Chapter Text
The cold clings to Wooyoung's skin, biting at his cheeks as he follows Yeosang along the narrow, winding road that leads into the kingdom. The snow has just begun to melt, leaving behind patches of frost on the dirt path, and the chill of winter still lingers in the air. It's been years since he last set foot in the kingdom, but it feels different now, heavier somehow, as if the very air is burdened with something unseen. He pulls his cloak tighter, casting a wary glance at his friend, but Yeosang's face is unreadable, his pace steady as they approach the towering gates.
When they step through the gate, Wooyoung stops short. The kingdom stretches out before him, a sprawling city of white stone and light purple banners draped from every archway, every corner, fluttering gently in the breeze. The streets are narrow, crowded with people bundled in thick coats, their heads down as they go about their business. It's beautiful, almost surreal, but something about it feels wrong. He can't place it, but a sense of unease prickles the back of his neck.
"It's different than you remember, isn't it?" Yeosang says, his voice low but carrying an edge that Wooyoung doesn't miss.
Wooyoung nods, eyes scanning the banners that hang like specters over the crowd.
"It feels colder," he murmurs.
They continue down the cobblestone street, Wooyoung keeping close behind Yeosang, who seems to know exactly where they're headed. The plan had been simple: after the harsh winter months, Wooyoung would join Yeosang and begin work as a physician. But now, as he walks through the city, the weight of uncertainty grows heavier with every step.
Soon, a murmur rises from a gathering crowd up ahead, voices carrying a mix of excitement and dread. Wooyoung slows, his curiosity piqued, and glances at Yeosang.
"We should keep moving," Yeosang warns, eyes flicking toward the crowd. "This isn't something you want to see."
But Wooyoung hesitates, the pull of the crowd too strong. He steps toward them, weaving through the mass of people, his heart quickening with a sense of foreboding. As he reaches the front, the sight before him makes his stomach lurch.
A wooden platform dominates the square, and at its center stands a man, shackled in heavy iron chains. His face is pale, gaunt, and drenched in sweat, but his eyes burn with a mixture of terror and defiance. Guards flank him on either side, their expressions hard as stone. Above them, more banners hang, the kingdom's colors stark against the bleak sky.
Wooyoung's breath catches in his throat as the reality of the scene sinks in. This is no ordinary trial—this is an execution.
The crowd presses closer, hungry for blood.
"Traitor!" someone shouts, followed by another voice.
"Witch!"
The word cuts through the air, and Wooyoung's pulse quickens. A mage. The man is being executed for magic.
His heart pounds in his chest, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. The executioner, a hulking figure dressed in black, steps onto the platform, raising his axe high. The crowd falls silent, breath held in unison, waiting for the inevitable. Wooyoung feels his body tense, a wave of nausea rolling through him as he watches the man's life hang by a thread.
But before the axe can fall, a woman's scream pierces the air. Wooyoung jerks his head toward the sound, his eyes landing on a figure pushing her way through the crowd. She is wild, desperate, her face streaked with tears. She lunges toward the platform, but the guards seize her, holding her back as she shrieks.
"You will pay for this! All of you!" Her voice cracks, but the fury in her words is undeniable. "I swear on my life, the king will pay!"
The guards wrestle her to the ground, but her screams echo through the square, a haunting promise of vengeance that sends a shiver down Wooyoung's spine. The executioner brings his axe down with a sickening thud, and the mage crumples to the platform, lifeless.
The crowd erupts, some cheering, others murmuring in quiet dismay, but Wooyoung is frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the blood staining the wooden boards. He feels a tremor run through him, his heart pounding louder than the noise around him. Magic could cost them their lives here.
"We need to leave. Now." Yeosang appears beside him, his hand gripping Wooyoung's shoulder, his voice steady but urgent.
Wooyoung tears his gaze from the platform, swallowing hard as the mother's final words hang in the air like a curse, a dark shadow over the kingdom's light colors. He nods, following Yeosang away from the square, but the weight of what he's just witnessed presses down on him with every step.
The castle looms ahead, its white stone walls gleaming against the pale sky, the light purple banners draped from its high towers billowing softly in the breeze. As Yeosang leads the way, Wooyoung's stomach twists, the events of the square still fresh in his mind. The crowd, the execution, the curse—it all lingers, heavy and unsettling, but he pushes it aside, focusing instead on the imposing structure before them.
The guards at the castle entrance straighten at the sight of Yeosang. They don't ask questions, only exchange brief nods before stepping aside to let him—and Wooyoung—pass. The ease with which they move makes Wooyoung's breath hitch. He had always known Yeosang worked in the castle, but the way they let him through without hesitation, as if he belonged there... It's a stark reminder of how high up Yeosang has climbed in the kingdom's ranks.
The air shifts as they step inside, the cold from outside replaced by the dim warmth of the castle's interior. The long hallways stretch out before them, lit by low-burning torches, casting flickering shadows on the pristine stone walls. Everywhere Wooyoung looks, the kingdom's signature colors—white and light purple—line the corridors, banners hanging at every turn like reminders of the king's ever-present influence.
They walk in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly through the halls, but Wooyoung's mind is far from quiet. The sheer grandeur of the castle unsettles him. Yeosang moves with purpose, his back straight, his face unreadable as he leads them deeper into the maze of corridors. Wooyoung feels small, out of place, trailing behind as the walls seem to close in around him.
It isn't until they descend a narrow set of stairs that the atmosphere shifts. The torches dim further, the stone walls growing damp and cool as they move down, down into the belly of the castle. Wooyoung wrinkles his nose as the air turns musty, the faint scent of herbs and earth filling his lungs. He can hear the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance, the sounds of the upper castle fading away with each step.
At the bottom, Yeosang pauses in front of a heavy wooden door. He pushes it open, the hinges groaning, and the room beyond is revealed.
Wooyoung's eyes widen.
The space is dimly lit, small compared to the grandeur of the upper floors, but filled to the brim with items that speak of years of work. Shelves line the walls, packed with jars of ingredients, bundles of dried herbs, and mysterious vials of liquid. A large cauldron sits in one corner, still bubbling faintly as though it had been recently used. Above, plants hang from the ceiling to dry, casting long shadows over the room. It feels ancient, earthy, far removed from the gleaming, royal corridors above.
Wooyoung steps further inside, taking it all in. The clutter, the warmth, the mustiness—it's a sharp contrast to the pristine, cold kingdom outside. This is Yeosang's space, the place where he works, where he spends his time, and it feels... right. It suits him. He turns to comment on it, but before he can speak, a voice cuts through the silence.
"Ah, there you are!"
A figure emerges from the back of the room, tall and broad-shouldered, with a grin that stretches from ear to ear. Wooyoung blinks in surprise as the man approaches them, his bright smile lighting up the otherwise shadowed space. His long, dark hair falls in messy waves around his face, and there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that immediately puts Wooyoung on edge.
"Mingi, this is Wooyoung," Yeosang says with a calm nod. "He'll be working with us for a while."
Mingi's grin only widens, and he extends a hand toward Wooyoung.
"Welcome. The more, the merrier, right?" His voice is booming, full of energy, and completely at odds with the dim, musty room. "You'll get used to the dampness down here. And the smell." He winks. "Yeosang likes it this way."
Wooyoung takes Mingi's hand, feeling the warmth of his grip.
"Uh, thanks," he replies, a little overwhelmed by the contrast between Mingi's bright personality and the dark, mysterious room. He glances at Yeosang, who is already busy organizing jars on a nearby shelf, his movements deliberate, focused.
"This is... where you work?" Wooyoung asks quietly, stepping further into the room.
Yeosang doesn't look up, his fingers trailing along the labels of the jars.
"Yes," he replies simply, his voice steady. "It's where I've always worked. It's safer here, away from prying eyes."
Yeosang gives him a knowing look, the two sharing a wordless exchange. Wooyoung's gaze drifts across the room once more, his unease slowly giving way to a strange sense of comfort. Despite the dim light and musty air, there's a familiarity to the space, a quiet sanctuary hidden beneath the castle's pristine facade. But as he looks at Mingi's grinning face and Yeosang's calm focus, a thought gnaws at him.
This kingdom is not what it seems. Not by a long shot.
Yeosang walks Wooyoung through another narrow hallway, this one dimmer and colder than the rest, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the stone walls. The further they descend, the more Wooyoung notices the castle's pristine appearance fading away. Dust collects in the corners, and the dampness of the underground seeps into the air. Finally, they stop in front of a small wooden door at the end of the hall.
"This is yours," Yeosang says, pushing the door open with a low creak.
Wooyoung steps inside, and his heart sinks. The room is small, cramped even, with walls lined with storage crates stacked high, some toppling over precariously. Dust dances in the air, catching the faint light from a single sconce on the wall. The smell of mildew and aged wood fills his nose, reminding him of attics long forgotten. Amid the chaos, there's a bed against the far wall—a thin mattress on an old wooden frame. It's the only thing in the room that doesn't look like it's been there for decades.
"I know it's not much," Yeosang says quietly from the doorway, his voice carrying a note of hesitation. "But it's private, and no one will bother you down here."
Wooyoung forces a smile, nodding slightly.
"It's fine," he says, though his chest feels tight. "Thanks."
Yeosang lingers for a moment, eyes scanning the room, as if checking to make sure it's truly livable. But he doesn't say anything more. He gives a brief nod, then turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room falls into an eerie silence, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the depths of the castle's lower floors. Wooyoung stands still for a moment, staring at the room around him. The walls seem to press in, the crates and junk taking up nearly every inch of space. It feels suffocating, the weight of the kingdom, the execution he witnessed, all bearing down on him in this one, small room.
With a sigh, he drops his bag at the foot of the bed and runs a hand through his hair. His gaze sweeps the room again, lingering on the stacks of crates. The sight of it all—this clutter, this disarray—mirrors the jumble of thoughts swirling in his mind. Everything is a mess, and he can't tell if coming here was the right choice or not. The kingdom, so grand and cold, feels more foreign than he ever expected. And the execution... that mother's voice screaming for revenge echoes in his head.
To occupy his mind, Wooyoung moves toward the nearest stack of crates and starts pushing them aside. The wooden boxes groan as they scrape across the stone floor, heavier than they look. His arms strain with the effort, and soon his muscles burn, but he keeps going, determined to make some sense of the room. The task is mechanical, and for a moment, it pulls him away from the uncertainty eating away at him.
But it doesn't last. The more crates he moves, the more the clutter seems to multiply. Each box, each discarded piece of junk feels like another weight pressing down on him, reminding him how out of place he is here.
He looks to the door, an idea coming into his mind. Yeosang had warned him to be careful in his letters, working so close to the royal family left little room to make mistakes or take risks, but here, in the depths, he wonders just how much they can truly see right under their noses.
With a flick of his wrist and a gentle push of will, the crates begin to shift. At first, they slide slowly, the magic a quiet pulse in the air. Then, as Wooyoung focuses harder, the crates move more fluidly, gliding across the stone floor as if carried by an unseen current. He directs them into the far corner, where they stack themselves neatly, one crate resting on top of another until the once-cluttered room is finally clear. Dust swirls in the air, disturbed by the movement, but the space opens up, revealing more of the floor and walls.
Wooyoung lets out a long breath.
He walks to the center of the room, eyeing the cleared floor, the organized crates now stacked neatly in the corner. The bed still looks uncomfortable, the air still smells like old wood and dust, but it's better. It's manageable.
Wooyoung sits on the edge of the bed, his hands resting in his lap. The mattress sags slightly beneath his weight, but he barely notices. His thoughts drift back to the day's events—the journey to the kingdom, the sight of the banners, the horror in the square. The way the crowd cheered as the man was executed for magic. And that woman... her voice, raw with grief and fury, still echoes in his mind.
This kingdom, this place—it feels dangerous in ways he hadn't anticipated. He glances toward the crates, the faint traces of his magic still lingering in the air. Magic like his could get them both killed--could get Mingi roped in as well. Yet Yeosang urged him to come and to work for him despite the risks.
Wooyoung leans back, staring at the ceiling as the weight of it all settles in. Yeosang wants him here, magic and all.
Wooyoung leans back, staring at the ceiling as the weight of everything settles in. His mind drifts between the day's events and the unspoken truth: Yeosang wants him here, despite the danger, despite the fact that his magic could get them both in trouble. He pulls the thin blanket over himself, wondering what the future will hold in this strange kingdom where magic is both a secret and a threat.
Hours pass before a knock at his door pulls him from his thoughts. It's Yeosang, his expression as calm as always, though there's a hint of a smile in his eyes.
"Dinner's ready," he says simply.
Wooyoung follows him down the twisting hallways of the castle's lower floors, the scent of something warm and savory reaching his nose. When they arrive, Mingi is already at the table, grinning widely when he sees them.
"I hope you're hungry." Mingi says, his voice full of enthusiasm. "I made way too much."
They sit together at a small table in Yeosang's lab-turned-dining space, plates filled with a hearty stew and fresh bread. The warmth of the food and the company is a welcome change from the unsettling day Wooyoung has had.
As they eat, Wooyoung starts asking questions, his curiosity piqued by the strange new dynamics at play here.
"So, Mingi," he begins between bites of bread, "how did you end up working for Yeosang?"
Mingi chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well, I wasn't really planning to. But my family needed the money, and Yeosang's been a friend for a while. Plus, I can kinda sense magic, so it's not like I was completely useless." He grins, his expression playful. "Though I'm nowhere near as good as Yeosang at it. I can sense it, but it's more like a feeling—a tingle, I guess."
"Sensing magic?" Wooyoung repeats, glancing over at Yeosang, who tilts his head slightly and offers a light shrug. The gesture is so casual, but it sends a clear message—Mingi doesn't know the full story, but if he keeps honing his skills, he might figure it out.
"That's still something," Wooyoung says, smiling.
"He's still scared of the dark," Yeosang adds plainly, his tone so matter-of-fact that it pulls a laugh from Wooyoung.
"Scared of the dark?" Wooyoung teases, raising an eyebrow as he leans in a little. He can't help himself.
Mingi sighs, clearly used to the ribbing.
"It's not the dark itself," he mutters defensively, "it's what might be in it."
"Not everyone's meant to live underground, Mingi," Yeosang says, finally chiming in with a soft smirk. His voice is calm, but there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Besides, maybe you could tell him about your little crush on one of the prince's guards."
Mingi's reaction is immediate.
"He does not need to know that," he snaps, his tone sharp but not unkind. There's a light blush creeping onto his cheeks, betraying how flustered he truly is.
Wooyoung, ever the opportunist, grins.
"Which one?" he asks, even though he has absolutely no idea who the guards are or even what the prince looks like. The whole scenario just sounds too good to pass up.
"You don't need to know," Mingi pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. His blush deepens, and Wooyoung can't help but smile wider.
"You just like that he's taller than you," Yeosang replies, his voice calm as ever, but there's a subtle tease laced in his words. The comment makes Mingi sputter in protest, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for a retort but finding none.
"If it makes you feel any better," Wooyoung says with a shrug, "I could tell you childhood stories of me and Yeosang."
At that, Mingi's eyes light up with curiosity, clearly intrigued by the offer.
"Oh?" he hums, leaning in slightly, eager for whatever secrets Wooyoung might reveal.
But before Wooyoung can say a word, Yeosang's calm demeanor breaks just slightly, his voice firm as he cuts in.
"You are not telling him anything," he snaps, the barest hint of exasperation showing through his otherwise calm exterior.
Wooyoung chuckles, clearly enjoying getting under his old friend's skin. "Not even the time with the—"
"Especially not that," Yeosang interrupts, shooting him a sharp look.
Mingi watches the two of them with wide eyes, glancing between them like a spectator caught in a game he doesn't quite understand.
"Now I really want to know."
"You're not going to find out," Yeosang says, his voice returning to its usual calm. He takes a sip of his drink, as if the matter is settled.
But Wooyoung smirks, leaning back in his chair. "We'll see about that."
The conversation flows easily after that, filled with laughter and teasing as Wooyoung learns more about his two new companions. Mingi, despite his imposing stature, is as warm and open as they come, and his admiration for Yeosang is clear. Yeosang, in turn, balances Mingi's energy with quiet calm, always watching, always listening, his presence grounding them all.
For a moment, the castle's cold halls, the dangerous reality of magic, and Wooyoung's uncertain future fade into the background, replaced by the warmth of this strange new place he's found himself a part of.