jaw tensed. “I still have to find the bastard.”

Silence stretched between them. Birds had begun to stir in the branches above, as if mourning hour had passed, as if the world dared to move on.

“Lady Hwayeon helped him.”

Yeongi froze. “What?”

“She told me herself,” Suho whispered. “She was part of the plan. I nearly ran her through when I found out. She was meant to trap Sieun in that warehouse and Beomseok was to set the fire. The palace would mourn, and they’d be rid of him forever.”

Yeongi’s hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

“She said she didn’t think the fire would kill him. Only ruin him enough to break the engagement but Beomseok wanted more.” Suho turned toward the grave, voice trembling. “He wanted him dead.”

Yeongi reached out, fingers barely brushing Suho’s sleeve.

“And you?” She asked. “What do you want now?”

He looked up at her then, and though his eyes were dry, they looked carved from glass, moments from shattering.

“I want him back.” His voice cracked like something old and holy breaking. “I want to hold him once more. I want to beg for his forgiveness. I want to die in his place.”

Yeongi’s tears fell freely. She had never heard Suho speak like this. Never seen him break. But now, kneeling in the woods beside a grave made of silk and memory, he wasn’t a warrior. Not even a man.

Just grief. Just love.

A wound that would never close, and a cut that will always bleed.

Yeongi drew close, rested her forehead to his shoulder, and wept beside him.

”Suho, don’t worry about Lady Hwayeon,” Yeongi coldly said, eyes boring into space with such grief and anger. “I will make sure she suffers painfully.” 

“I will kill Beomseok,” Suho announced, his once vulnerable state shifted to coldness and void of emotion except for the love his heart was overflowing for Sieun. 

“Even if it kills me.” 

The wind whispered Sieun’s name, and the forest, quiet and cruel, kept their secret.

Chapter Text

The court was brimming with splendor. Velvet curtains were drawn high to reveal the full majesty of the royal hall, its gilded rafters shining in the sunlight like ancient gold. Courtiers in brocade robes filled the chamber with a low murmur, their polished shoes tapping softly against the stone floor as they took their places. Silk fans fluttered like nervous birds. Ministers, generals, and scholars bowed in succession. Incense curled in the air like ghostly fingers, perfuming the atmosphere with sanctity and tradition.

But beneath all that ceremonial grace was a question no one dared ask aloud.

Why him?

Why Oh Beomseok?

It had been barely a week since the Crown Prince’s death, if one could even call it that, for there had been no body, only ash and silence. Yet, before the grief could settle, before the flags could finish lowering to half mast, the King had summoned the court for a royal decree. All eyes turned toward the throne as the herald stepped forward, scroll in hand.

“In accordance with the will of His Majesty, and by the divine order of Heavens above, a new successor shall be named,” the herald declared. “The honor of the Crown shall pass to Lord Oh Beomseok, first son of the King.”

A gasp rippled through the room. Some bowed their heads, some looked up in stunned disbelief, but no one spoke. No one could because the King had risen from his seat, his eyes tired, his voice shallow, his soul all but absent, and nodded once in confirmation.

Oh Beomseok stepped forward, clothed in royal crimson. His shoulders were square. His hair was swept into a topknot adorned with the bejeweled pin of succession. His expression was unreadable.

No.

That was a lie.

His expression was victory. Not joy, or relief, but the slow, simmering triumph of a man who had waited his whole life to be seen. His stride was elegant, but beneath the calm of his movements, there was something feral, like a predator who had finally claimed its rightful prey. He bowed before the King with choreographed reverence, lips pressed together in false humility.

Behind him, Lady Hwayeon stood with her hands clasped tightly, her gaze fixed on the marble floor. She was pale. She had not spoken a word since the morning.

As the royal seal was placed in Beomseok’s hands, applause echoed faintly, uncertainly. Whispers were already beginning to stir.

“Did you know he was of royal blood?”

“They say the King was forced—”

“Silence.”

The sound of drums began to roll, slow and ceremonial, drowning out the murmurs with grandeur. Yet even the drums could not quiet the dark chill that had fallen over the hall, like the final breath before a storm.

In the shadows near the arched eaves of the court, a figure stood cloaked in silence.

Suho.

He was barely recognizable now; his uniform ragged, armor stripped away, eyes hollow like a man carved from the grave. His hands were blood worn, still stained from the massacre of thirty men just days ago. His hair, once neatly styled, hung in dark clumps over his eyes. He watched with a stillness more dangerous than rage. His gaze did not waver as Beomseok accepted the crown. He made no sound as the ministers praised the King’s wisdom. He did not breathe as Lady Hwayeon stepped back with trembling hands.

All he did was stare at the man who had stolen everything; Sieun’s life, the letters, the laughter, the quiet mornings, grief, love—everything.

There, before him, was the usurper dressed in the robes of a prince, his Sieun’s robes, altered and sewed, their embroidery dulled and reshaped to fit a stranger’s ambition.

Suho felt nothing.

No tears.

No heat.

Only the cold.

The kind of cold that settled in the chest and turned sorrow to vengeance. The kind of cold that whispered, Not yet.

He turned, quietly, slipping back into the corridor shadows as the ceremony reached its climax.

Let Beomseok bask in his throne for a day.

Let the court kneel in trembling obedience.

Let the world believe its story.

Because Suho had seen the truth, and he was not finished,  not until Sieun’s name was spoken again.

Not until the blood debt was paid in full.

Not until every lie was undone, and Beomseok, son of stolen blood, was dragged from that throne and left to rot beneath it.

It should have rained that day but the skies stayed cruelly blue. From the servants’ passage behind the royal hall, Yeongi had watched the coronation in silence. She stood still even as the drums thundered and Beomseok bowed with mock humility, his new robes dragging like spoiled velvet across the marble. Around her, kitchen aides and handmaids sniffled softly, some out of awe, others in confusion, but Yeongi did not blink. Her eyes were dry, fists clenched.

The scent of sandalwood and politics made her stomach turn.

By the time the ceremony ended, and the court began to disperse, Yeongi moved like a wraith between walls; silent, sure, angry. She did not look for Suho. She knew he would be gone. She did not linger where the crowd gathered. She had no use for rumors.

Instead, she waited. She waited like only a maid could; unseen, unnoticed, with patience honed by years of being dismissed.

Lady Hwayeon emerged through the side garden archway sometime after the feast with no guards or attendants in sight, just a pale shadow of a woman wrapped in crimson silk, walking too quickly to seem calm, but too proudly to admit she was running.

Yeongi followed.

They passed under carved lattice gates, across stone pavilions, into a quiet garden near the Queen Dowager’s old quarters, long abandoned, long forgotten. It was there, where no eyes could see, that Yeongi struck.

She moved fast, like fury made flesh. One hand slammed the woman into a pillar. The other pressed cold steel to her throat, a slim blade tucked beneath her sash, the kind servants used to trim herbs or cut stubborn threads.

Lady Hwayeon gasped, her back hitting stone, her hairpiece came loose.

“Wh—who are you—?”

Yeongi pressed harder. “Speak again, and I’ll carve your throat open like a peach.”

Recognition dawned slowly, then fear—real fear.

“You,” Hwayeon whispered. “The Prince’s maid.”

“You,” Yeongi spat, “are nothing.”

The blade dragged down gently, a whisper of pain against the woman’s neck.

“You lied to him,” Yeongi hissed. “You said Suho left him. You stood by while that worm Beomseok burned him alive. You wore pretty silk while he screamed.”

“I—I didn’t—”

Yeongi shoved her knee into Hwayeon’s stomach, forcing her to her knees. The noblewoman cried out as the gravel cut into her skin.

“You don’t get to deny it. Suho told me everything. Every rotten word. Every cursed plan.”

The blade flashed again, slicing the delicate sash around Hwayeon’s waist. It fell to the ground, followed by a torn sleeve, then a clump of her carefully pinned hair.

“You wanted to be Queen? You thought you’d climb the throne on blood and silence?” Yeongi leaned in, voice trembling with cold fury. “Then kneel, your highness. Kneel like the rat you are.”

“I had no choice!” Hwayeon sobbed. “The King was going to exile my family if I didn’t obey—”

“So you chose yourself.” The words hit harder than the blade. “You looked Sieun in the eye. You knew he loved Suho. And still, you silenced him, left him to die. You don’t deserve to say his name.”

Hwayeon broke then, not gracefully or like a noble lady. She wept in gasps and hiccups, snot streaking her powdered face as she clawed at Yeongi’s hanbok with trembling hands.

“I didn’t mean for him to die,” She whispered. “I thought… I thought Beomseok just wanted to scare him. I didn’t know there would be fire.”

Yeongi crouched before her, blade now held loosely, deliberately, in front of the noblewoman’s chest.

“You thought a man like Beomseok only wanted to scare him?”

Hwayeon didn’t answer.

Yeongi exhaled, shaking with the effort of restraint. “I should kill you right now.”

The blade hovered, it trembled. But then Yeongi lowered it.

“No,” She whispered. “You don’t deserve to die, not yet.” She grabbed Hwayeon’s hair and hissed into her ear.

“You’ll live, and every time you smile beside that false prince, every time you sip from gold cups and wear stolen robes, you’ll remember who you helped burn. You’ll remember the sound of his voice. His laugh. His pain. You’ll remember me, and how close you came to joining him in that fire.”

Yeongi shoved her back, making Hwayeon collapsed, coughing, humiliated, trembling.

“You’re not a queen,” Yeongi said, walking away. “You’re just a coward in a crownless cage. I hope it rots you from the inside.”

She left her there collapsing on gravel and weeping in silence. As Yeongi disappeared down the path of stone and shadow, she did not look back.

Not even once.

The wind was colder outside the palace walls. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, smearing the sky with the bruised colors of twilight. The air smelled of pine and woodsmoke. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas sang a slow, rhythmic hum, like the echo of a heartbeat beneath the earth.

Yeongi walked alone. She had cleaned the blood from her hands. Not literal blood, but close enough. Her blade was tucked beneath her robes again. Her face was calm but her chest still heaved with every step, not from fear, not from exhaustion but from the weight of grief.

She found Suho where she knew she would. In the forest beyond the east gate, where no carriages passed and no guards bothered to patrol, where the trees grew close together like the bones of forgotten gods.

There, in a shallow clearing dappled in moonlight, stood the quiet silhouette of a man she barely recognized.

Suho was kneeling beside a newly dug mound of earth.

A grave roughly shaped, surrounded by pine needles and the withered stems of wildflowers. On top lay a folded robe, silken white, embroidered with the golden insignia of the Crown Prince.

Sieun’s.

Yeongi stopped a few steps behind him, unsure if she had the right to speak.

Suho didn’t move. His hair was down. His face was hollow. The wind pulled at the edge of his cloak, revealing dried blood across his sleeves, his collar. The hilt of his sword rested on the soil, upright, planted like a silent sentinel.

“You buried what was left?” Yeongi asked softly.

Suho nodded once.

“They found… a body in the fire,” The warrior said, voice rasped from smoke and silence. “Not his. Some servant boy. Burned beyond recognition but I found this robe nearby, and his ring.”

He lifted his hand and opened his palm. There, nestled in his scarred skin, was a gold ring etched with the royal seal, charred at the edges and bent from heat.

“I know he’s gone.”

Yeongi’s throat closed.

She stepped forward and knelt beside him, folding her skirts beneath her.

“I wanted to scream,” She whispered. “When I saw Beomseok on that throne. When I saw her beside him.”

“I didn’t scream,” Suho replied, eyes still on the grave. “When I killed them.”

Yeongi looked at him sharply but Suho didn’t flinch.

“They were laughing when I arrived, said the prince begged like a dog. Said I should’ve saved myself the trouble.”

“And so you killed them.”

“Yes.”

Yeongi did not recoil. She let Suho recall what the warrior had already informed her the other day. She only breathed in, deeply, painfully.

Then she whispered, “I hurt her too.”

Suho turned his head.

“I didn’t kill her, but I wanted to.”

There was a silence that passed between them then, heavy and strangely holy, two souls sitting in the aftermath of all they’d lost, mourning not just Sieun, but the versions of themselves that had died with him.

“He wouldn’t have wanted this,” Yeongi murmured, brushing her fingers across the soil.

“I know.”

“You’re planning something.”

“I have to finish what he couldn’t,” Suho replied. “I have to tear Beomseok down with my own hands. I have to make the King see—make the whole court see what they crowned.”

Yeongi’s voice hardened. “Then be careful.”

He turned to her.

“I’m not telling you to stop,” She said. “I’m not asking you to forgive. But promise me you’ll survive it.”

Suho’s brows furrowed.

“I mean it,” Yeongi continued. “Don’t let vengeance become the only thing that keeps you breathing. If you die too, then who will remember him right? Who will speak his name without shame?”

“I’m already half dead, Yeongi.”

She reached forward and, for the first time in years, touched his shoulder.

“No, you’re not. You’re still the man who made him laugh. You’re still the warrior who kept him safe when no one else dared to care.”

She looked at the grave.

“Don’t forget that.”

Suho didn’t reply right away  but he covered her hand with his. For a moment, they sat there. Just the two of them. The last remnants of Prince Sieun’s love and life, holding one another in silence as the forest wept around them.

Above them, the moon rose pale and cold, and beneath the soil, the memory of the Crown Prince slept, not in peace, not yet, but in the stubborn, aching hearts of the ones who still loved him.

It began with the wind, not the kind that brushed through leaves or swept gently across the hanok roofs, but a wind that shifted the night itself; cold, biting, ancient. It carried no scent of rain, no whisper of clouds. Only the brittle promise of something terrible drawing near.

The palace, once proud and unmoving, seemed to shudder beneath the weight of it. The tiled eaves groaned. Paper lanterns, strung between carved beams, fluttered and flickered; some extinguished without touch, snuffed as if they dared to witness what was coming.

The dogs in the southern kennels were the first to sense it. They howled, not barked, howled like creatures meeting a god, and then abruptly fell silent. As if their throats had been snatched closed by unseen hands.

The lanterns lining the palace gates flickered. The west gate groaned. It did not swing open with force, nor creak with age, it parted, slowly, ominously, like the lungs of the night had exhaled just once and choked on what emerged.

But then, just as suddenly, they fell eerily still, like they too understood that this night belonged to no man.

The guards stationed there, new ones who are loyal to Beomseok and power, in half armor, blades sheathed from boredom, barely had time to raise their heads.

Not even time to cry out.

A silver flash carved through the dark, then blood, splattering the stone and painting the wooden beams.

One fell with his jaw hanging loose from his skull, nearly severed in one clean upward stroke. The other staggered backward, clutching the stump where his arm had been. He tried to scream. A second cut, fast and cruel, opened his chest like a sack of grain.

No scream.

No final breath.

Both collapsed in a heap of broken bone and leaking viscera. The moonlight caught the slick trail of blood winding beneath them like a river.

The sound of footsteps filled the atmosphere; measured, unhurried, and cruel. A single silhouette emerged from the gate’s shadow, as though carved out of vengeance itself.

Suho had returned.

But he was no longer the man they remembered. No longer the favored son of the royal guard, the sword of the Crown Prince, the quiet sentinel who once stood with honor.

What entered the palace grounds was something else. The warrior walked like a revenant, face cut with dried blood and shadow, cloak torn from the shoulders and soaked in soil and ash. His boots were caked with the filth of the wilderness. His left hand trembled slightly from exhaustion, but his right held steady, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the blade that had once sworn loyalty to Prince Sieun.

His eyes were not of this world. Dark, wide, and hollowed out like twin pits. The kind of eyes that had watched someone burn. The kind of eyes that had stared into death and asked for more.

His sword, Prince Sieun’s sword, gleamed low at his side, still wet from the two men who lay behind him. But that wasn’t the only weapon he carried. His silence was sharper than any blade.

Word of his approach spread fast. Soldiers spilled into the courtyard in waves, cloaked in black, weapons drawn, eyes squinting into the dark but with wrath.

His hair, once neatly bound, now spilled across his face in a wild, tangled curtain, soaked with sweat and smoke. His eyes, black as iron beneath the pale glow, held no warmth. No fear. No hesitation.

Just one name behind them.

Sieun.

He did not speak as he moved deeper into the palace grounds. There was no need. The very air bent around him; heavy, sharp, brimming with unshed violence. Even the walls, centuries old and unmoving, seemed to flinch with each step he took.

They recognized him, of course they did. He was the King’s pride, their commander, and the best of the best. But they had no idea who they were facing.

“Drop your sword!” Barked one. “You’re outnumbered.”

Suho didn’t even blink before he moved. He lunged into the first line like a demon cut loose. His blade came up, then down a vertical slash that split the nearest man from shoulder to belly. The sound it made, meaty, wet, like tearing soaked silk, was swallowed by the gurgle of his last breath

Another charged.

Suho sidestepped, kicked his knee backward until it snapped, and drove his blade through the soft hollow of his throat. Blood sprayed across Suho’s jaw, warm and thick.

Another.

He didn’t stop moving, parried high, slashed low. The third soldier’s face was peeled open from brow to chin, teeth clicking uselessly as he fell backward into his own blood.

Two men tried to flank him. One screamed Suho’s name, the other called him a traitor. Suho spun between them, blade arcing wide in a perfect crescent. It caught both. One at the waist, his torso detached with a sickening crack, the other across the neck, so deep his spine was exposed for just a moment before his head lolled and fell.

What followed was not a battle.

It was not war.

It was another massacre.

Steel met steel, but only one sword tasted flesh. He struck with terrifying precision, every movement honed by grief, every blow echoing with memory. Bones cracked beneath his boots, blades fell from broken hands, and throats opened like petals beneath his wrath.

They tried to surround him.

He welcomed it.

The corpses fell in sync, still more came. He had lost count of how many bodies had laid on the floor pooled with blood.

Suho fought with brutal economy. Not like a man in battle, but like something that had forgotten what mercy was. He ducked a halberd swing, dropped low, and drove his elbow into a kneecap until bone jutted through skin. He jammed his sword into another’s gut, then yanked upward, tearing through muscle and ribs. Entrails spilled. One man sobbed before Suho slit his throat with the broken edge of his own blade.

A spear nicked Suho’s shoulder, he didn’t flinch. Another grazed his thigh, he laughed. There was no rhythm to the fight. No choreography. Just chaos, just carnage. Blood painted the flagstones, limbs scattered across the path like discarded offerings. The scent of iron hung thick in the air.

They screamed his name as they fell. He whispered only one. 

“Sieun.”

Still, he walked forward, painting the stones red with the blood of those who stood between him and the throne.

By the time the final soldier knelt, trembling, sword dropped and palms raised in surrender,  Suho didn’t hesitate. He shoved the blade through the man’s open mouth, skull to floor, a clean, wet crunch.

Silence fell, deeper than before. A silence that settled over the courtyard like a grave.

Suho stood among a field of the dead. Dozens of bodies strewn at his feet, some still twitching, others already cooling. His own clothes were soaked to the waist in blood. His hair damped with blood and sweat. His arms shook from exhaustion, but he never dropped the blade.

The inner halls had never known fear. Polished with decades of ceremony, of quiet moonlit processions and laughter too distant to stain the walls, this part of the palace was untouched by chaos. Courtiers slept behind golden doors. Ministers whispered by candlelight, still dreaming of power. Somewhere in the far east wing, a half drunken noble played a gayageum, plucking lazy notes into the air.

But none of them realized that death was walking toward them. Not just death but vengeance, starved and unbound.

Suho’s boots, soaked and heavy with blood, dragged rivulets across the pristine stone floor. The corridor stretched before him like a throat, waiting to be torn open. His blade no longer gleamed, it dripped, the floor behind him a red path of ruin. Blood splattered the pillars. Trails of it ran down his hands, into the torn hem of his sleeve, staining everything he passed. Even the air had changed, gone still, thick with the copper stench of spilled lives.

There were guards stationed ahead more than before, dozens even. Some armored, some in black uniform, swords already unsheathed. Their formation was tighter here, trained men, handpicked for Beomseok’s personal protection.

They didn’t speak when they saw Suho. They didn’t need to. They recognized the look in his eyes. That kind of fury, that kind of grief, only came from someone who had buried the one thing he lived for.

Now, he had nothing left to protect, only something to destroy.

“Stop him!” One of the lieutenants barked.

Suho tilted his head slightly. The edges of his vision had gone red. His breathing had slowed to something unnatural, like each breath was an afterthought. His body was trembling, not from fear, but restraint. It was almost laughable. They still thought they were protecting Beomseok from a man.

They hadn’t realized yet.

Suho wasn’t a man tonight. He was every wrathful god that had ever been written into scripture.

The first to come at him was a spearman; tall, fast, well armored. He lunged, shouting, steel aimed for Suho’s heart.

Suho caught the shaft mid thrust, twisted his torso, and ripped the spear out of the man’s hands. In one fluid motion, he flipped it backward and drove it through the soldier’s jaw, pinning his head to the wall with a sickening crunch. The man convulsed once, and then sagged like meat on a hook.

Another came from behind. Suho turned and slashed low, blade slicing through ankle tendons so the man collapsed screaming before Suho kicked him in the mouth, teeth scattering like seeds.

They came in waves now, four from the left.

Suho parried the first strike, then head butted the attacker so hard his nose caved in. A second sword came for his ribs, he caught it under his arm, snarled, and shoved his blade backward into the man’s gut, twisting it slow. He yanked it out just in time to pivot and slice upward across another’s throat, severing everything from windpipe to spine.

Blood sprayed the walls in thick, high arcs. Slick footsteps, screams. The smell of death turned sickly sweet.

One of them begged. He was barely more than a boy. Hands shaking. Sword held wrong. “Please… please, I have a family—”

Suho didn’t hesitate. He punched the hilt of his sword into the boy’s throat, crushing his windpipe, then shoved his blade clean through his chest. The boy’s body jerked, spasmed, and then slumped.

There was no room left for mercy.

Not tonight.

The corridor darkened with shadow and gore. Bodies stacked in crooked piles, red pooling into the cracks between tiles. Suho moved through them like a phantom, stepping over severed arms, ducking under broken blades. Blood coated his mouth, one eye had been cut. His knuckles were raw but he kept going.

He did not speak. He did not look back, only forward. Each step brought him closer to Beomseok.

Until he reached the final gate. Beomseok’s private residence. Two heavy golden doors, carved with dragons and lacquered with pearl. There were six guards left, shaking, backs pressed to the wood.

They saw what had become of their brothers. They didn’t want to die. But they stood between Suho and his final sin.

One rushed him, Suho ducked low and sliced across both thighs, severing muscle so deeply the man collapsed in a shriek. Another lunged, Suho met him in mid air, shoulder slamming into his chest before he drove his sword into the soldier’s mouth, silencing the scream with steel.

A third stabbed him in the side.

Finally, a hit.

Suho flinched. Blood spurted from his ribs but his hand caught the wrist before the blade could pull free. He twisted until bone snapped and plunged his own sword up through the man’s ribs and into his heart. The guard’s eyes went wide. He coughed once, blood bubbling up, before Suho threw him aside like trash.

The last three backed away, cornered.

Suho didn’t even blink. He lunged fast. The first tried to block. His head was severed in a clean horizontal swing, flying halfway across the hall. The second screamed and ran.

Suho threw his sword. A perfect spin through the air. It hit the soldier square between the shoulder blades. He dropped like a stone. The last one just stood there, sword trembling in his hand.

He pissed himself.

Suho walked past him, didn’t even touch him. He didn’t need to. He pushed the doors open, slowly and deliberately. They creaked under his bloodied fingers.

The door swung closed behind him with a final, echoing thud.

The room was silent, so silent that Suho could hear the blood dripping from his fingers onto the polished floor. It dripped from his boots in steady rivulets, smearing red across the pristine floor. His cloak was in tatters, burnt at the edges, soaked in blood and rain. His sword, still unsheathed, gleamed wetly in the low candlelight. There was gore between the ridges of its engraved hilt, the proof of at least a dozen deaths trailing behind him like a shadow. 

Each drop echoed, like time was counting down the final seconds of Beomseok’s borrowed life.

Across the chamber, Oh Beomseok stood by a low table, surrounded by lavish cushions, fruit trays untouched. A court robe hung loose on his frame, red and embroidered with the crest of the crown prince. He hadn’t even removed it.

Suho stared.  He could feel it again; the ghost of Sieun’s laughter in these walls, his perfume faint in the silk, the way his small hands once brushed across this floor to pick up fallen scrolls. Sieun had sat on these cushions, had walked through that curtain, had lived in this room. 

“Suho,” Beomseok greeted softly, cautious. A forced smile cracked his lips. “You look terrible.”

Suho said nothing, eyes boring holes on Beomseok’s skull. 

Beomseok’s gaze flicked to the blade in Suho’s han then to the streaks of blood trailing behind him. His breath hitched.

“You really killed them all, didn’t you?”

Suho’s voice, when it came, was low, like gravel dragged across stone.

“I’ll ask only once,” Suho spoke with little to no emotion. “Where is his body.”

“What?”

Suho took a step forward. His foot landed with a wet squelch.

“The body,” The warrior said again, voice sharp now. “Where did you take him after the fire? What did you do to him?”

“I—I thought you knew,” Beomseok laughed nervously, stepping back, hands out as if to ward him off. “There was…there was nothing left. The fire, his remains were unrecognizable. We buried what we could. I gave him a proper—”

Suho moved too fast to follow. One moment he was standing. The next, Beomseok was slammed against the wall, Suho’s hand around his throat.

“You think you get to speak of proper?” Suho growled, his voice hoarse, a storm barely held in. “You burned him alive. You lied. You wore his name like a second skin. You made a mockery of everything he was.”

Beomseok was choking now, clawing at Suho’s grip.

Suho let him drop. Beomseok gasped for air, stumbled, and reached blindly for the blade on the cushion behind him. The warrior kicked it away, skidded across the room.

“Don’t,” Suho said. “You don’t deserve a sword.”

Beomseok coughed, shaking. “He was using you. You think he loved you? You were his dog. His toy.”

Wrong answer.

Suho struck, not with the blade but with his fists. The first punch shattered Beomseok’s lip. Blood sprayed across the floor. He fell backward, barely catching himself before the second blow crashed into his ribs, hard enough to crack something.

“You’re lying,” Suho said, quiet now. “Say another lie. Go on.”

Beomseok spat blood.

“He—he was never going to choose you,” He  hissed. “You were just a way to feel powerful. He laughed behind your back. He pitied you.”

Suho knew the truth. He only answered by raising his sword and stabbed. Not to kill, not yet but through Beomseok’s thigh, straight through flesh and bone until it pinned him to the floor like an insect.

Beomseok screamed, and Suho leaned in. His face was inches from Beomseok’s. His eyes, those black, hollowed out eyes, stared without a single flicker of pity.

“I begged for his life,” Suho whispered. “I pleaded with the king. I let him go when he told me he had to marry. I loved him even when it hurt me. And you… you took his light. You left him alone in the dark. And for what?”

Beomseok sobbed now, hands slick with blood.

“For what?” Suho roared.

“I wanted—” Beomseok gasped. “I wanted to be him. I wanted what he had.  Everything; the crown, the attention.”

Suho stood above him, watching him with nothing but disgust and anger. He used to think nothing could ever make him cross the line but now, as he stood above the very person who took his love, and after slaughtering everyone who stood in his way, he realized that love can make you do things you never knew you were capable of.

Beomseok laughed bitterly, even through the pain. “He had you so easily. You would’ve followed him into hell.”

“I would gladly follow him even in death.” 

Suho pulled the sword free with one savage wrench, slicing more than he needed to. Blood poured from Beomseok’s thigh as he shrieked, writhing like a dying dog on the floor.

But Suho was calm and unmoving, as if a storm had passed, and what was left behind was worse, a cold, bone deep stillness.

He raised the blade one last time, and this time, it was not to wound. No more speeches. No more words.

Only judgment.

Finally, he brought the sword down straight into Beomseok’s chest. A wet, final sound, like something breaking open that could never be repaired.

Beomseok twitched once then was still. Blood spread in all directions. His eyes remained open but they no longer saw.

Suho stood over him, breathing and silent. His sword dripped, then stilled.

It was done.

But nothing felt clean.

The scent of blood had not yet reached the throne room, but the dread had. It seeped through the marble cracks of the palace like smoke through old wood, heavy and inevitable. The kind of silence that draped over shoulders like a funeral shroud. Outside, the wind howled, not with rage, but warning. The palace walls, soaked in generations of obedience, had begun to shiver.

They brought the news at dawn, not in loud proclamations or with trumpets or urgent horns. But with quiet, shuffling footsteps. With pale faced eunuchs who dared not raise their eyes. With a bloodied sword wrapped in silk and sealed with a black ribbon.

The King was seated at the head of the morning council, surrounded by ministers already whispering of smoke and screams.

When the doors burst open, when the scent of iron and ash rushed into the room as if to make the memory real, his fingers curled around the jade armrest of his throne.

Slowly.

Tightly.

A court official stepped forward, bowed so low his forehead grazed the marble floor, and uttered the words that cleaved the chamber in two.

“General Ahn Suho has slain Oh Beomseok along with every man who served in the detachment that surrounded the warehouse where His Highness perished.”

Gasps erupted not at the death itself but at the naming.

His Highness.

Even now, they still said it. Even as his robes were dust. Even as his flesh was bone.

The King did not flinch but his lips parted, just barely. His voice came like the first crack in an ancient statue, dusty, dry, but sharp.

“How many dead?”

“We lost count, Jusang Jeoha,” the eunuch answered. “Oh Beomseok was found with a sword driven through his chest. The same blade he once presented to Your Majesty at his knighting.”

Another silence.

The King’s eyes lowered to the blade now lying across the stone floor. He recognized it.

Suho’s sword.

The one gifted to him during his first mission. The one Sieun had once cleaned in secret when Suho returned bloodied from a border war. The same one that had rested, quiet, faithful, at Suho’s side for nearly a decade. Now it gleamed with fresh blood, still warm.

The ministers began murmuring.

“He has gone mad?”

“Was it grief, or treason?”

“What does he plan to do next?”

“Execute him.”

“Exile.”

“Imprison him in the east tower—”

“Silence.”

The King’s voice echoed like thunder, measured, low, and absolute. Everyone stilled. He stood, his robe sweeping across the polished floor like a shadow. His gaze swept over the room, quieting even the boldest of advisors.

“There is no war greater than the one a man wages with his own grief,” The king said. “You wish to punish Ahn Suho? Find the nobles who turned their eyes when plots whispered under their very breath.”

He stepped down from the dais. His shoes echoed with each slow footfall.

“He was loyal,” the King said. “He served the crown longer than most of you have drawn breath. And when the Prince died, he died too, only slower.”

No one dared speak.

“I will not execute him,” The king announced loudly for everyone to hear. “Nor exile him. For what crime? Loving too deeply? Avenging the blood of the heir you all abandoned?”

The king knew he was starting to sound like a hypocrite. He, too, had done everything in his power to keep his son and Suho apart. As a king, it was his duty to protect the kingdom’s best interests, but it had cause him the life of his son. He knew this was all because of him. Now, he knew that love could never be contained.

Though he was too late, the King dropped his title, his power, and influence and finally played the role as a father. 

A minister dared to interject, trembling. “Your Majesty, he took the law into his own hands—”

“As I once did, when I took this throne from my brother’s line,” the King snapped. “And no one questioned me then.”

Silence fell once again, but the King stepped closer to the sword. He knelt, not as a ruler, but as a father, and gently, with fingers that had once braided a boy’s dark hair, he lifted the bloodied hilt.

“I will grant him one mercy,” the King whispered. “He may return. But not as a soldier.”

A beat passed.

“He will never wield a sword for this kingdom again.”

The ministers looked at one another in shock.

“Then what shall he be, sire?” Came a voice from the corner. “A ghost?”

“No,” the King murmured. “A man. Let him live not in duty, but in memory. Let him carry the weight of my son until the end of his days.”

He turned to the guards.

“Bring him back alive. If he resists, do not strike. If he flees, do not chase. If he breaks,” The king’s voice trembled, just once, “do not mend him.”

The court remained silent as the King rose again, older now, older than they had ever seen him.

He did not cry.

He did not wail.

But in his eyes, something sank.

A throne never felt heavier than when a crown could not shield a father’s heart.

Suho walked until the silence swallowed him. Past the palace soaked in blood. Past the stone path slick with crimson. Past the dying breath of the last soldier he’d struck down without blinking. He did not remember when the moon vanished behind clouds or when his sword, still warm with death, began to drag behind him like a broken limb.

He only knew that his feet moved because they had nowhere else to go. Nowhere left to return to.

The forest opened like a wound. Nocturnal winds hissed between trees like serpents mourning the dead. The air was thick with pine sap and the copper tang of his own dried blood. Branches reached out like arms, tearing at the fabric of his uniform, snatching loose threads, like they too wanted to stop him. To ask, What now, warrior? What now, with no prince left to guard?

But Suho had no answer, he had only silence, the sword, and the grief.

It led him, no, it pulled him to the cave, half hidden beneath a cliff’s edge, where roots clawed down the rock like veins, and moss clung to stone as if afraid to let go. No light reached this place, no sound. Only the echo of something sacred, ancient, and forgotten.

He stepped inside and finally allowed the weight of everything to crush him. He fell to his knees and the world collapsed.

No scream escaped him;  breath shuddering, fractured,  as if even grief itself was reluctant to touch him.

His hands, calloused from war, trembled as they reached toward the dirt. He clawed at the earth, as if he could dig deep enough to unearth another reality. As if Sieun’s body lay just beneath the surface, waiting for him, waiting to wake up, whispering,  Suho, you came back.

But there was no prince, only mud, ghosts, and the unbearable stillness of being left behind.

Suho starts to sob. He tried to muffle them, biting down hard against his own sleeve, but they ripped through him anyway, low, animal sounds, born not from the throat but from somewhere deeper. From the marrow. From the very part of him that had once loved Sieun not as a prince, not as a duty but as the boy who smiled when the rest of the court looked away. As the soul who wept in silence, and who touched Suho’s hand only when the world was asleep.

“I was supposed to protect you.” His whisper fell to the stone like a dying ember.

He hunched over, pressing his blood streaked palms together. A prayer shape. A beggar’s shape. A man with nothing left but bone and belief. And then, to the gods, to the sky, to the void and to whatever force had stood idle while his prince burned, he cried out.

“Take me.” His voice shook, hoarse and cracked, but resolute. “Take my life; my name, my body—take it all.”

The cave held its breath.

“If time can be undone,” Suho whispered, tears falling freely now, “if even one thread of fate can be unstitched, then let it be me.”

He pressed his hands harder together, his knuckles scraped raw. 

“Let him live in a world where he isn’t born in chains. Let him wake in a life where I was never his guard, only a man who could love him freely. Let him be anything, anyone, as long as he is safe.”

The silence curled in around him like smoke, but something shifted. The wind, once still, now circled inward. A breath not his own brushed his cheek. Shadows along the cave wall trembled, not from firelight but from something older.

It was not thunder that answered, not light, but the weight of a presence. A pact forming in the marrow of the world.

“If you will not return him to this world, then cast me into the next. Bind my bones to his fate. Chain my heart to his breath. Let him live, and I will vanish from every scroll, every whisper, every prayer.”

A gust of wind curled through the cave, cold and old as gods.

“If there is a heaven,” Suho  whispered, voice breaking, “let it be the one where he walks freely. If there is a hell, let it be the one where I search for him endlessly.”

The wind rushed and filled the whole cave with something indescribable. His voice was barely more than breath now, lost in the trembling hush of the cave. He dropped his head to the ground and whispered one final thing.

“Sieun-ah,” The warrior breathed out, his wounds were starting to catch up to him, coating his body with his own blood.

He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating from the loss of blood, but in front of him, knelt to the ground and touching his face like creed, was his Sieun—his beautiful Sieun whose eyes contained all the wonders of the world. Sieun was glowing, his robe not a hint of smoke or red. His hair was silky and smooth, and Suho reached out to caress it.

“I promise to find you again in a life kinder than the last.”

He did not know if the gods heard him but something did. Because as his body trembled in exhaustion, as his breathing slowed and the blood dried stiff across his skin, the forest beyond the cave fell to a perfect, unnatural silence. A silence not born of peace but of decision.

Somewhere,  far beyond the veil of men and kings, fate stirred.