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Chapter Text

A/N:

This story just got removed due to some issue in my wattpad account. So i took this as a chance to just rewrite this and publish it again as a better version of it's previous self. I apologize for the inconvenience caused.

Yoon Jeonghan:

Yoon Jeonghan, a commandery prince by imperial decree, was a figure both revered and beloved throughout the empire. Orphaned in early childhood by the brutal murder of his parents, he was taken under the wing of the Grand Empress Dowager, who, moved by compassion, adopted him as her own son.

An omega of exceptional beauty, Jeonghan's visage became the subject of songs and court whispers alike. His name traveled far beyond the capital, and noble households vied for the honor of his hand. In the streets, the children greeted him with awe, and among the common folk and highborn alike, he was held in high esteem-not only for his grace, but for the humility and warmth with which he carried himself.

Yet beyond his appearance lay a keen mind. Jeonghan was widely regarded as a master of strategy-sharp-witted, composed, and decisive in matters of state and war. He was also famed for his archery, his arrows known to strike with the precision of an eagle's dive, swift and unerring from any distance.

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Choi Seungcheol:

Choi Seungcheol, a rising Commander in the imperial military, was a force both feared and admired. A dominant Alpha, he possessed a striking presence-broad-shouldered, battle-hardened, and handsome to a fault. His looks alone could bring a hush over any gathering of omegas, their gazes drawn to him as though by instinct.

Still in the prime of youth, Seungcheol stood out not only for his form but for his promise. Gifted with exceptional strength and unmatched combat skill, he quickly earned the empire's favor. Born to privilege as the eldest son of the influential Marquis Choi, his position on the royal council was not only secured by birthright but justified by merit. In every campaign he led, his command was decisive, his victories absolute. The court spoke of him not merely as a warrior, but as a leader shaped for greatness.

His mother had passed when he was a child, and though Lady Hee had since taken that place in name, it was his younger half-brother, Chan, whom Seungcheol cherished most. Protective and affectionate, he raised the boy with the care of both brother and guardian, never allowing their bond to falter beneath the weight of titles or bloodlines.

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Kim Mingyu:

Kim Mingyu, a fellow Commander in the imperial military, was bound to Choi Seungcheol not only by rank, but by years of brotherhood. The two had been inseparable since childhood, raised side by side in the martial academies of the capital, their bond forged through countless drills, shared victories, and moments of silent loyalty.

Mingyu was known for his towering build and unwavering discipline, a quiet strength that made him both respected by his peers and trusted by his superiors. Where Seungcheol commanded with boldness and fire, Mingyu brought steadiness and reason, the kind of presence that held the line when others faltered.

Though not born of the same blood, the friendship between Seungcheol and Mingyu was that of true brothers-unshaken by politics, ambition, or rank. Together, they had risen through the ranks, earning their place not through inheritance, but through grit, skill, and unbreakable trust.

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Jeon Wonwoo:

Jeon Wonwoo, an omega of quiet grace and refined demeanor, was both mated to and wedded with Commander Kim Mingyu. Though far removed from the battlefield, he was no less respected in the capital-his name well known among the nobility for the elegance of his trade and the dignity with which he carried himself.

A trusted friend of Yoon Jeonghan, Wonwoo often moved in the same circles of influence, though he preferred the subtlety of business to the spectacle of court. He owned and managed one of the capital's most esteemed shops, offering fine silks, rare jewels, cosmetics, and luxury skincare-goods coveted by noble houses and visiting dignitaries alike.

Wonwoo possessed a discerning eye, a calm intellect, and a rare ability to navigate both commerce and politics with tact. Though he lived outside the palace walls, his connection to its key figures-through both friendship and marriage-made him a quietly influential presence in the city's highest social tiers.

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Lee Seokmin:

Prince Lee Seokmin, an Alpha of noble bearing, was the younger brother of the emperor and a constant presence at his side. A man of letters as much as of lineage, Seokmin was renowned across the empire for his poetry-verses that blended intellect with heart, often recited in the grand halls of the court and studied in the academies of the capital.

Educated, eloquent, and deeply loyal, he served as one of the emperor's closest advisors, his voice present in every critical decision that shaped the realm. Though he carried his duties with utmost seriousness, Seokmin was no stranger to joy. His warm, infectious laughter and natural charm made him beloved among courtiers and commoners alike.

He shared a bond of near-brotherhood with Yoon Jeonghan, the two having grown up side by side within the imperial palace. Their friendship, forged in youth and strengthened by shared years and trust, remained one of unwavering loyalty and quiet understanding-each a source of strength to the other in times of joy and hardship alike.

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Hong Jisoo:

Hong Jisoo, an omega of rare gentleness and grace, was both mated to and married with Prince Lee Seokmin. Known throughout the capital for his calm demeanor and ever-pleasant nature, he carried himself with a quiet dignity that won the hearts of all who met him.

Jisoo's kindness was neither show nor pretense-it was simply who he was. Humble in speech and composed in manner, he was widely admired by nobles and commoners alike. His presence brought a sense of ease to even the most tense gatherings, his words always measured, his smile always sincere.

A gifted musician, Jisoo was most often found with a zither or flute in hand, his music delicate and full of feeling. His performances, often held in the palace gardens or during formal banquets, were considered a treasured part of court life.

He shared a close bond with Yoon Jeonghan, the two omegas often seen together in the quieter corners of court life-confidants, companions, and kindred spirits in a world that often demanded too much.

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The Empire of Yuan-nestled in the heart of the Central Plains of China-was a luminous dynasty, revered across the continent as a land of wealth, wisdom, and wonder. It was often called the Phosphorous Empire, not only for the brilliance of its culture but for the way its influence illuminated the kingdoms that surrounded it.

Founded centuries ago by a legendary emperor said to have been chosen by the heavens themselves, Yuan thrived under the guidance of wise rulers, loyal ministers, and an intricately structured court. Its institutions were balanced with Confucian order, Daoist reflection, and Buddhist compassion. The bureaucracy was well-regarded-its officials chosen not merely by birth, but by rigorous examinations in philosophy, ethics, and statecraft. Scholars were as respected as soldiers. Strategy was praised, but honor even more so.

The empire's strength rested not only in its palaces and armies but in the deep roots of its traditions. Ancestral rites were performed with the utmost reverence. The arts flourished-poetry, calligraphy, music, and dance filled the gardens of nobles and commoners alike. Great academies attracted students from distant provinces, and merchant caravans lined the roads with silks, spices, and scrolls.

The people of Yuan were proud, but content. Its provinces, from the mist-covered mountains in the west to the fertile rice terraces of the south, were bound together by harmony and good governance. While no kingdom was without its flaws, in Yuan, the balance between power and virtue was carefully preserved-though always tested by ambition, politics, and the nature of men.

At the heart of it all stood the imperial emblem: a five-clawed golden dragon, its body coiled around a sacred pearl. It symbolized the divine right of the emperor, the celestial mandate to rule, and the responsibility to protect the people. The dragon was not merely a symbol of strength, but of balance-ferocious yet wise, powerful yet restrained.

It was in this vast and elegant empire, under its golden roofs and cherry-blossom skies, that the story of Prince Yoon Jeonghan began.

I hope you enjoy this story, and please show me support, because it's such an overwhelming happiness to read your comments and see notifications of your votes.<333

FYI;

--Contains mpreg.

--Contains Smut

Cross-posted on my Wattpad

Chapter Text

The midday sun filtered gently through the embroidered canopy of the palace pavilion, casting a warm, dappled glow over the wooden floor like spilled gold ink from a calligrapher's brush. Prince Yoon Jeonghan sat in effortless elegance, a figure born for such light. A porcelain teacup, its rim traced with gold lotus motifs, was nestled between his fingers. Steam curled upward, fragrant with osmanthus and chrysanthemum, like a whisper rising into the tranquil hush of midday.

His hair was gathered into a high knot, held by a gold headdress, with a few loose strands teasing his cheek in the breeze. His outer robe, pale jade with plum-blossom embroidery, shimmered softly in the light—a quiet nod to both tradition and taste.

Beside him sat Hong Jisoo, ever poised, his sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the quiet labor of artistry: zither-callused hands, long fingers dancing with practiced ease. The melody he coaxed from the strings flowed like tea down porcelain, fluid and warm, light but full of meaning—music that felt like memory.

The garden was the kind of perfect that took generations of pruning to seem effortless. Chrysanthemums bloomed in proud bursts of crimson and gold, dancing in the breeze like courtesans at a Lantern Festival. Butterflies floated lazily from bloom to bloom, unhurried, unbothered, and birds trilled in soft counterpoint, occasionally trying (and failing) to keep up with Jisoo's tempo. Even nature, in the Empire of Yuan, knew how to stay in key.

Jeonghan took a slow sip of his tea, sighing with the weariness only palace-born sons could truly master. It wasn't the sigh of sadness, but of someone expected to be perfectly composed at all hours, even when all he wanted was to scream into a brocade cushion.

"I've been thinking..." Jeonghan murmured, placing his teacup down just as Jisoo's final note disappeared into the air like incense smoke.

Jisoo looked up, one brow arching like a fan unfurled. "That's never good news."

Jeonghan gave him a dry, pointed glance. "About Hyungwon."

Jisoo's fingers paused mid-air, hovering above the zither. "Ah, the walking calligraphy scroll. Honorable, punctual, and only slightly less exciting than an imperial rice ledger."

Jeonghan stifled a laugh. "He proposed."

"I know," Jisoo said, reaching for the teapot. "News travels faster than couriers when the palace maids get involved."

"They say he's a good match. Noble birth, calm temperament, speaks in full proverbs."

"A fine statue, then," Jisoo offered.

Jeonghan exhaled. "I feel nothing. No dislike. No affection. Just... neutrality."

Jisoo poured more tea with a small nod. "In Yuan, that's practically the standard foundation for marriage."

Jeonghan let out a low laugh, but the sound faded quickly. "But I was never trained to be someone's decorative jewel. I was raised to be... useful. Clever. Controlled."

Jisoo gave him a long look. "You've been performing so long, you forget you're allowed to want something honest."

The prince's gaze dropped to the garden, eyes fixed on the peonies bending in the breeze.

"I'm tired of being admired," he whispered. "Admiration is convenient. But it has nothing to do with knowing me."

Jisoo set down the teapot gently. "You don't want praise. You want presence."

Jeonghan turned to him, eyes earnest. "How did you know? With Seokmin?"

Jisoo's smile softened, touched by something older than affection. "He never mistook my quiet for disinterest. He waited. Asked questions and listened to the pauses. And when I wasn't sure... he didn't pull, he stayed."

Jeonghan's shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.

"That sounds safe."

"It is," Jisoo said. "Love doesn't always arrive like thunder. Sometimes, it's just the person who sees you fall apart and doesn't flinch."

A breeze swept through the pavilion then, stirring silks, ruffling hair, as if even the garden leaned in to listen.

Jeonghan smiled, this time not the kind crafted for courtiers.

"Maybe one day."

Jisoo reached for the zither again. "Maybe sooner than you think."

And then the music began anew — gentle, intuitive, full of spaces between notes — like truth without the need for words.

The wind at the northern border was never gentle. It carried the scent of dust, cold iron, and old blood—the kind that never truly washed from the soil. Pale light spilled across the encampment as dawn cracked over the distant ridgelines, casting long shadows across rows of tents, lacquered armor, and the fluttering banners of the Empire of Yuan.

Those banners—once vibrant with golden dragons and crimson silk—now snapped wearily in the wind, their edges frayed from sun, rain, and too many skirmishes that had tested the strength of both men and fabric. Soldiers moved through the camp with the quiet rhythm of men who had long since memorized their duties. They spoke little, as if words would only stir the war gods' attention.

In the command tent, a large map was pinned to a flat wooden surface, corners held down with carved stones and discarded metal bolts. Commander Choi Seungcheol stood at its center, clad in simple field armor, his brow furrowed as he studied the terrain inked across the rice-paper surface. His posture was calm, but his eyes—sharp and hawk-like—missed nothing.

"Third unit needs reinforcement before dusk," he murmured, voice low and steady. "If the scouts are right, the northern ridge will be tested again by tomorrow morning."

Kim Mingyu leaned against a central tent pole, arms crossed over his broad chest. His armor gleamed in patches beneath the muted light, but his stance was loose, the kind of ease that only came from men who had bled on the field and still laughed afterward.

"They keep probing the same flank," he said, one eyebrow raised. "Either they're desperate, or they think we're too honorable to adapt."

Seungcheol snorted faintly. "Then let's disabuse them of that notion."

He picked up a river stone and shifted a unit marker westward across the map, dragging it across the paper with silent finality.

"We let them think they're breaking through the front," he said. "Pull back at dawn, then collapse on them from the ravine. Swift. Clean. Not too much glory—just enough to send a message."

Mingyu gave a low whistle and nodded. "Brutal," he said, grinning. "The kind of plan that makes poets uncomfortable and generals weep with gratitude."

"Let the poets stay in the capital," Seungcheol muttered, already turning to mark the secondary positions. "They've never had to walk thirty li on frostbitten legs just to deliver a report."

As if summoned by the words, a young courier ducked into the tent, his boots and hem caked in pale dust. He bowed, quickly and low, before extending a sealed scroll bound in red silk ribbon—imperial.

Seungcheol accepted it without a word, fingers moving with efficient precision as he cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. His eyes flicked across the lines of ink—formal, precise characters, stamped with the inner court's crimson seal.

Mingyu, always observant despite the ease in his stance, noted the faint shift in his commander's expression. It wasn't much. A pause in breath. A narrowing of the eyes. But it was enough.

"Bad news?" he asked.

Seungcheol's voice was unreadable. "The court's begun formal talks regarding Prince Jeonghan's marriage."

Mingyu straightened, the humor fading from his face. "So the rumors are true."

"They're discussing alliance houses," Seungcheol said, rolling the scroll closed with practiced grace. "Ranking names. Weighing dowries and politics."

"But Jeonghan's name is already on the scroll," Mingyu said, quieter now.

Seungcheol looked away, toward the tent's open flap where the sky had begun to burn soft gold at the edges. Beyond that: jagged mountains, cloud-covered peaks, and beyond those, a capital filled with silk-draped nobles whispering over tea.

"His name," he said quietly, "has never left it."

A beat of silence passed.

Outside, the wind tugged at the banners again, and horses snorted restlessly near the stables. The camp stirred—soldiers rising, sharpening blades, checking arrows. The day moved forward as it always did at the border: with or without sentiment.

Inside the tent, Seungcheol stood still, unreadable.

Mingyu exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. "We win the battle, and someone else writes the poem. That's how it's always been."

Seungcheol didn't answer.

But his silence was louder than most men's declarations.

The afternoon sun poured gently through the carved lattice windows of the Grand Empress Dowager's private quarters, casting shifting patterns of light onto the polished jadelike floors. The scent of red sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the ever-burning incense near the ancestral altar. Outside, the court murmured with distant footsteps and wind-blown petals; inside, all was still—save for the soft rustle of silk and the slow rhythm of care.

Jeonghan stood behind her, sleeves folded neatly at his wrists, one hand holding a finely carved ivory comb as he worked through the long, silver strands of her hair. His movements were practiced, gentle, almost ceremonial. It was not a servant's task, nor merely a filial one—it was a quiet ritual between two people who had long since dispensed with the need for formalities between them.

The Grand Empress Dowager, once the most formidable woman in the empire, sat gracefully on a cushioned stool carved from rosewood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Her frame had thinned with age, but her bearing had not faltered; even now, she carried the air of someone who had outlived emperors and silenced entire councils with a look.

"You always take such care," she said softly, not turning her head, but smiling just enough to be heard in her voice.

Jeonghan's lips curved faintly. "You raised me with more than care. You gave me your patience. Your name. A seat at a table no one wanted me at."

"And yet," she murmured, her eyes still closed, "you insist on combing my hair like a palace maid."

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath. "Better me than one of those trembling court girls who think touching you will get them cursed."

The Dowager gave a light snort, amused. "I do enjoy keeping them nervous. It's good for discipline."

They shared the silence that followed not as ruler and subject, but as family—a rare and fragile kind of bond in a world that made pawns of blood.

She opened her eyes at last, looking up—not at him directly, but at his reflection in the standing bronze mirror across the room.

"They've started whispering again," she said quietly. "About your future. About names."

Jeonghan's hand didn't pause, but his expression cooled ever so slightly. "I know."

"They say Lord Hyungwon has submitted his proposal in full. House Son is pressing the council. They speak of 'strategy' and 'stability.'"

Jeonghan's voice was low. "Convenient."

She studied him in the mirror, seeing more than most could. "And your heart?"

He met her gaze, his eyes steady but shadowed. "Is not convenient."

That silence returned—but this one was heavier. Not cruel, not cold. It was the silence of two people who had lived too long in the architecture of duty, who had learned how to hold grief like an heirloom.

The Dowager reached up slowly, her hand light as silk, and placed it over his.

"You've always been more than a pawn, Jeonghan," she said. "Don't let the court forget it—even when they try to dress the chessboard in poetry and politics."

Jeonghan's fingers curled gently around hers, his voice softer now. "Do I get to choose?"

"If not today," she replied, her tone grave but warm, "then when the time comes. And when it does—" she squeezed his hand— "don't hesitate. They've taken so much from you. Let this be the one thing they don't."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside the window, a breeze stirred the flowering plum trees, petals drifting down like quiet snow.

Inside, the combing resumed, as deliberate as ever.

But in the stillness, something had shifted.

Not rebellion.

Not defiance.

But the first breath of decision.

Silken banners unfurled from the soaring columns of the Celestial Court, bearing the sigils of ancient houses—crimson stags, white cranes, twin lotus blossoms—and above all, the imperial crest: a five-clawed golden dragon coiled around a sacred pearl. They swayed gently in the filtered light of the late morning sun, casting long, stately shadows across the polished stone floor.

Ministers stood in neat rows along the length of the hall, each robed in their rank colors—deep cinnabar for senior statesmen, forest green for the provincial lords, and sea-gray for the scholarly advisors. Their heads were bowed slightly, hands clasped before them, their voices hushed as if the air itself demanded reverence.

At the pinnacle of the chamber sat the Emperor, robed in layered gold, carved like a statue from serenity itself. His face betrayed no emotion, but the weight of his gaze was unmistakable. On either side of him sat the Empress, serene and unreadable in her phoenix diadem, and the Empress Dowager, upright and poised, her fan resting in her lap.

But it was the Grand Empress Dowager, seated just below the dais in a chair of sandalwood carved with plum blossoms, who carried the atmosphere in her stillness. Her cane lay beside her like a silent scepter, her presence heavy as ancestral judgment.

The ceremonial doors opened with a soft groan of ancient hinges.

Yoon Jeonghan entered with the poise of water pouring into a calm vessel. He wore court robes of pale cream and soft sky blue, stitched with golden cranes that glimmered subtly under the light. The embroidery shimmered when he moved—not garish, but elegant, like something alive. His hair was tied in a formal topknot, pinned with white jade. As he crossed the long carpet toward the throne, the rustle of his robes and the hush of shifting gazes were the only sounds.

Whispers quieted. A breathless pause swept the hall.

He bowed with flawless form before the Emperor and the Dowagers, then turned, his gaze sweeping over the gathered council. His eyes passed over the military delegation, and for the briefest moment, they met Choi Seungcheol's.

Seungcheol stood straight as a spear, dressed in the black-and-silver uniform of the Imperial Guard. His posture was rigid, controlled—but his gaze, as always, held weight. He betrayed nothing, yet said everything.

Beside him, Kim Mingyu stood with a more relaxed air, though his eyes tracked the chamber like a hawk. Prince Seokmin and Hong Jisoo, both seated closer to the throne, offered Jeonghan the smallest nods—Jisoo's subtle and reassuring, Seokmin's unreadable as ever.

Jeonghan moved to his seat among the inner royal family, settling into the high-backed chair lacquered in dark wood and carved with lotus flowers. His robes flowed elegantly around him, pooling like mist across the floor. Above, the tall windows filtered sunlight through lattice screens, gilding the chamber in a soft amber glow.

The Minister of Revenue stepped forward, and the day's proceedings began.

Grain shortages in the southern provinces. Unrest in the mountain prefectures. The reassignment of border troops. Jeonghan listened carefully, speaking only when necessary, his remarks precise and calm. When he leaned toward Seokmin to exchange a quiet word, his tone was light, almost casual—but there was calculation beneath the stillness, as there always was in Yuan's court.

Then the Minister of War rose. The topic shifted to military supply lines.

Seungcheol stepped forward.

He delivered his report with crisp clarity, his voice like a blade drawn cleanly. He spoke of the shifting weather patterns affecting movement along the northern ridges, of the success of the revised supply routes, and of the need for early deployment in the western corridor. His words were efficient. Unemotional. Professional.

And yet, as he spoke, Jeonghan's fingers curled slightly around the carved armrest of his chair.

He did not look directly at Seungcheol.

But he heard everything.

As the minister sat, a new weight fell over the room.

The Empress Dowager leaned forward, her voice as poised and deliberate as a dancer's first step. "Before we close the session," she said, "the court must turn to the matter of Prince Jeonghan's proposed match, submitted by House Son."

The shift was immediate. Tension tightened like a string drawn too taut. A few murmurs rose, quickly silenced.

The Emperor lifted a hand. "The council has reviewed the petition. House Son offers both noble lineage and military loyalty. The match is sound, and the timing favorable."

The court waited.

Jeonghan rose slowly, hands folded before him, eyes trained on the dais. His voice, when it came, was soft—but unshakable.

"Your Majesty. I am aware of the proposal and the merits attached to it. I am grateful for the court's diligence and wisdom."

The Empress Dowager inclined her head, expectant. "Then you accept?"

Jeonghan did not bow. He did not falter.

"I do not."

A ripple moved through the room like wind through dry reeds.

"I believe marriage should serve not only the Empire," Jeonghan said, his voice steady, "but the heart. And my heart does not rest with Lord Hyungwon."

A beat of pure stillness. Not a breath dared disturb it.

On the dais, the Grand Empress Dowager narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted toward the Empress Dowager with a flicker of old, unspoken history.

The Emperor, expression unreadable, studied Jeonghan for a long moment.

Then—he nodded once. "Your refusal is noted and respected. The matter is closed."

Jeonghan bowed deeply and resumed his seat. The council resumed, but the energy had shifted—ever so slightly. Something had been said that could not be unsaid. Something had moved.

As attendants brought in fresh scrolls, and ministers returned to debating grain taxes, the air in the great hall still held the faint scent of defiance.

And beneath Jeonghan's composed expression, something quiet and resolute had settled—like ink that had finally dried.

Chapter Text

The carriage moved in smooth, practiced rhythm over the cobbled stone roads of the imperial capital, its lacquered wheels murmuring beneath a cocoon of velvet and silk. Outside, lanterns swung gently from poles strung across the street, their golden light painting fleeting patterns through the carved window screens of the cabin—shadows of dragons, clouds, and plum blossoms dancing across the floor.

Inside, the world was quieter.

Yoon Jeonghan sat poised beneath the gentle swaying of embroidered tassels, dressed in a flowing robe of pale blue silk, embroidered with delicate wisteria that trailed down the sleeves like falling petals. Across from him, Jisoo sat in a shade of dove grey, his formal evening attire threaded with silver vines that caught the lanternlight with each subtle movement.

The city outside was alive—awash in warm light, festival chatter, and the distant strains of flutes and zithers. Noble estates glittered like lanterns in a sea of dark rooftops, and crowds bustled along the outer avenues, fanning themselves and whispering beneath the mask of celebration. But inside the carriage, there was stillness.

Jisoo plucked idly at a loose thread on his sleeve, eyes flicking toward his companion.

"Are you sure you want to go tonight?" he asked softly, tone wrapped in politeness but lined with genuine concern.

Jeonghan didn't answer right away. He simply tilted his head, his profile calm beneath the silk drapes. "Lady Min extended a personal invitation. It would be ungracious to decline."

Jisoo's lips curled, dry amusement glinting in his eyes. "Let's not pretend this is about courtesy. She's expecting you, not us. Half the noble families are hoping to see if you still remain unattached—and the other half are already drafting marriage offers."

Jeonghan gave a soft, almost rueful laugh. "Let them. They've been whispering for years. One more evening won't kill me."

The carriage rocked slightly as it turned past the outer city wall, the polished rooftops of Lady Min's estate coming into view. Her banners—pure white stitched with gold herons—fluttered above the gate, and rows of red lanterns lit the path like a river of fireflies.

Jisoo glanced out, then back at Jeonghan, his voice quieter now. "You know the court hasn't forgotten the match you turned down."

"I know," Jeonghan replied, his gaze on the window glass, where a flicker of his own reflection stared back. "But I don't regret it. I won't offer my name to a man I do not love, no matter how many titles he carries."

Jisoo studied him for a beat longer, then gave a faint smile, warm with old friendship. "If the room becomes unbearable, I'll pretend you've been poisoned by the wine and drag you out in dramatic fashion."

Jeonghan smirked, brushing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. "And I'll owe you another favor."

"You already owe me five," Jisoo said with practiced ease, as if keeping count was part of his civil duty.

The carriage slowed at the front gate. Footmen in ivory-and-gold stepped forward, bowing as they reached for the doors. Outside, music played—strings and pipes weaving through bursts of polite laughter, clinking porcelain, and the rustle of heavy silk.

Jeonghan took a deep breath. As he adjusted the cuffs of his robe and prepared to descend, his face settled into that carefully cultivated stillness—the kind the capital knew well: serene, composed, unshakable. But behind it, a whisper of tension curled at the edge of his mouth. Not dread. Not pride. Something quieter.

Resolve.

"Let's get through this," he murmured under his breath.

And with that, they stepped out into the evening light

Lady Min's banquet hall was nothing short of imperial splendor—opulence perfected over generations. Crimson silk banners hung from vaulted ceilings, trailing down like rivers of fire, while lanterns in carved jade casings bathed the entire room in golden warmth. The walls were lined with hand-painted scrolls of the founding emperor's campaigns—chariots, dragons, and a thousand soldiers inked with reverence.

The air smelled of sandalwood, citrus wine, and the light sweetness of lotus.

Servants moved in polished synchrony, weaving through the guests with lacquered trays. Roast duck glazed in plum sauce, salted prawns on carved jade spoons, and candied lotus root were presented without a word. Rice wrapped in lotus leaves steamed gently in bronze dishes, their fragrance subtle but intoxicating.

It was a gathering of the highest order—old money, new ambition, and every family who'd ever dreamed of aligning themselves with the bloodline closest to the throne.

And at the heart of it all, Jeonghan moved like silk in water.

The night had only just begun. But already, all eyes turned to him.

And he—unbothered, unreadable—met them with a smile.

The banquet hall shimmered with gold and candlelight, alive with laughter smoothed over by diplomacy. Guests clustered like constellations around favored lords and influential matrons—nobles, ministers, military officials, and their exquisitely dressed spouses, each conversation a careful dance of courtesy and quiet maneuvering. The perfume of sandalwood, citrus, and faint plum wine hung in the air, weaving through the scent of lacquered floors and steamed delicacies.

Silks rustled. Fans fluttered. Glances were exchanged like chess pieces placed without touch.

Then, a clear voice rang from the top of the grand staircase:

"His Highness, Prince Hong Jisoo. His Grace, Prince Yoon Jeonghan"

The hum of conversation did not cease—it shifted. Reoriented.

Every head turned, as if a breeze had passed through the room.

Jeonghan descended the steps with measured grace, his robes of pale blue and ivory white flowing like water drawn through a porcelain vase. At his side, Jisoo matched him step for step, calm and poised in grey silk, a quiet smile set beneath eyes that saw more than he ever said aloud.

Eyes followed them—admiring, assessing, and, in some corners, already calculating.

Lady Min swept forward through the crowd with effortless command, her violet and gold robe trailing behind her like the tail of a phoenix. Jade combs glittered in her hair, each one a subtle boast of wealth and taste. She bowed just deeply enough to honor Jeonghan's rank—but not so deeply as to lower herself.

"Your Highness. Your Grace," she greeted, her voice warm but alert, the voice of a woman used to hosting powerful people and making sure they knew it. "You honor my home with your presence."

"Lady Min is far too modest," Jeonghan replied, offering a graceful bow in return. "Your estate could rival any palace wing."

She offered a refined chuckle and gestured to the glittering crowd. "Everyone's been eager to see you again. You've kept yourself hidden since the council session."

"I've enjoyed a rare moment of quiet," Jeonghan said lightly. "Though I'm well aware it's a fleeting luxury in this city."

Lady Min's smile sharpened slightly, but she bowed again and moved on, eager to tend to the next important guest—or whisper about Jeonghan's arrival two steps away.

The moment she left, the crowd surged.

A procession of young alphas made their way toward him—heirs of noble houses, junior officials, distant cousins of generals, and far-too-earnest scholars. Each arrived with something carefully chosen: a folded fan, a scroll of poetry, a carved jade token "meant for luck."

Jeonghan accepted each offering with the serene, untouchable grace expected of him. He exchanged pleasantries, offered just enough conversation to satisfy curiosity—but no more. He gave smiles with the precision of brushstrokes, and not a single word that hadn't first been weighed.

At one point, Jisoo leaned closer and murmured with a perfectly innocent tone, "You're collecting admirers faster than Lady Min collects jade hairpins."

Jeonghan lifted his wine cup, voice dry. "I'd rather collect silence. Less maintenance."

Jisoo smirked. "Not nearly as fashionable."

Then—Jeonghan's gaze caught on a familiar figure standing across the hall.

Lord Son Hyungwon, clad in ivory and garnet, stood beside his father, the head of House Son. He was not speaking. He was not smiling. He was watching.

The air between them, even across the hall, was thick with unspoken history.

Jeonghan met his gaze—only briefly.

Then, with the grace of someone born to the game, he turned away without acknowledgment.

As the string musicians began to play, drawing guests toward the central dance floor, Jisoo was soon drawn into a conversation with a court musician from the Ministry of Rites. Jeonghan, now momentarily alone, stepped away from the warmth of candles and expectation and moved through a side archway into the open-air balcony beyond.

There, the air was cool.

Below, Lady Min's moonlit garden spread like a painting—lanterns floating atop her koi pond, the water reflecting light with a glassy stillness. Bamboo rustled in the breeze. Somewhere farther beyond the compound walls, the capital stirred, restless and relentless.

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, his breath visible for a moment in the cooling air.

Tonight, he was a figurehead of political longing, a prize masked as a prince. The center of a hundred whispered names. He did not want this game.

But he still knew how to win it.

He stood still by the railing, silk sleeves shifting slightly in the breeze, the scent of osmanthus drifting through the garden.

Behind him, the soft rustle of footsteps approached—measured, careful, and without announcement.

Jeonghan did not turn.

But he smiled faintly, just at the corner of his lips.

He had already sensed who it was.

"Your Grace."

The voice came from behind—measured, even—but there was a distinct weight beneath its polish. Not confrontation. Not desperation. Just intent.

Jeonghan turned slowly.

There, standing beneath the carved archway that led from the banquet hall to the moonlit veranda, was Lord Son Hyungwon. His robe was formal—ivory silk brushed with garnet trim, the insignia of House Son discreetly embroidered at his chest. His posture was impeccable: hands folded behind his back, chin slightly lifted. His expression, though outwardly calm, held a tightly leashed urgency.

"Lord Hyungwon," Jeonghan greeted, with a nod—polite, cool.

Hyungwon returned the gesture. "Might I request a moment of your time," he said, "in private?"

Jeonghan glanced briefly over his shoulder. In the corner of his eye, he saw Jisoo, still near the doorway, eyes lightly narrowed with quiet concern. Jeonghan offered him a small smile—just enough to ease the tension—and turned back to Hyungwon.

Without waiting for fanfare, attendants, or protocol, Jeonghan stepped down from the balcony onto the stone path that curved through Lady Min's garden, motioning with the smallest flick of his wrist for Hyungwon to follow.

The two walked in silence beneath willow branches and swaying lanterns. Moonflowers bloomed along the path, glowing faintly under the night sky, and the faint sounds of string music and distant laughter from the banquet began to blur behind them, swallowed by the garden's hush.

Only when they reached the small pavilion overlooking the koi pond did Hyungwon finally speak.

"I didn't come to corner you, nor to press where the answer has already been given," he said quietly. "I only ask for honesty—nothing more."

Jeonghan turned to face him fully. The soft moonlight caught in the silver threads of his robe, outlining the gentle rise of his shoulders and the composed curve of his expression.

"You've always had honesty from me, Lord Son," Jeonghan replied, voice calm but firm. "I've never offered anything else."

Hyungwon looked at him for a long moment. Then, without adornment, he asked:

"Was it truly because your heart lies elsewhere? Or... was I simply not enough for you?"

The question landed gently—but not without weight.

Jeonghan's expression didn't harden. It didn't falter. But something in his eyes softened with gravity.

"You are not lacking," he said. "You are accomplished, dignified, and more patient than most men in the court could ever hope to be. But you are not the one I chose."

A pause.

"I was raised to believe the empire came before all things. That duty eclipsed the heart. And for a time, I believed that," Jeonghan continued, his gaze lifting to the lanterns. "But I've also seen what happens when people live entire lives without ever listening to their own truth."

He turned his gaze back to Hyungwon. "It makes them cruel. It makes them tired."

Hyungwon stood silent for a moment. His jaw tightened—not with offense, but with the restraint of someone caught between pride and quiet resignation. Then, finally, he stepped forward—just enough to close the space between them without claiming it.

"I only hope," he said, voice low, "that whoever has your heart knows the cost of holding it."

Jeonghan met his gaze without wavering. "If they don't yet... they will."

Hyungwon's lips twitched, just faintly—a smile touched with sadness, but still sincere. "Then I have nothing left to contest."

He bowed—not stiffly, not as a slight—but with the grace of a man relinquishing something he once hoped to protect.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked back down the lantern-lit path, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows and the stillness of the garden.

Jeonghan remained.

The pond before him shimmered with the reflection of hanging lights, disturbed only by the ripple of koi beneath the surface. The air was cool. The scent of osmanthus lingered, and somewhere deeper in the estate, the sound of laughter rose like a reminder that the world continued spinning—whether or not hearts aligned with it.

He didn't feel triumphant.

He simply felt... still.

Then—quiet footsteps rustled behind the hedge, light and familiar.

Jeonghan didn't turn.

"I'm fine," he said softly, just before Jisoo could speak.

A brief pause. Then a quiet reply: "I know."

Only then did Jeonghan shift, stepping down from the pavilion's edge.

The two of them walked back together, side by side, toward the glow of the lanterns and the hum of the waiting hall. And though nothing more was said, something had been closed between them—and something else, still unnamed, waited ahead.


A/N

I sincerely apologize for the re-post. This story just got lost because of some technical issue, so i took this as a chance to rewrite this, and publish it again as a better version of it's previous self. again, i apologize for the inconvenience caused.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet evening in the capital—the kind where the day's noise receded into the hush of lanterns and long shadows, and the clamor of the marketplace softened into gentle murmurs that wrapped the streets like silk. The skies above the tiled rooftops were clear, brushed with the last blue of dusk, and the lanterns lining the cobbled lanes glowed amber, bobbing gently in the breeze like drifting fireflies.

Prince Yoon Jeonghan walked with effortless grace, his steps measured, each movement so fluid it seemed rehearsed by nature itself. He wore a robe of pale ivory, the fabric light and soft against the breeze, embroidered with gold-threaded phoenixes so faint they shimmered only when caught by light. His hair, half gathered in a silk ribbon, swayed gently with every step, the rest cascading down his back like black ink poured over parchment.

Beside him walked Jeon Wonwoo—calm, composed, a figure of contrast in charcoal robes with no ornament save a single black jade clasp. His presence was quiet but steady, like a bodyguard who would never admit to being one. Though he kept a respectful distance, the way he moved mirrored Jeonghan's every step—a silent shadow, present but never imposing.

The capital had begun its nightly winding-down. Vendors were packing away their wares, though a few stalls lingered, still offering warm chestnuts and candied persimmons. Children darted through alleyways with sparklers, their laughter bright and fleeting, echoing down narrow lanes where oil lamps flickered behind wooden lattices.

A few passersby stopped when they noticed Jeonghan—recognition flashing in their eyes, quickly followed by bows, murmured greetings, and reverent space made in the street.

"You always draw attention," Wonwoo said, barely above a whisper, his gaze forward.

Jeonghan's smile was faint. "It comes with the title, not the face."

Wonwoo didn't answer, but the sideward glance he offered carried a quiet disagreement.

They passed over a small arched bridge, the water beneath dark and still, carrying a few floating lanterns—some drifting freely, others tethered to prayers inked carefully on rice paper. The kind of silent wishes no one spoke aloud, not even under starlight.

Jeonghan paused on the bridge, his hands folded before him, gaze drawn to the flickering lights below.

"You've been quiet," Wonwoo said gently.

Jeonghan answered without looking away. "Sometimes silence speaks better than anything else."

Wonwoo nodded, understanding.

They stood there for a moment longer, letting the sounds of the city soften around them like a lullaby only those weary of politics could hear.

Then Jeonghan stepped forward again, and they resumed their walk down the lantern-lit path—just a prince and a merchant, wrapped in moonlight and courtly silence.

But the quiet was suddenly broken.

Shouts rang out up ahead, swift and commanding.

"Make way! Make way for the Commander!"

A ripple passed through the street. The vendors shifted quickly, gathering their carts; citizens pulled back toward the walls; anticipation stirred like wind before a storm.

Jeonghan and Wonwoo paused at the edge of the plaza, half-shielded by the hanging banners of a tea house.

And then he appeared.

Commander Choi Seungcheol.

At the head of the returning military column, he rode tall atop a dark warhorse, his armor gleaming beneath the torchlight. The plates were burnished black and bronze, marked faintly by dust and long travel, but polished where it mattered—the crest of the imperial guard clearly visible over his heart. His crimson cloak billowed behind him like a war banner.

He looked every inch the empire's chosen blade—broad-shouldered, unmoved by the attention of the crowd, his gaze fixed forward. The sharp clink of reins and metal was matched by the thunder of synchronized steps as his soldiers followed behind him, disciplined and resolute. At his right side rode Kim Mingyu, expression unreadable, posture proud. Together they were not just returning troops—they were symbols of command, victory, and stability.

Wonwoo's eyes followed Mingyu instinctively. Though he said nothing, his jaw softened slightly with quiet pride.

Jeonghan, by contrast, remained perfectly still.

As the procession neared, Seungcheol's gaze lifted—and met Jeonghan's.

Only for a heartbeat.

But in that sliver of time, something passed between them.

A flicker. A flash of memory, or recognition, or something heavier.

Then it was gone.

Seungcheol's expression didn't change. His eyes moved forward. His pace did not slow.

The soldiers continued past like a wave of iron, and the crowd bowed low, some cheering, others whispering of courtly honors and impending briefings at the palace.

Jeonghan stood straight, spine unbent, his expression unreadable. But his fingers—slender and graceful—curled ever so slightly around the edge of his sleeve.

Not in pain. Not in longing.

But in something quieter. Heavier. Something unspoken.

Something he still refused to name.

Wonwoo, watching him from the corner of his eye, spoke softly. "You didn't expect to see him tonight."

Jeonghan answered with a shake of his head. "No."

But he had not flinched.

He had not turned away.

He stood and watched as Seungcheol disappeared into the night, the last glint of his armor catching firelight before vanishing behind the crowd and the shadows.

Jeonghan's gaze did not follow the soldiers. It followed the man who led them.

He had seen Seungcheol dressed in brocade and council robes, seated among ministers, polished and precise.

But this—this was the man shaped by battlefield winds. This was the Seungcheol who did not need ceremony to command, who looked more natural in the grit of road-dust and war banners than beneath the ceiling of a marble hall.

The light had caught the edges of his armor like gold gilding steel. And for a moment, Jeonghan thought: This is how he was always meant to be seen.

Wonwoo broke the silence gently. "You could've called out."

Jeonghan's answer was almost a whisper. "He wouldn't have heard it."

The crowd was beginning to disperse again, voices lifting with the return of calm—conversations about the commander's return, the condition of the border, the possibility of a formal debrief before the Emperor.

But Jeonghan remained still, one last moment.

Then, with the grace that never deserted him, he turned back toward the path.

Wonwoo joined him once more, silent.

And together, beneath lanterns and twilight, they walked into the sleeping city—graceful and composed.

As though nothing had shifted.

Even as everything had.

The morning arrived in gentle strokes, as though the sky itself had risen cautiously.

Sunlight poured through a veil of pale, silver-edged clouds, casting a soft, diffused glow over the palace gardens. The air still carried the hush of dawn, cool and slightly damp. Along the stone paths, dew clung to the leaves, and the rose bushes stood in silent bloom—red like lacquered cinnabar, ivory like winter's breath, blush pink like the cheek of a porcelain doll. They swayed lightly in the morning breeze, not so much moving as listening.

Amid them knelt Prince Yoon Jeonghan, the morning's stillness wrapped around him like a second robe.

He wore emerald green silk, its deep sheen trimmed in black and edged with gold-threaded vines that curled like they'd grown into the fabric. His hair was tied high, held in place by polished jade pins that caught the sun in glimmers. The hem of his robe brushed the earth, but not a speck of soil touched it—Jeonghan had always been a study in pristine contradiction.

He was not tending to the roses, not really. His fingers hovered gently over the petals, brushing against their velvet softness as if the sensation alone could steady his thoughts.

But his mind was not in the garden.

It was back on the stone streets of the capital.

On the glint of torchlight against armor.

On the steady rhythm of hooves and the hush of a crowd parting like water.

On Commander Choi Seungcheol riding past—silent, unreadable, untouchable.

He hadn't even looked at him.

A crease formed at Jeonghan's brow.

And then—

A breath, sharp and shallow.

A thorn caught the tip of his finger. Blood bloomed, startlingly red, against pale skin.

He blinked, almost surprised to find himself bleeding.

Soft footsteps approached across the stone, and then came the quiet rustle of silk.

Jisoo.

He wore robes of plum and pearl grey, modestly tailored, but stitched with care. He always blended in, but never disappeared.

"You're hurt," Jisoo said gently, already producing a folded handkerchief from within his sleeve.

Jeonghan glanced down at the bead of blood on his finger. "It's nothing," he said.

But he let Jisoo take his hand.

Jisoo wrapped the cloth around the finger with slow precision, movements practiced and calm. His touch, like always, was light but never uncertain.

"You shouldn't tend roses with your thoughts somewhere else," he said, not as reprimand, but as quiet truth.

Jeonghan exhaled, not quite a sigh. "It seems I'm often elsewhere these days."

Jisoo gave him a look. Not intrusive—just present.

There was a pause, and then Jisoo asked, "Last night... was it difficult?"

Jeonghan didn't answer at once. His gaze was fixed on a rose petal that had fallen onto his sleeve—delicate, perfect, and entirely unaware of how its own beauty made it a target.

After a moment, he spoke. "It wasn't the stares. Or the court."

He exhaled softly, still not meeting Jisoo's eyes.

"I know how to survive a room full of hungry nobles. I know how to smile just enough, say just little enough, and walk away with my dignity intact. That's easy."

His fingers shifted under the silk handkerchief, curling slightly.

"It was him," Jeonghan said at last. "Seeing him again. Like that."

Jisoo was quiet. He didn't press.

Jeonghan's voice lowered. "He walked past me like I wasn't there. Not even a nod. Just a glance. Then—gone. Like I was another pillar in the street."

Jisoo blinked slowly. "He had just come from the border. A soldier in full armor, surrounded by troops. It's hardly the setting for a heartfelt greeting."

"I wasn't expecting a greeting," Jeonghan muttered. "I wasn't expecting anything."

Jisoo's lips curved slightly. "And yet here we are."

Jeonghan scowled—gracefully, of course. "He is different, Jisoo. i never thought he was like that."

"Or maybe you didn't let yourself believe he did."

Jeonghan turned toward him, his frustration barely veiled. "You saw how he looked. Forward. Always forward. As if nothing else existed beyond his horse and his command."

"That's his role," Jisoo replied mildly. "You're the one who stopped walking."

The silence that followed was heavier this time. Not uncomfortable—but reflective.

Jeonghan finally spoke again, quieter. "Do you ever think I'm... only beautiful?"

Jisoo's eyebrows lifted. "I think you're difficult, occasionally smug, and far too proud of your calligraphy."

Jeonghan shot him a flat look.

Jisoo grinned. "Also beautiful. But yes—there's more than that, Jeonghan. Even if most people don't bother to look past your cheekbones."

Jeonghan looked down, eyes catching the shimmer of dew on a rose leaf. "Sometimes I wonder if he even knows me. Or if he's just heard the stories. The court version of me."

"You mean the version with flawless hair and a trail of lovesick nobles in his wake?"

"I am flawless," Jeonghan said dryly.

Jisoo gave him a sideways glance. "Thorns tend to disagree."

Jeonghan chuckled once, then fell quiet again.

After a pause, he admitted, more hesitant this time, "It's not that I expect him to fall at my feet. I just..."

He paused.

Jisoo filled the space gently. "...wish he'd spoke?"

Jeonghan's eyes drifted back to the path beyond the pond. "Just once."

Jisoo exhaled through his nose. "You don't even know if you want him, Jeonghan."

"I don't," Jeonghan said quickly. Too quickly.

Jisoo raised an eyebrow.

Jeonghan faltered. "I mean, I don't know. He's not... easy to read."

"He's also not a poem," Jisoo said. "He's a sword."

Jeonghan turned to him, confused.

Jisoo tilted his head. "You want him to speak in metaphors. He probably thinks affection is demonstrated by handing someone a reinforced spear and a full defensive strategy."

Jeonghan snorted. "So romantic."

"Tragically," Jisoo said. "But I think you're not as immune to that kind of romance as you'd like to believe."

Jeonghan looked away, lips twitching. "Don't say that."

"I already have."

The garden was warm now, full of late-morning light and bees drifting lazily from bloom to bloom. A breeze picked up, rustling the branches overhead.

Jisoo reached out, gently tapping Jeonghan's chest with two fingers. "You want to be seen. That's fair. But you're not doing yourself any favors by waiting to be discovered like an imperial relic."

Jeonghan blinked. "So what, you want me to chase him?"

"I want you to stop sulking like a heroine in a tragedy scroll," Jisoo said, straightening his sleeves. "And maybe, just maybe, talk to him like a person instead of a parade."

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. "You've been waiting to say that, haven't you?"

Jisoo smiled innocently. "Since the moment you started watching him ride away like the lead actor in a palace opera."

Jeonghan's laughter broke quietly into the air—unexpected, warm, and fleeting.

The thorn prick on his finger throbbed, but he barely noticed.

"Thank you," he said, soft now, more sincere.

Jisoo blinked. "For the insult?"

"For always dragging me back to earth."

Jisoo gave a dramatic sigh. "Someone has to keep you from floating away with your tragic beauty."

"I am tragically beautiful," Jeonghan agreed solemnly.

"Emphasis on tragic," Jisoo muttered.

They smiled at each other, and the garden shifted around them—not with revelation, but with grounding.

It wasn't love yet. Not even close.

But it was something beginning.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

From where he stood, Jeonghan caught movement beyond the hedge-lined path, just past the koi pond.

It was a slow unfolding—a soft interruption in the still rhythm of the garden.

Across the pond, three figures stepped into view atop the arched stone bridge: Seokmin, robed in deep indigo and silver, his gestures fluid and charismatic; Mingyu, gleaming in partial armor, laughing lowly, the sun catching on the lines of steel across his shoulders; and Commander Seungcheol, composed in full uniform, a red sash at his waist and an unreadable look set firm across his features.

Together, they moved like something from a scroll painting—the empire's favored sons, cast in sunlight and power.

Jeonghan froze mid-motion, his sleeve catching briefly on a thorn.

His eyes found Seungcheol, and stayed there.

He wasn't sure why. Or maybe he was. He just didn't want to admit it.

There was something disarming about seeing him like this—walking freely, talking among friends, not seated beneath court banners or weighed by armor's gravity. His posture still held command, but his shoulders weren't so tightly drawn. His mouth, though not smiling, seemed softer without the sharp lines of formality.

Jeonghan's gaze traced every detail—the way the red of his sash moved against the wind, the quiet confidence in his step, the curve of his jaw, half-lit by the sun.

His pulse had no business quickening. And yet, it did.

Jisoo followed his gaze, silent for a beat before speaking.

"They've only just returned."

It was a simple sentence, but the words felt weighted.

Jeonghan didn't respond. He wasn't sure he could, not while that bridge still held him hostage.

Then—just for a moment—Seungcheol looked across.

Jeonghan couldn't tell if their eyes actually met, or if Seungcheol's gaze simply brushed past the garden, grazing him like a breeze through reeds.

But Jeonghan felt it anyway.

A flicker. A spark.

And then it was gone.

No nod. No acknowledgment. Just a soldier's stride returning home.

Jeonghan didn't move. His hand remained clenched around the edge of his robe, knuckles paling beneath the silk.

The rose bush was forgotten. The sting in his finger was forgotten.

Only the echo of that not-quite-glance remained.

As the trio crossed to the far side of the bridge, Seokmin's eyes found Jisoo instantly.

And the atmosphere shifted again—quieter, warmer.

His expression brightened with that easy, affectionate fondness only marriage and mischief could perfect. He gave a small, subtle wave—two fingers raised, discreet and deliberate.

Jisoo lifted his gaze and offered a smile in return. It was soft, grounding, and full of the kind of unspoken devotion built over shared tea cups and stolen evenings with music that only they could hear.

There was no need to speak.

Not for them.

Not here.

Seokmin turned back to the conversation with his companions, but his smile lingered like sunlight through gauze.

Jeonghan, watching them from the edge of the garden, let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Beside him, Jisoo moved gently, unwinding the silk handkerchief still wrapped around Jeonghan's finger.

"You'll scar if you keep pressing like that," he murmured, smoothing the edge one last time with a touch that was more emotional than medical.

Jeonghan didn't answer.

His gaze lingered on the bridge, now empty, the pond below rippling faintly as koi stirred in the shallows.

Jisoo sighed, the sound as familiar as a breeze through pine needles. "Honestly, it's a good thing you're so beautiful. Because you're utterly helpless at this."

That startled a faint breath of laughter from Jeonghan. "You're supposed to be comforting."

"Oh, I tried that earlier. You ignored me."

Jeonghan glanced at him, amused despite himself. "So you switched to mockery?"

Jisoo smiled serenely. "Mockery is the sincerest form of love."

Jeonghan looked back at the water, but his expression had shifted. It wasn't serene, but it was no longer burdened. Just... thoughtful.

"He doesn't know," Jeonghan said quietly, "what he does to me."

Jisoo folded the silk handkerchief neatly and tucked it into his sleeve. "Then stop assuming he should."

Jeonghan blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're standing in a garden bleeding over a man who's never once been told he matters to you."

"He's the Commander of the Imperial Guard. He doesn't need to be told."

"No one needs to be told," Jisoo said. "But some people never learn otherwise."

There was a pause, and then—

Jeonghan, ever the prince, lifted his chin with quiet dignity. "I'm not chasing after him."

"Of course not," Jisoo replied. "You'll just wait here and sigh poetically until a stray breeze carries your longing across the courtyard."

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. "You're enjoying this too much."

"I'll enjoy it more when you actually speak to him."

"I have spoken to him," Jeonghan said defensively.

"Reciting strategy updates in front of a military council doesn't count."

Jeonghan made a noise of protest, half-mortified, half-indignant. "You really are cruel."

"I'm effective," Jisoo said sweetly.

The pond settled. The garden quieted once more.

And Jeonghan—finally—looked down at his wrapped finger, then up at the sky.

Not to dream. But maybe... to decide.

The residence of the Grand Empress Dowager was cloaked in its usual stillness, but the morning light made it feel almost holy—like a shrine left untouched by time. Pale sunlight filtered through intricately carved lattice windows, their shadows dancing faintly along the lacquered floor. The faint scent of sandalwood mingled with the drifting perfume of nearby plum blossoms, carried in on a breeze that stirred the heavy brocade curtains just slightly.

It was the kind of quiet that didn't demand silence—it commanded it.

Jeonghan moved with the kind of grace one could only learn over years of being watched. Not the self-conscious kind, but the kind forged by expectation. He wore a robe of pale blue and ivory, embroidered with cranes mid-flight—so subtly stitched that the movement of the birds only came alive when the silk shifted. He poured tea into a celadon cup with slow, ceremonial care, each movement deliberate, like water flowing from stone.

Across from him, the Grand Empress Dowager sat in her high-backed chair, carved from sandalwood and inlaid with motifs of plum and pine. Her hands—elegant, though marked by the years—rested atop one another. Her face was lined but not weary, her eyes keen as ever. She was not simply old—she was enduring. There was a difference. She had weathered dynasties. Buried emperors. Silenced ministers. She was not power retired—she was power resting.

The porcelain gave a soft clink as Jeonghan set the teacup down before her.

She didn't speak immediately.

She rarely did.

Instead, she let the moment stretch, eyes studying Jeonghan's face not with affection or criticism—but with the cool clarity of someone who had spent decades watching people unravel themselves with subtle tells.

At last, she said simply, "You look tired."

Jeonghan offered a faint smile. "I've been waking earlier."

"Hm." She took a measured sip of tea. "That's not what I meant."

He looked down into his own cup, watching the pale liquid ripple slightly. "Then I suppose I've been thinking too much."

"You always do."

A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped him. He didn't argue.

The Grand Empress Dowager set her teacup down, folding her hands once more. "Is it the court?"

Jeonghan hesitated. "No," he said after a moment. "Not entirely."

That caught her attention. She tilted her head slightly—not sharply, not accusingly. Just enough to show she was listening with intent.

"I see," she said.

Her voice was quiet, almost disinterested. But Jeonghan knew better. Disinterest didn't sit at her table. It never had.

He took another sip. The tea was mild and earthy. Grounding. He wondered if that was why she always served it.

"You've always been a careful one," she said after a pause. "Measured. Polished. Everyone sees your grace and assumes you were born with it. But I know better. It's not grace. It's armor."

Jeonghan didn't meet her gaze.

She continued. "But armor grows heavy, child. Even when it's made of silk and smiles."

He looked up slowly. Her expression hadn't softened—but it had deepened. It wasn't maternal affection. It was something rarer: respect shaped by closeness.

"I didn't come here to speak of it," he said softly.

"No," she said, not unkindly. "But you've been walking around with your thoughts tied to your ankles like chains. So if you didn't come to speak of it, you should have."

There was no cruelty in her tone. Just truth.

Jeonghan exhaled through his nose, long and quiet.

Then, as if drawing the words from somewhere he'd tucked them too deeply, he asked, "Your Majesty... what does it feel like? To have feelings for someone?"

The question fell into the air like a single note plucked from a silent instrument—clear, but uncertain.

The Grand Empress Dowager did not react immediately.

She studied him for a moment, not with surprise—but discernment.

"Why do you ask?"

Jeonghan hesitated, then offered the truth in pieces.

"Because I think I've spent most of my life being admired. And I've learned how to be desired. But I don't know if I'd recognize something real... even if it stood right in front of me."

The Empress Dowager leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers folding once more over her knee. The movement was slow, considered.

"You're not asking about love, then," she said. "You're asking about knowing if what you feel is real."

He didn't reply. That was enough of an answer.

She looked toward the open window, watching a single crane glide over the pond. Then her voice softened—not in volume, but in texture.

"It feels," she said, "like restraint and recklessness—stitched together in the same breath."

Her eyes stayed on the sky. "It's not just longing. It's ache. But not the sharp kind. It's the ache that hums at the base of your ribs when you think about them without trying to. When their name rises in your throat in the middle of unrelated things. When you notice how the light hits them, and for a moment, you forget everything else."

Jeonghan's hand tightened around his teacup.

"It feels like a kind of madness," she said, "except quieter. A madness that doesn't shout. It waits."

A breeze stirred the silk of his sleeve. He barely noticed.

The Dowager turned her gaze back to him, eyes sharp again. "And it is also dangerous. Because it tempts you into believing it can be controlled."

He looked at her, fully now.

"You've felt it?"

She smiled—but it was a smile carved out of stone.

"I've felt it. And I've buried it."

Jeonghan swallowed.

The silence between them deepened, like the still surface of a deep pond.

Finally, she said, "You already feel it, don't you?"

He said nothing. But he did not deny it.

The Dowager studied him, her gaze unwavering.

"Then the only question left is whether you plan to keep it as a secret... or let it become something else."

"And if I don't know?"

"Then it will decide for you," she said simply. "It always does. Feelings unattended do not disappear. They grow roots. And by the time you notice, they've either bloomed... or consumed the garden."

Jeonghan closed his eyes briefly. The tea had gone cool in his hands.

When he opened them, the Grand Empress Dowager was watching him again—not with pity, not even concern. Just patience.

"You don't have to speak of it now," she said. "But know this—your heart is not the weakest part of you. It is the part they fear the most."

He blinked. "Who's 'they'?"

"The ones who believe you belong only to duty."

And then, with practiced ease, she lifted her teacup again and sipped.

Jeonghan remained still, the wind brushing past him like a whisper.

He didn't say another word.

But something inside him had shifted—ever so slightly.

As if a door, long closed, had creaked open by a fraction.

And the silence that followed was not empty.

It was full.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed in quiet rhythms and unspoken thoughts.

The palace, as always, moved with the solemn grace of ritual and power—but Jeonghan had moved through it with a quiet detachment, a man in thought more than in presence. There had been no grand declarations. No foolish sighs. Just a quiet shift in the way he carried his silence—deeper now, more deliberate.

And then, Chuseok arrived.

With it came the city's transformation. Dignity gave way to celebration. The stone lanes of the capital—usually so measured and reserved—were flooded with sound and color. Silk banners fluttered between rooftops like brushstrokes against the sky. Lanterns in shades of gold, scarlet, and cloud white swayed overhead, hung from the eaves of shops and gates, strung along narrow alleys like stars in a line.

Jeonghan and Jisoo walked side by side through the heart of the capital, veiled just enough to keep the curious from lingering, but never fully unrecognizable. Their robes were modest compared to court dress, though still elegant: Jeonghan's was in soft charcoal-gray with accents of sky blue, while Jisoo's bore plum and ivory tones, the sleeves embroidered with subtle crane feathers. Gone were the sweeping silks of ceremony, replaced by flowing layers light enough for the street.

Even as they blended into the crowd, their presence carried that unmistakable calm—that subtle stillness born only of palace-bred grace. Those who looked twice might have suspected. But few dared to ask.

The streets pulsed with life.

Drums beat in joyful rhythm near the market square. Dancers twirled in vivid hanbok, sleeves flowing as they spun, their movements practiced yet light-hearted. Children raced between vendor stalls with sparklers in hand, shrieking with laughter. The air was full of roasted chestnuts, grilled rice cakes, and spiced plum tea that steamed from open kettles.

Everywhere, there was color—braided cords of red and yellow for luck, carved talismans shaped like rabbits and dragons, delicate fans painted with harvest moons and mountains. Merchants lined the streets with toothy grins, calling out blessings as they sold candied persimmons, mooncakes, pomegranate wine, and honeyed yaksik wrapped in lotus leaves.

Jisoo leaned toward a table displaying silk charms embroidered with protective phrases. "Do you think the court would implode if I started wearing these instead of my rank token?"

Jeonghan tilted his head, amused. "I think the Minister of Rites would faint on the spot."

"All the more reason to try," Jisoo replied cheerfully, holding up one shaped like a little tiger. "This one looks like Seokmin."

"Because it's growling?"

"Because it's smiling like it knows all your secrets."

Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh, letting his fingers brush the talismans, though he didn't take one. He paused a few steps later at another stall—a small, unassuming vendor tucked between two lantern-makers.

On a wooden tray sat a mother-of-pearl hairpin, shaped delicately into a chrysanthemum in full bloom. Its petals shimmered in soft pink and white, catching the sunlight in flickers. Jeonghan lifted it carefully, fingers cradling it with a gentleness that surprised even him.

"It suits you," Jisoo said, leaning over his shoulder with a sly tone.

Jeonghan gave a noncommittal hum, setting the pin down with a bit more care than necessary.

They moved on, their steps slow and aimless, letting the city's pulse guide them. Jisoo bought a string of candied jujubes without asking and handed Jeonghan one casually, as if he were feeding a bird.

Jeonghan took it without protest, biting into it in silence.

At one point, a cluster of children dashed through the crowd, chasing each other between legs and festival stands. One small girl tripped and nearly stumbled into Jeonghan's robe. Her eyes went wide. She gasped, then bowed deeply, "I-I'm sorry, your grac—!"

Before she could finish the title, Jeonghan knelt slightly, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder. "It's alright," he said softly. "No harm done."

The girl stared up at him, open-mouthed. There was something in the stillness of his face, the softness of his eyes, that made her pause—as though she recognized him but didn't understand why.

She bowed again and ran off, arms flailing to rejoin her companions.

Jisoo was watching him.

"You're glowing again."

Jeonghan turned his head. "What?"

"You always do, when you're not trying to be anyone but yourself." Jisoo smiled. "It's horrifying, actually. People might think you're human."

Jeonghan rolled his eyes, but his mouth tugged upward in a rare, relaxed smile. "Maybe I should stay distracted more often."

"Maybe you should," Jisoo said, looping their arms together without invitation. "I like you better when you're not rehearsing every sentence you'll say in court."

"I like me better when I'm not in court," Jeonghan replied.

And for a while, they were simply two friends in the middle of a festival—no throne room, no titles, no whispered alliances or sealed petitions. Just music and incense, autumn air and the glow of lanterns.

Then—

A sharp cry tore through the melody of drums and flutes.

"Fire!"

Jeonghan's head snapped toward the sound.

Near the corner of the street, a thin line of smoke unfurled into the air—followed by the sudden, angry bloom of flames rising from the roof of a small fabric shop, the kind strung from eaves with banners and embroidered swatches for customers to touch.

"Get back! Get away from the building!" someone shouted.

The fire moved fast.

Silks, hung to catch the eye, now fed the flames with greedy urgency. Paper lanterns, meant for celebration, caught like dry leaves, bursting into orange. Screams rang out. Parents grabbed their children. Merchants rushed to gather their tables, their hands shaking.

The crowd rippled in panic, stumbling backward in waves.

Beside Jeonghan, Jisoo turned, voice low but urgent. "We should move. It's spreading too fast."

But Jeonghan didn't move.

His eyes were locked on the front of the shop—where a small pair of hands pressed against the inside of a smoky window.

A child.

Trapped.

He stepped forward before Jisoo could stop him.

Jisoo's hand shot out—faster than thought, instinct more than intent—as he gripped the edge of Jeonghan's sleeve.

"Wait—"

But Jeonghan had already gone still.

His body was frozen, not in fear, but in focus, his gaze locked on something beyond the heat and smoke—something that silenced everything else.

Two small figures. Inside the building.

They were no older than six.

One child clung to a support beam blackened with soot, their face streaked with smoke, trembling as fire crept closer with each breath. The other stood rooted in fear, sobbing uncontrollably, backlit by dancing flames that rose along the far wall.

The moment stretched.

Time held its breath.

Most would have hesitated. Most would have called for help, backed away, watched in horror.

But not Jeonghan.

He tore his arm free from Jisoo's grasp in a single, clean movement and ran—past the retreating crowd, past the fireline, and straight through the smoke-wreathed threshold of the store.

"Jeonghan!" Jisoo cried, already moving after him—but too late.

The crowd gasped as the prince disappeared into the smoke.

The heat inside hit Jeonghan like a wall of flame. It swallowed him whole. He stumbled forward, raising an arm to shield his face. The thick air clawed at his lungs like burning ash. His eyes watered instantly, and every breath scorched his throat.

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't.

"Stay down," he murmured to himself, sinking lower, crawling halfway, trying to keep below the densest smoke.

The cries of the children were faint now—almost drowned beneath the crackling of the blaze. Fire licked at the walls, climbing upward in greedy hands. The wooden shelves lining the store had already begun to collapse inward, releasing embroidered silks and stacks of dye-dampened paper that fueled the flames like parchment offerings.

He found the first child—a boy, curled up beside a table leg, coughing, barely responsive.

"I've got you," Jeonghan whispered, ignoring the pain in his knees as he crouched lower. He pulled the child into his arms, wrapping the edge of his robe around them to shield their head from the ash.

"Stay with me," he murmured as the child whimpered against his shoulder. "Almost there."

A crashing beam landed just feet behind him. The heat surged. The fire wasn't waiting anymore.

He turned toward the second child.

This one—smaller, a girl—was standing in the middle of the room, not crying now, just frozen, her mouth parted in silent fear.

She couldn't move.

She wouldn't.

"Come here," Jeonghan called to her, voice gentler now, but no less firm. "Come, sweetheart. Now."

The child blinked through smoke.

Another crack overhead.

"Now!"

The girl lurched forward at last, legs shaking. Jeonghan reached with one hand, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her tightly to his side.

The three of them moved together, inch by inch. Jeonghan's robes dragged through ash, and the embroidered hem—once silver-threaded and immaculate—was now blackened and frayed.

He could feel the heat rising in waves.

His lungs burned.

His skin prickled under the fabric.

But he didn't falter.

"I've got you," he whispered again and again, more to them than to himself. "Just a little more."

The exit was in sight now. A rectangle of blinding brightness—freedom.

Jisoo's silhouette stood beyond the fire, arms outstretched.

Jeonghan stumbled toward it.

He pushed the first child into Jisoo's arms.

Then gently guided the second forward.

A breath of relief rose in his chest.

But before he could step out—the ceiling above him groaned.

A thunderous crack echoed above.

His eyes snapped upward.

The doorframe collapsed.

Sparks and flame poured down like molten rain. The support beam gave way with a sickening creak, and the charred frame fell like a guillotine across the exit.

Jeonghan lunged back instinctively, shielding his face, tucking low as a burst of heat flashed against his arm.

The flame swallowed the doorway whole.

Outside, screams erupted.

Jisoo stumbled back, clutching the children tightly, his face pale with horror. "Jeonghan!"

Inside, Jeonghan coughed—hard. His eyes stung. The heat was unbearable now, the smoke thicker, rolling like black waves in a sealed tomb.

His shoulder ached sharply—one of the falling beams had caught him. Not a full blow, but enough to leave the joint protesting every movement.

He staggered toward the wall, trying to think.

No exit.

No air.

He needed another way out.

His breath came short and fast. He pulled the edge of his sleeve over his nose, eyes darting toward the back of the room—where a window might be—

But the smoke was too thick now to see clearly.

He was running out of time.

Outside the burning shop, the street was chaos.

People shouted, forming makeshift water lines with clay pots. Soldiers had arrived, trying to keep the crowd from getting too close. Children cried. The fire roared.

And through it all, Seungcheol and Mingyu pushed their way to the front.

They had just dismounted nearby—Seungcheol in his casual robes, unbuckled at the throat, a rare moment of peace shattered by the scent of smoke and the sound of screaming.

"Your Highness, What happened?" Seungcheol demanded, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Jisoo turned to him sharply, gripping his robe. "He's inside," he said, breathless. "Jeonghan's still inside!"

Mingyu's eyes widened. "What?!"

Seungcheol's expression didn't crack. But something cold passed through his features.

Without hesitation, he spun to Mingyu. "Clear the crowd. Get water to the left side. Control the spread."

Mingyu was already moving, shouting orders, pulling civilians into action.

Seungcheol approached the front of the store, assessing the collapsed door, the growing fireline.

He took one step forward—and the heat blasted him back.

No entry.

His eyes scanned fast.

Then he saw it: a side window, half-covered by cloth banners, the parchment blackened but intact.

Without a second thought, Seungcheol ran to it.

He unsheathed the dagger at his side and tore the parchment and broke the wooden frame with the hilt. The sound shattered the air—sharp, final.

Smoke poured out.

Seungcheol pulled the hanging fabric aside, bracing the frame with one arm. "Hold the line here!" he barked, and Mingyu nodded from across the square.

Then, without hesitation, he hoisted himself into the open window.

And vanished into the smoke.

Chapter Text

Inside, the world had collapsed into smoke and fire.

The air was no longer air—it was heat, pressure, a wall that pushed against the lungs and clawed at the throat. The once-familiar shop had become unrecognizable, swallowed by flame and ash. Shapes warped in the haze, shadows melted into each other. The walls groaned like beasts in pain.

Jeonghan staggered forward, his arm pressed tightly to his side, where the beam had clipped his shoulder. The pain pulsed with every step, hot and rhythmic, but dulled beneath the heavier weight of the smoke. His robes—once a rich emerald, threaded with gold—were now soaked with sweat and streaked with soot. They clung to his body like wet silk, heavy and suffocating.

He dropped to one knee, coughing hard, his breath tearing through scorched lungs.

His vision swam.

The heat had taken hold now—not just around him, but inside. His skin burned, not from flame but from breath, from the very act of being in this place too long. His eyes watered endlessly. He could no longer tell where the fire ended and the room began.

Still—he didn't panic.

That was not his way.

Even here, on the edge of collapse, he was a prince. And princes did not panic.

He pulled his sleeve up over his mouth, breathing shallowly through the scorched fabric, and pressed forward—inch by inch—toward the nearest wall. Somewhere beyond this curtain of smoke, there had to be an exit. There had to be light.

Then—

A sudden crash.

It rang through the flames like a bell, sharp and alive. The window, he realized dimly. Something had broken the window.

A gust of cooler air rushed through the chamber, scattering the smoke just enough to carve open a shape.

A figure.

Broad-shouldered. Armored.

Moving fast.

Seungcheol.

Even through the blinding haze and flickering firelight, Jeonghan recognized him immediately. The way he moved—decisive, unwavering. The red sash of his robe snapped behind him like a banner of war.

Their eyes met—just for a moment.

And in that single, silent heartbeat, everything else fell away.

The fire, the noise, the fear—all blurred around that one clear connection. Jeonghan wasn't sure if Seungcheol had come for him, or simply come because it was the right thing to do. But in that moment, it didn't matter.

He was there.

Seungcheol didn't hesitate.

He crossed the smoking room in long, purposeful strides, ducking beneath a half-collapsed beam, knocking aside a burning banner with one arm. Embers floated around him like fireflies. The robes at his chest glinted dully beneath the soot and ash.

"Your Grace," he called, voice firm but not loud—steady, like a sword drawn in silence.

Jeonghan blinked. His lashes were clumped with ash. His lips parted to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He coughed again, the motion wracking his chest.

And still—he didn't look away.

Seungcheol dropped to one knee in front of him.

Up close, the intensity of his presence was almost startling. His face was streaked with ash, his eyes sharp with focus. Not panic. Not fear. Just intention.

He scanned Jeonghan quickly, noting the torn fabric, the bruised shoulder. Then, without ceremony, he slipped an arm behind Jeonghan's knees, the other behind his back.

Jeonghan tensed—but only for a second.

"I've got you," Seungcheol murmured, voice low and close to his ear. Not a command. Not a reassurance for others. Just for him.

The words slipped beneath Jeonghan's armor like heat through silk.

Then he was lifted—effortlessly, securely—into Seungcheol's arms. His weight was nothing to the commander, who turned swiftly and began retracing his path toward the broken window.

Flames coiled in their wake, licking hungrily at the ground behind them. The smoke grew thicker again, but Seungcheol's grip never faltered. He held Jeonghan tight to his chest, shielding him with his body, ducking as falling debris crackled overhead.

And then—

They emerged.

The broken window yawned open like a second breath. Light poured in, and smoke billowed out behind them like a retreating tide. Seungcheol stepped through it, landing on solid ground with a heavy thud, boots kicking up ash.

He didn't let go.

He walked forward, carefully, past the crowd that had gone silent.

Jisoo was already there.

He rushed to meet them, his robe dirtied at the knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Jeonghan—!" he gasped, the name barely forming as he fell beside them.

Seungcheol knelt slowly, lowering Jeonghan with the precision of a warrior placing down a sacred relic. He made sure not to jar the shoulder, easing him onto the cool stone path as gently as one would lower a child into sleep.

Jeonghan coughed again, louder this time, his chest rising and falling with ragged, greedy breaths. Clean air filled his lungs, too quickly. He turned his head and gasped through it.

"You're alright," Seungcheol said, quietly. "You're safe now."

His voice was calm.

But his jaw was clenched.

Jisoo wrapped his arms around Jeonghan the moment his knees hit the ground, holding him tightly, forehead pressed to his temple.

"You scared me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You could've died—why would you run in like that?"

Jeonghan didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy breathing.

His hand rose instead, resting against Jisoo's back, a silent gesture of apology and comfort.

His eyes found Seungcheol again.

Still kneeling, still close.

Their gazes locked—not dramatic, not spoken, but dense with everything that had just happened.

Jeonghan studied him.

The soot smeared along Seungcheol's cheekbone. The tear in the side of his sash. The streaks of ash on his armor. The wildness in his hair, half-unbound. The strength in his stillness.

And he wondered—not for the first time—if there was something about this man that no armor could conceal.

Seungcheol's eyes flicked briefly to Jisoo, then back to Jeonghan.

He stood, wordless, and took a step back, as if suddenly aware of all the eyes watching them.

Nearby, Mingyu was shouting commands, pushing the last of the crowd away. The fire had died down, the structure mostly collapsed now, but the danger had passed. The street was ash and smoke and steam.

And Jeonghan, for all that had just happened, simply lay there for a long moment, looking up at the sky.

And breathing.

Seungcheol stood a few paces back.

The fire had passed, but he hadn't moved—not far, at least. The heat had died down. The smoke still curled faintly in the corners of the square, but the worst of it had faded. And yet, Seungcheol remained exactly where he'd emerged—just beyond reach, close enough to help again if needed.

His chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, his breaths steady but not shallow. His ash-colored robes, damp and streaked with soot, clung slightly to his frame. They bore the wear of travel and combat—nothing like the ceremonial finery of the imperial court. And that was what made him look so striking now.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

Real.

His hair, pulled back in a half-tied knot, had come partially undone—strands fell across his brow, damp with sweat, curling faintly at his temples. His sleeves were dark with soot at the cuffs. His hands, scratched and burned at the knuckles, hung loose at his sides. He looked like a man who had walked through fire—and come back carrying someone else.

Jeonghan stared at him.

He was still catching his breath, the last of the smoke scraping at his throat. His body ached in slow pulses now, no longer flooded with adrenaline, just the painful aftermath of it. His hands trembled faintly in his lap, but his gaze didn't waver. Not even once.

His heart was still beating too fast—but not from fear anymore.

Beside him, Jisoo hovered with visible tension, kneeling close, one hand pressed lightly to Jeonghan's back as if to steady him—or keep him grounded.

"Your shoulder," Jisoo murmured softly, his other hand reaching to touch the bruised spot with care. "Let me see—"

Jeonghan winced but didn't flinch. "It's alright."

"It's not," Jisoo said, his voice shaking despite himself. "You could've been crushed. Or burned. Or—" His voice cracked. "Don't do that again."

His fingers brushed soot from Jeonghan's cheek with painful tenderness.

Jeonghan gave him a tired smile—small, apologetic. "I didn't think."

"That's the problem," Jisoo whispered. "You never do when it comes to other people."

But Jeonghan wasn't really listening anymore.

His eyes hadn't left Seungcheol.

The commander hadn't spoken. Hadn't taken a step forward. He simply stood there—solid, quiet, watchful. The light breeze stirred the ash still clinging to his robes. His presence didn't demand attention, but it held it all the same.

The moment stretched—long, taut with everything unspoken.

Jeonghan finally swallowed, his throat dry. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, but clear.

"...Thank you," he said, quietly. No title. No ornament. Just truth. "For coming in after me."

Seungcheol's brow furrowed slightly—not with displeasure, but with something closer to discomfort. The kind that came from being praised for something he hadn't paused to question.

He inclined his head once. "You saved the children first," he said, simply. "I only did what anyone should have."

"But most wouldn't," Jeonghan replied, his tone still soft but firm.

Seungcheol said nothing.

But he didn't look away.

Jisoo was watching the exchange with careful eyes now, caught between relief and irritation—relief that Jeonghan was alive, irritation that he'd run into a burning building without hesitation, and confusion that the man who had saved him was standing as if none of this had cost him anything.

Jeonghan shifted, sitting up straighter with effort. He turned slightly, catching the eye of Mingyu, who stood nearby, leaning against a stone post, arms crossed loosely, still keeping watch.

Jeonghan offered him a tired smile. "And you, Commander Kim. Thank you—for keeping the crowd safe."

Mingyu raised a brow but returned the smile with a relaxed grin. "You gave us something to chase, Your Highness. Half the guard wouldn't have gotten there in time if you hadn't seen those kids first."

He nodded toward the children, now seated on the steps of a nearby shop, being tended to by kind older women with cloths and warm tea.

"You were faster than most soldiers I know," Mingyu added, casually. "Don't make a habit of it."

"I'll do my best," Jeonghan said, lips twitching.

And then, his gaze returned to Seungcheol.

This time, something in his expression had shifted—just slightly. Not admiration. Not awe. Something quieter, more vulnerable.

There had always been distance between them. Respect, yes. Deference, occasionally. But never proximity like this. Never the scent of smoke still clinging to him. Never the hand that had held him like something precious.

And Seungcheol looked back.

Really looked.

His dark eyes met Jeonghan's not with command, but with attention.

Not as a soldier to a prince. Not as a subject to royalty. Just one man to another.

Jisoo finally exhaled and stood, dusting off his robe with a bit too much force.

"I'm taking him back to the palace before he passes out."

Jeonghan shot him a faint look. "I'm not—"

"You're trembling."

"...Fine."

Jisoo crouched again to help him stand. "You're lucky I don't carry a fan sharp enough to smack you with."

Mingyu coughed into his sleeve, hiding a grin.

Jeonghan, finally pulling his gaze from Seungcheol, allowed Jisoo to help him to his feet, though his posture was still elegant—albeit clearly in pain.

As they began to move, Jeonghan glanced back once.

Seungcheol hadn't moved.

But there was something softer in the set of his mouth now. Just a trace.

Something had changed.

The air inside Jeonghan's bedchamber was hushed, the kind of stillness that wrapped around silk screens and gold-trimmed walls like a protective charm. The windows had been opened just slightly, allowing a faint breeze to carry in the scent of plum blossoms from the inner garden—soft, sweet, and wholly at odds with the bitter tang of smoke and ointment that hung in the room.

The aftermath still clung to everything.

Burnt fabric. Ash. Blood beneath the bandages.

Jeonghan sat upright in bed, his back propped against a lacquered headboard inlaid with cranes and clouds. The room had been dimmed with gauzy curtains, the sunlight softened to avoid aggravating his already pounding head.

His outer robe was gone—cut away by court attendants upon his return. What remained was a thin silk undershirt, white once, now streaked with soot and dark at the shoulder where blood had soaked through. The fabric was torn in several places, and his pale skin beneath bore the mottled evidence of bruises, the faint red lines of heat blisters curling near his collarbone. His right shoulder had been bandaged tightly, the skin beneath raw from where the burning beam had grazed him.

The royal physician, a thin man with steady hands and few words, was kneeling beside the bed, winding the last of the linen around the injury. His movements were precise, gentle where they could be, firm where they must. Jeonghan winced slightly as the final knot was tied, his breath hitching—not loudly, but enough to draw a glance.

"Clean," the physician muttered. "But swollen. No break, though. With rest, it will mend."

He rose with a bow and retreated to the far end of the chamber, giving space.

Beside the bed, seated on a carved sandalwood stool with a cushion of indigo brocade, was the Grand Empress Dowager.

Her posture, as always, was regal. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. But her eyes—sharp and shadowed with age—betrayed the worry that her mouth refused to voice. She had been there since Jeonghan had returned—quiet, immovable, and unyielding in her watchfulness.

With one hand, she reached forward and gently brushed a few damp strands of hair from Jeonghan's forehead. They clung there still, sweat-matted and smoke-scented. Her fingers were cool, but her touch was feather-light.

"You could have died," she said softly. Not accusing. Not scolding. Just... honest.

Jeonghan lowered his gaze. His voice came hoarse, touched with smoke. "I wasn't thinking," he admitted. "I saw the children. That's all."

She didn't respond at once. Her fingers paused, then withdrew. She sat back, folding her hands again.

"You've always had a soft heart," she murmured. "But soft does not mean reckless."

Jisoo, who had remained silent until then, stood nearby like a statue carved from worry. His robe was wrinkled, sleeves pushed back. His usually serene expression had given way to something more raw. He looked between the Dowager and Jeonghan, lips pressed in a thin line, his fingers clasped tightly in front of him.

When he finally spoke, it was with quiet disbelief. "You walked straight into a burning building. Alone."

Jeonghan gave a tired half-smile. "I've done more dangerous things at court."

Jisoo's eyes widened, unimpressed. "I don't care if you've danced with knives in council chambers. This was fire. Real fire. I saw the building collapse, Jeonghan."

"It didn't collapse on me."

"Only barely!"

The Grand Empress Dowager sighed, folding her arms now. "He's right, you know. Not all acts of bravery are wisdom in disguise. Some are just... foolishness in better clothing."

Jeonghan tilted his head back against the headboard, his eyes closing briefly. "I wasn't trying to be brave."

"Good," the Dowager said. "Because if you were, I'd have to question your education."

Jisoo crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, facing Jeonghan. "Next time, tell someone. Anyone. Even a passing gatekeeper. You're not alone."

"I didn't think I had time."

"Then make time," Jisoo snapped, then paused—realizing his tone. "Please," he added, quieter now. "Don't make me watch you disappear like that again."

A silence settled.

Heavy. Personal.

The physician returned with a bowl of cooled tea, steeped with crushed honeysuckle, licorice root, and dried mulberry leaf—meant to ease the lungs and soothe the throat. Jisoo took it from him with a nod of thanks and offered it to Jeonghan, who accepted it carefully, fingers trembling only slightly.

He sipped once. Then again.

It tasted bitter. But grounding.

He exhaled slowly.

His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. "I couldn't leave them, Jisoo."

"I know," Jisoo said, his tone softening. "I know you couldn't."

The Grand Empress Dowager rose from her stool, moving closer now. Her movements were slow but certain. She reached down and took Jeonghan's hand in both of hers.

"That heart of yours..." she said, her thumb brushing across his knuckles. "It's what makes you different from the rest of us. From ministers. From tacticians. From me."

She paused, eyes fixed on his. "But that heart must not be thrown into every fire. Not even for children."

Jeonghan didn't answer, but he didn't pull his hand away either.

"I want this kingdom to know your kindness," she continued. "Not to mourn it."

There was no dramatics in her tone. Only that cold, necessary clarity born of ruling for decades.

Jisoo looked between them, his voice barely above a whisper. "You scared me."

Jeonghan turned to him and reached out, resting a soot-stained hand over Jisoo's.

"I'm sorry," he said.

And he meant it.

The chamber was quiet again—just the faint sound of wind moving past the shutters.

But in Jeonghan's mind, his thoughts were far from still.

Not on the fire.

Not on the pain.

But on the weight of arms around him.

The heat of another body shielding his own.

The calm voice in the chaos.

And the man who had walked through flames—not for glory, not for duty—but simply because he had seen him fall.

The bedchamber had grown dim.

The soft crackle of a candle by the lacquered screen was the only sound now that the physician had gone. The scent of medicinal salves clung faintly to the air—sharp and clean—but was losing ground to the more familiar smell of smoke still lingering in the seams of Jeonghan's clothes, in the loose strands of his hair.

He sat upright in bed, bandaged and bruised, half-dressed in a light robe of soft ivory, his fine undershirt hidden beneath layers of gauze. The room was still, save for the occasional sigh of the wind pressing against the wooden lattice screens.

Jeonghan's gaze had drifted, unanchored from the present.

His bandaged fingers rested lightly in his lap, and his shoulders were tense—but his lips curved slightly. A soft, absent smile. One that hadn't asked permission to be there.

He didn't notice the pain in his shoulder just then. Didn't notice the sting where the gauze rubbed against his bruised ribs. His mind had gone somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere... warm.

He was thinking of arms.

Strong arms—wrapped around him without hesitation, bracing him against the fall of burning timber and the weight of smoke. He thought of the steady rhythm of footsteps beneath his body, the roughness of calloused fingers against silk as they lifted him up as though he weighed nothing at all.

He thought of the silence—the way Seungcheol hadn't said anything when he emerged from the flames. No declarations. No ceremony.

Only presence.

Only eyes that didn't look away.

And for reasons he couldn't name, Jeonghan found himself smiling again.

Not wide. Not giddy. Just soft. Unwilling.

The Grand Empress Dowager, ever a reader of nuance, saw it first. Her gaze narrowed faintly. She didn't speak, but she exchanged a silent look with Jisoo.

Jisoo tilted his head slightly, curious.

But he, too, said nothing.

They both knew that look on Jeonghan's face. Not the princely expression he wore before ministers. Not the bright public smile he offered to palace children and visiting nobles. This was something else.

Something quieter.

Something... dangerous.

He leaned back slightly against the pillows, his shoulder aching again as the adrenaline faded entirely. The warmth in his chest, however—that stayed.

Even now.

Even in this quiet room, under the watch of two people who loved him dearly.

He couldn't stop thinking of that moment—not the fire, not the collapse, not the children—

But of him.

The weight of those arms.

The way Seungcheol had looked at him, even as soot streaked his face and sweat beaded at his brow.

That unwavering, breath-stealing look.

And Jeonghan didn't know what to do with that.

He wasn't in love.

No.

Surely not.

He was grateful. That was all.

Moved, perhaps.

Shaken. A little.

But love?

No. It wasn't that.

Still—

His hand drifted absently to the bandages at his shoulder, fingertips brushing the edge where silk met skin.

And the memory of being carried—shielded, held—rose again, unbidden.

His lips curved softly, despite himself.

And neither the Grand Empress Dowager nor Jisoo missed it.

But neither of them said a word.

Because love often begins like smoke.

Before even the heart realizes the room is on fire.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled gently across the polished floor of the lakeside pavilion, filtering through sheer silk curtains that fluttered in the breeze like phantom sleeves. The golden light made the lacquered wood gleam, pooling softly around the delicate feet of the zither that sat at the center of the space.

Beyond the open railings, the lake shimmered beneath a sky the color of crushed porcelain. Lotus blossoms, pale pink and ivory, floated lazily on the surface, their reflections rippling with every sigh of wind. Dragonflies hovered, darting in and out of the reeds, and the air carried the faint scent of summer—green and warm, tinged with the sweetness of distant plum trees.

Jisoo sat cross-legged in front of the zither, robes pale dove-grey and brushed with lavender embroidery. His fingers moved fluidly across the strings, coaxing a flowing melody that seemed born from the water itself—light, wandering, contemplative.

But his gaze kept flicking upward.

To Jeonghan.

Who sat just beside him, wrapped in pale robes that caught the breeze like cloud-woven silk. His figure was still, elegant even in repose. He sat with one leg folded beneath him, the other stretched slightly forward, sleeves draped artfully over his lap. His eyes were on the lake—but Jisoo could tell immediately that he wasn't really seeing it.

No.

Jeonghan's mind was somewhere else entirely.

His expression was serene. Too serene. The kind of stillness that came not from peace—but from distraction.

And then... it happened again.

The corner of his mouth curled. Just slightly. Barely enough to notice—unless, of course, you were Hong Jisoo, whose primary occupation was not only music but the careful observation of a court full of subtle liars.

Jeonghan was smiling.

Again.

Jisoo let his fingers pause on the strings. The final note lingered like mist.

"You've been smiling like that since yesterday," he said lightly, voice full of that particular brand of mischief reserved for childhood friends. "Do you want to tell me why, or should I begin composing an ode to your mysterious joy?"

Jeonghan blinked, pulled gently from his daze. He turned toward Jisoo slowly, brows rising in feigned surprise. "Was I smiling?"

Jisoo tilted his head. "Softly. Like a scholar thinking of a forbidden poem. Or a poet remembering their first heartbreak."

Jeonghan exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh. "You're overreacting."

"Oh, I haven't even started," Jisoo said, fingers lazily strumming a scale. "Should I begin with your dreamy expression or the way your eyes keep glazing over like a moonlit scroll?"

Jeonghan made a small sound of protest and looked away again, back toward the lake. But his ears were pink.

Jisoo grinned. He shifted slightly, leaning into the performance now. "Let me guess: it was the part where he carried you through smoke and flame like a hero from one of Seokmin's dramatic poetry scrolls?"

Jeonghan groaned softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You were watching that closely?"

"I wasn't the only one," Jisoo said brightly. "Half the capital's talking about it. I'm just the one with the privilege of asking invasive questions over music and tea."

Jeonghan let his head tip back with a sigh, eyes fixed on the beams of the pavilion. "It wasn't like that."

"No?" Jisoo's brows arched. "Because it certainly looked like he strode through fire and carried you out like a treasured scroll someone forgot in the archives."

Jeonghan gave a soft snort. "Do you ever listen to yourself?"

"Not often," Jisoo said with a serene smile. "But I listen to you. And right now, you're trying very hard not to admit something."

Jeonghan didn't reply immediately. His hand drifted to the edge of his sleeve, fidgeting with the embroidery.

After a long moment, he said, quietly, "It wasn't just that he carried me."

Jisoo didn't speak. He let the space between them widen just enough for Jeonghan to fill it on his own.

"It was everything," Jeonghan continued, voice softer now, more careful. "The way he didn't hesitate. The way he didn't speak. He just... acted. Like there was no question. Like saving me was as simple as stepping into a room."

Jisoo's smile faded into something gentler. The music he resumed was quieter now—lighter, slower. Almost reverent.

"You're used to being seen as a symbol," he said. "An ornament. A figure on a balcony. But not many see you when the titles fall away."

Jeonghan nodded slowly, his eyes still on the lake. "He saw me. In a room full of smoke, in a moment when I had nothing left—he looked at me, and he didn't look away."

Jisoo plucked a delicate note.

Then paused.

"So," he said, "what are you going to do about it?"

Jeonghan let out a breath. "Nothing."

Jisoo nearly choked on a laugh. "Nothing?"

Jeonghan glanced at him. "What am I supposed to do? Invite him for mooncake and tea and confess I've been thinking about the way his voice sounded when he said 'I've got you'?"

Jisoo's eyes sparkled. "Well, it'd be a memorable courtship."

"It's not courtship," Jeonghan said, too quickly. "It's just—" He paused. "He was kind. And brave. And—"

"Handsome," Jisoo supplied helpfully.

Jeonghan gave him a long-suffering look. "That's not the point."

Jisoo leaned forward, teasing. "But it's definitely one of the points."

Jeonghan groaned again and buried his face briefly in his hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't. You're just mad because I'm right."

There was a moment of silence, the only sound the soft trilling of birds from the trees and the occasional ripple of water as a breeze passed.

Finally, Jeonghan dropped his hands and looked out at the lake again.

"I don't know what this is," he said, more quietly. "But I don't want to ignore it anymore."

Jisoo nodded, his fingers still moving on the strings. "Then don't."

And the music that followed was different.

Lighter. Brighter. Almost hopeful.

The kind of music that was played at the beginning of something. Not the end.

And for once, Jeonghan didn't pretend not to hear it.

The wind on the border was sharp at night.

It carried the scent of pine and frost-dried earth, mixed with old smoke from the day's watchfires. The moon hung high above the ridge, its reflection caught in pools of melted snow and tarnished metal. The camp slept lightly, but the guards were alert—eyes sweeping the treelines, hands on hilts.

Seungcheol sat just outside the main tent, his armor shed for the night, dressed in simple dark robes. His hair was tied up loosely, a few damp strands clinging to his temple. His forearms rested on his knees as he stared out into the hills.

Not watching for enemies.

Just... thinking.

The kind of quiet that followed near-death always came late, like an echo. Hours after the fire. Days after the smoke. It was only now—days later, far from the capital—that the memory was catching up with him.

He had walked into the fire because it was the right thing to do. Because someone needed saving.

But he hadn't expected it would be Jeonghan.

And he hadn't expected how it would feel afterward.

Behind him, the tent flap rustled.

Mingyu's voice broke the silence. "You've been brooding out here long enough to sprout moss."

Seungcheol didn't look back. "You're awake."

"I heard your thoughts pacing around louder than your footsteps," Mingyu said, dropping down beside him with a huff. He tossed a waterskin between them. "Drink before you turn into a stone monument."

Seungcheol took it without a word, unscrewed the cap, and drank.

The water was cold.

Grounding.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the breeze brush through the tall dry grass along the slope, to the distant bark of a fox, and the low, rolling hum of the campfires dying out.

Mingyu finally broke the stillness again.

"So. You haven't mentioned it."

Seungcheol's jaw tightened, just slightly. "Mentioned what?"

Mingyu gave him a side glance. "Don't insult me."

A beat passed.

Then Seungcheol said, "He could've died."

"Yeah," Mingyu said quietly. "But he didn't."

Seungcheol exhaled, slow and measured. His fingers flexed, then stilled.

"I didn't think," he admitted. "I just saw the flames. And Jisoo... standing there. And then someone said Jeonghan was still inside."

"And so you went in."

Seungcheol nodded once. "It wasn't... it didn't feel like a decision. I just—moved."

"Because it was him."

The silence that followed was long.

And then Seungcheol looked up at the moon, its light etched cleanly against his profile.

"I've always known he was admired," he said, voice low. "That people talk about him. Beautiful, clever, too kind for the court. You hear these things, and you think you understand what they mean."

Mingyu said nothing.

"But that moment in the fire..." Seungcheol shook his head slightly. "He wasn't just beautiful. He was fragile. Real. Not a prince. Not a court ornament. Just... a person. Hurt. Trying to breathe. And he looked at me like—like I wasn't wearing the weight I carry every day."

"You're used to being feared," Mingyu murmured.

"I'm used to being obeyed," Seungcheol corrected. "Respected. But not seen."

He ran a hand through his hair. "He saw me."

Another pause.

"And now?" Mingyu asked.

Seungcheol didn't answer at first. He stared ahead, as if the hills could give him clarity.

"He haunts my thoughts," he finally said. "But not loudly. Just... there. Lingering. Like smoke. The way he smiled at me before they led him away. Like he'd forgotten we were surrounded by ash."

Mingyu's lips curled into something between sympathy and amusement.

"You've got it bad," he said, nudging Seungcheol's boot with his own.

Seungcheol gave him a sharp glance. "It's nothing."

"Mm-hmm. Nothing is exactly what you look like when you stare at the horizon and forget to blink."

"I'm not—" Seungcheol stopped himself. Pressed his lips together.

Then, finally, he said it aloud: "I can't afford to feel this."

Mingyu didn't argue.

He just leaned back on his palms and tilted his head toward the stars. "Sometimes, we don't get to choose what takes root. Only what we do with it once it does."

Seungcheol was silent for a long time.

And then, in a voice so quiet it could have been lost to the wind, he said, "I don't know what this is."

Mingyu smiled faintly. "That's the part right before it becomes something."

They sat under the moonlight, neither speaking again. The night stretched quietly between them. In the distance, the wind rolled through the border trees like a sigh.

And Seungcheol kept thinking about the way Jeonghan had looked at him—not as a commander, or a savior, or a name in the Empire's registry.

But as a man.

The throne room stood cloaked in the dimming light of dusk, golden rays streaking through the open screens and casting long, angled shadows across the marble floor. The banners lining the walls stirred faintly in the breeze. Most of the court had long since retired, leaving behind only the soft shuffle of servants and the hushed stillness of power.

Jeonghan stood beside a lacquered table near the steps of the dais, scrolls unfurled before him, his posture composed, his gaze steady despite the weight of thought behind his eyes. His robes were dark—ink black trimmed in muted gold—and his hair was pulled back and pinned with jade, the look simple but dignified.

Across from him, the Emperor sat forward on the throne, his chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he listened. His expression, while calm, carried a tension beneath the surface—like silk drawn taut over iron.

"The levies are stable for now," Jeonghan was saying. "But the drought has pushed the southern provinces close to their limit. One more failed harvest and the governors will be scrambling for imperial aid. We should prepare—quietly—before the requests flood in."

The Emperor nodded once, eyes fixed not on the scrolls, but on Jeonghan. "Have Minister Choi draft the contingency plans. Quietly, as you said. And regarding the border patrol restructuring?"

Jeonghan's voice sharpened slightly. "The proposal is sound but ill-timed. Commander Choi has only recently returned. Reassigning troops now could destabilize the ranks. A fortnight's delay would be prudent."

The Emperor's gaze lingered on Jeonghan, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "You've been mentioning Commander Choi frequently."

Jeonghan met his gaze evenly. "Because he's competent. We rely heavily on such men; they deserve more than to be treated as mere tools."

A faint chuckle escaped the Emperor. "Your mind remains sharp, even after your recent heroics in the burning market."

Jeonghan's composure faltered briefly. "You heard about that?"

"Everyone did," the Emperor replied. "Some call it reckless, others noble. I think it was... very you."

Jeonghan's lips curved into a faint smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The Emperor's demeanor shifted, his tone turning serious. "However, the fire raises questions. Its origin is suspicious, and the timing—just before the festival—too convenient."

Jeonghan's brow furrowed slightly. "The merchant quarter is rebuilding. The guilds are coordinating supply dispersals. I received a report this morning—no sign of arson or deliberate tampering. At least... not officially."

There was a shift in the room then. Small, but distinct.

The Emperor straightened in his seat, steepling his fingers.

"I've read those same reports. And I do not like what they do not say."

Jeonghan's gaze sharpened. "You believe it was intentional, your majesty?"

"I believe," the Emperor said carefully, "that too many eyes are pretending not to see. And when that happens in this court, it usually means someone is hiding something."

Before Jeonghan could respond, the throne room doors creaked open.

Commander Choi Seungcheol stepped in, his formal robes midnight blue with crisp black trim, the insignia of his command glinting faintly in the light. His posture was precise, his face unreadable, though a faint shadow of fatigue clung to the corners of his eyes.

He bowed deeply as he approached. "Your Majesty. Your Grace."

Jeonghan gave the customary nod in return, but the sound of Seungcheol's voice unsettled something quieter beneath his ribs. He stepped back instinctively and bowed to the emperor to excuse himself.

"I'll take my leave—"

"Stay," the Emperor interrupted, voice firm but not unkind. "This concerns you both."

Seungcheol lifted his head slightly, his eyes flickering toward Jeonghan for only a heartbeat. Jeonghan, caught off guard, quietly resumed his place at the table.

The Emperor rose from the dais, descending slowly as he spoke.

"I've reviewed the fire reports. The incident was too convenient, too precise in its destruction. No adjoining buildings, no noble homes. And now there are whispers—barely whispers—about a missing merchant ledger. A single book, lost in the flames. No one knows what it contained."

He looked to Seungcheol. "You were there. What did you see?"

Seungcheol didn't hesitate. "Chaos, smoke, and fear, Your Majesty. But the fire spread too quickly for something that was supposedly caused by a knocked-over lantern."

The Emperor gave a small nod. "Just as I suspected."

He turned then, gaze sweeping between them. "You both were at the heart of the event. And unlike the rest of the council, you were not content to stay behind palace walls."

Jeonghan folded his hands before him, eyes narrowing with thought. "You want us to investigate."

"I want discretion," the Emperor said. "I trust no one else with this."

The air shifted again—charged now.

"I will assign no official decree. This must be done quietly. Speak with the merchants. Trace the missing ledger. Whoever set that fire may have been after something far more dangerous than a handful of coin."

Seungcheol's voice was low. "Do you suspect someone inside the capital?"

"I suspect," the Emperor replied evenly, "that someone thought the fire would burn more than just wood."

The weight of the moment settled like a stone between them.

"Then we'll find them," Jeonghan said finally.

Seungcheol gave a small nod. "Discreetly."

The Emperor stepped back toward the dais. "Good. You leave at first light. I'll have a contact placed within the merchant guild to assist you. And if you find resistance—" He paused, eyes sharp. "—you have my authority to dig deeper. Even into the noble houses."

Jeonghan blinked. That was rare. Dangerous.

The Emperor's expression softened just slightly.

"I trust you both. One sees the Empire's heart. The other protects its spine. Let no one forget that."

He turned away. "I'll leave you to speak."

The soft hush of his robes faded into the distance, and the tall doors closed behind him with a final, echoing click.

Silence.

Jeonghan remained still beside the table, his hand brushing idly across a scroll edge. Seungcheol stayed a pace back, arms relaxed at his sides, though the tension in his shoulders was not so easily hidden.

"Well," Jeonghan said after a moment, "I suppose we're partners now."

Seungcheol gave a quiet exhale, his voice low but dry. "That thought alone will keep the council up at night."

Jeonghan smirked faintly, finally looking at him. "Let's hope they have good tea to stay awake with."

Seungcheol's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary.

And then, for the first time since the fire, he allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch—just slightly.

"Let's just not burn anything down this time," he said.

"No promises," Jeonghan replied.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low in the sky—sharp-edged, silver, and watching. Its pale light spilled across the rooftops of the Yuan palace like a layer of quiet frost, illuminating courtyards now emptied of officials, servants, and sound. Somewhere, a wind chime stirred softly. A flicker of torchlight vanished behind a corridor wall.

In a shadowed wing near the southern gate, a lone figure stood, still as stone.

Commander Choi Seungcheol adjusted the dark folds of his travel cloak. He'd left his sword behind for once—tonight, they hunted not with blades, but with silence. His boots made no sound against the flagstones as he stepped beneath the carved archway, head turning slightly as he caught movement behind him.

A second figure emerged, just as quiet—Prince Yoon Jeonghan, cloaked in navy and white, his pale robes tucked beneath the hood of his mantle. His hair was tied back in a simple half-ponytail with a gold hairpin, the usual court embellishments absent. Only the faint shimmer of the gold clasp at his collar betrayed his identity.

"You're on time, Your Grace" Seungcheol murmured, his head lowering in a respectful bow.

Jeonghan's eyes flicked toward him, wry. "Did you think I wouldn't be?"

"I wasn't sure you'd trade incense and politics for soot and splinters."

Jeonghan exhaled through his nose, a faint smile curving his lips. "I've learned that scrolls rarely tell the truth. But burned buildings? They usually don't lie."

That made Seungcheol smirk faintly. "Then let's go find what the fire didn't finish."

Without another word, they slipped past the postern gate, its guards distracted by their cups of midnight wine. The city swallowed them whole as they disappeared into the deeper hush of the sleeping capital.

The merchant quarter by night was a different world—quiet but not dead, lit by the glow of dying lanterns and flickering braziers. The streets smelled of wax, spice, and the faint bitterness of ash that still lingered in the air, days after the fire. Crickets called from hidden gardens, and somewhere a wooden cart rattled over distant stones.

Their boots made soft impressions on the dust-laced cobblestones.

"Strange," Seungcheol said as they turned down a narrow lane. "It's too quiet here. Even after a fire, there's usually gossip, movement. But this quarter... it's holding its breath."

Jeonghan didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned the facades of shuttered stalls and shops—jewelry dealers, paper merchants, herbalists. All untouched. Except for one.

The remnants of the burned building stood like a skeleton at the end of the alley, blackened and hollowed, the wooden frame twisted and split where the fire had devoured it from within. Even in ruin, it had presence. And it reeked of finality.

Seungcheol stepped over the makeshift barrier—a simple rope and two warning lanterns—and extended a hand behind him. Jeonghan took it without hesitation, letting himself be pulled over the rubble.

The ground beneath their boots crunched—cinders, charred silk, scorched roof tile. What had once been a vibrant silk goods shop was now reduced to ash and fragmented memory. A broken lacquered fan lay half-hidden near the entrance, its gold paint warped by heat.

"I told the watchmen to keep away tonight," Seungcheol said quietly. "Didn't want too many ears near this."

Jeonghan crouched beside the remains of a display table, running his fingers along the burned edge. "This wasn't a normal fire. Look at the walls. The flame was directed—contained. Whoever did this knew exactly how far to let it burn."

Seungcheol nodded grimly, crouching to brush ash from a fallen beam. "Accelerant. Controlled pattern. Probably a high burn fuel—oil, alcohol blend. Someone with resources."

They separated, sifting slowly through the wreckage. Neither of them spoke, save for the occasional murmur of observation.

Time passed—slow and steady, like the tide drawing out.

Then—Jeonghan stopped.

Something had caught the moonlight—just barely, a subtle gleam beneath a mound of scorched silk near the shop's collapsed rear wall. He knelt, ash swirling around him, and reached into the debris.

His fingers closed around something hard.

When he pulled it free, he stared.

A ring—black and matte, entirely unscathed by flame. Heavy in the hand despite its size. Carved into the band was a symbol unfamiliar even to him—a curved line intersected by a triangle, encircled by a serpent twisting inwards upon itself. The markings were crisp, ancient, and deliberate.

"Seungcheol," Jeonghan said, without looking up.

The commander was at his side in an instant. "What did you find?"

Jeonghan held the ring into the shaft of moonlight. It glinted with eerie clarity, untouched by the destruction around it.

Seungcheol frowned as he examined it. "I've never seen a crest like that. Not from any house, any guild."

"No. This wasn't meant to be identified," Jeonghan murmured. "It was meant to be found by the wrong hands—or not at all."

Seungcheol turned the ring in his palm, examining the inner band. "No name. No maker's mark. It's clean. Professionally clean."

Jeonghan stood, brushing soot from his robes, though the ash clung stubbornly. "If the fire was meant to destroy everything, then this was either overlooked... or deliberately left behind."

"A warning," Seungcheol said.

"Or an invitation," Jeonghan countered softly.

They stared at the ruin in silence for a moment. The walls still stood in jagged silhouettes, like teeth in a jaw.

Then Jeonghan added, almost absently, "The merchant—Yi Doyun. No one's seen him since the fire. He didn't report to the guild. No funeral rites. No inquiries from his family."

Seungcheol's eyes narrowed. "Then either he's hiding... or someone already found him."

Jeonghan's gaze lingered on the ring. "We need to know what he was involved in. And who this symbol belongs to."

They said nothing for a long time.

Just the rustle of burnt cloth, the creak of a scorched beam shifting in the wind.

Then Seungcheol glanced at him, expression unreadable.

"We're stepping into something dangerous."

"We always are," Jeonghan replied.

A beat of quiet.

Then Seungcheol added with dry humor, "Just try not to run into another burning building without warning me next time."

Jeonghan's laughter was soft, unexpected. "I'll try. But no promises."

Together, they stepped over the ruins once more, the moonlight casting their shadows long behind them—two figures walking away from ashes, toward something they could not yet name.

The ring now nestled in Seungcheol's pouch pulsed with silent significance.

And the night no longer felt still.

It felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous than flame.

The next afternoon, the capital basked in pale sunlight and soft winds, the streets alive with the energy of trade. Vendors called out from beneath crimson awnings, their voices weaving through the air like a song. Silks fluttered above narrow walkways, and the scent of roasted chestnuts, perfume oils, and lacquered wood mingled in the breeze.

Jeonghan moved with quiet purpose, his simple noble robes of soft grey and ivory allowing him to blend into the crowd. A veiled hat shaded his face, and a folded fan hung from his belt, the epitome of a leisurely courtier. He navigated the bustling streets until he reached a familiar door.

The House of Moonlight and Myrrh stood discreetly between a calligraphy dealer and a spice apothecary. Its carved wooden sign swayed gently, lacquered in deep indigo with silver lettering. Known for its rare imports and exquisite craftsmanship, the shop was owned by Jeon Wonwoo.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Jeonghan stepped inside. Cool air greeted him, scented with cedar and dried plum blossom. Shelves lined the walls, displaying rolled silks, gilded paper fans, hairpins set with polished stone, and cosmetics in porcelain jars. Two assistants bowed in greeting.

"Welcome to the House of Moonlight, Your Grace."

Jeonghan offered a soft smile. "I'd like to browse quietly."

He moved with practiced ease, selecting a few small items—a jar of sandalwood powder, a brush set, a carved comb. Just enough to appear as a genuine customer.

Moments later, a low voice came from behind the polished counter. "You always pick the good items. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were here for the shopping."

Jeonghan looked up and smiled faintly. Wonwoo, dressed in a dark set of robes layered with soft olive tones, stood at a distance, eyes gleaming as he bowed before the prince. His tone was even as always, but his eyes held warmth—the calm of someone who had known Jeonghan long before the palace walls had taken him in.

"Maybe I came for the sandalwood," Jeonghan said lightly, setting the brush set down. "But maybe I came for something that burns slower."

Wonwoo's gaze sharpened at that, subtle but precise.

He gave a nod toward one of the attendants. "Take His Highness's purchases to the private room. I'll bring tea."

The attendant bowed and disappeared down the side hallway. Wonwoo stepped out from behind the counter and led Jeonghan through a beaded curtain and down a narrow passage to a secluded chamber at the back of the shop.

It was a quiet, elegant room—bookshelves lining the wall, scrolls and trade records neatly stacked. A tea set was already steaming on the lacquered table. The windows were papered over, letting in light but no prying eyes.

Once the door closed behind them, Wonwoo's formality dropped just slightly.

"You're here about the fire," he said, pouring the tea without waiting for pretense.

Jeonghan gave a quiet nod, lowering himself to the cushions. "You heard."

"I hear everything in this quarter. Especially when a merchant disappears the same night his shop burns to the ground."

Jeonghan rested his hands on the table, voice calm. "You knew him?"

"By trade, yes. His name was Yi Doyun. Ran a textile front, but I always suspected he dealt in... extras. Items that don't get listed on manifests." Wonwoo handed Jeonghan a teacup. "Never proved it. He was careful. Paid his dues to the guild on time, never talked more than he had to."

"Any known affiliations? Noble houses?"

"None officially. But two months ago, he suddenly paid off all his debts. Cleared his books overnight. That's not normal in our circles unless you're selling something special."

Jeonghan's gaze flickered. "We found a ring at the site. Black. Marked with a symbol I've never seen."

Wonwoo set down his own cup carefully. "Describe it."

"A serpent motif, wound through a triangle and a broken arc. Not guild. Not a family crest."

Wonwoo was quiet for a beat, then slowly reached for a small ledger on the shelf behind him. He flipped through the worn pages with precise fingers until he found what he was looking for. Turning it toward Jeonghan, he tapped a symbol sketched faintly in ink—almost matching.

"This?" he asked.

Jeonghan leaned in. The resemblance was striking.

"Close enough," he murmured.

Wonwoo nodded. "That symbol turned up once on a shipment out of the western mines. Ores. Refined beyond regulation. Smuggled, most likely. The crates were marked privately—never passed through official tariffs."

"Did Doyun handle that shipment?"

"No. But someone like him would be the second or third hand. People who hide the trail."

Jeonghan sat back, eyes narrowing. "Someone paid him to keep something off the books. And then silenced him."

Wonwoo looked at him closely. "You're in dangerous waters, Jeonghan."

"I've been in worse."

"Yes," Wonwoo said. "But this time, you're doing it with a sword beside you."

There was something pointed in the way he said it.

Jeonghan glanced down at his tea, then looked up again, voice quiet.

"Seungcheol's part of the investigation."

Wonwoo gave a dry sound that was almost a laugh. "And how's that going?"

Jeonghan's mouth curved faintly. "Efficiently."

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. "And personally?"

Jeonghan didn't answer.

Instead, he stood and picked up the ring pouch from his sleeve. "Can you find anything else on this symbol?"

Wonwoo took it carefully, nodding. "Give me three days."

As Jeonghan turned to go, Wonwoo added, "Be careful. This goes deeper than one fire."

Jeonghan paused at the door. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Then he slipped into the hall, footsteps light, the echo of ash and secrets trailing behind him.

The throne room was a symphony of quiet grandeur.

Light poured in through the latticed windows, casting amber patterns on the polished jade floor. Incense curled from golden braziers at each corner, carrying the scent of sandalwood and chrysanthemum through the vaulted hall. Silken banners hung from towering columns, each bearing the emblems of old victories and ancient dynasties—dragons coiled in gold, cranes in flight, rivers woven in thread.

At the center of it all stood the throne itself—elevated, flanked by the Emperor and Empress, with the Grand Empress Dowager seated regally beside them in her carved sandalwood chair. Her eyes, sharp despite the years, missed nothing.

Jeonghan stood at her left, dressed in layered robes of silver-grey and moon blue, embroidered with plum blossoms and clouded cranes. His hair was pinned high with a jade clasp, a pearl earring glinting faintly against his neck. Though calm on the surface, he was aware of the way the room stilled as it always did when he stepped into it—admiration, envy, curiosity coiling in equal measure. Today, however, he paid them no mind. His attention was reserved for the moment to come.

Prince Seokmin stood near him, dressed in court robes of royal indigo, and beside him, Jisoo—soft-spoken, serene—was the picture of refinement in white and pale lavender. Their presence together was quiet but unmistakable, like the harmony of a familiar melody.

The council was assembled in full below the steps—rows of ministers, generals, and court advisors arrayed in maroon, navy, and gold. And among them, wearing his maroon uniform with sharp black trim and a polished insignia at his chest, stood Commander Choi Seungcheol.

He looked as composed as ever, back straight, arms folded behind him in formal stance. His hair was tied cleanly at the back, and though he stood still, there was a readiness to his posture that betrayed the soldier beneath the silk. Jeonghan's eyes flicked to him just once, an instinct now more than an action.

Then the great doors of the throne room swung open with a resonant boom.

Trumpets sounded softly—stately, not showy.

"The Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Min approaches," the herald called, his voice echoing down the hall.

All eyes turned.

The prince entered with measured grace, his entourage following in silken silence. He was tall and striking, clad in robes of pale bronze and forest green, embroidered with Dragons and twin cranes. His crown, modest but ornate, glinted under the filtered sunlight. A curved blade hung sheathed at his side, ceremonial but real enough to remind the court of his rank.

He crossed the room slowly, his steps firm over the crimson carpet that ran from the door to the foot of the dais.

And then—he looked up.

His gaze swept the throne first, pausing briefly on the Emperor. Then the Empress. Then the Grand Empress Dowager. Formal. Controlled.

But then—

His eyes reached Jeonghan.

And they stopped.

The prince's stride faltered—but only slightly. It was the kind of pause no one else might have noticed. But Jeonghan did. And so did the Grand Empress Dowager beside him, whose eyes flicked sideways, sharp with quiet awareness.

The Crown Prince did not look away. Not at once. There was something in his expression—not boldness, not insolence, but recognition. As if he had been told tales of Jeonghan's beauty and bearing, and now stood before the truth of them.

Jeonghan, to his credit, remained still. He inclined his head just slightly, his expression unchanged, unreadable. But his lashes lowered—just a little too slow to be unnoticed.

Jisoo, standing beside Seokmin, whispered beneath his breath, "Oh, he's looking like a man about to write poetry."

Seokmin didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

At the foot of the dais, the Crown Prince of Min bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice smooth and clear. "It is my honor to stand within the great hall of Yuan."

The Emperor rose from his seat, offering a small but gracious smile. "We are honored to receive you, Crown Prince. May your journey mark the beginning of renewed friendship between our realms."

Formalities were exchanged. Courtesies followed. The hall resumed its rhythm.

But Seungcheol had seen it too—the pause, the gaze. He glanced toward Jeonghan once from his place in the council line, his expression unreadable, as if gauging the mood or simply... observing.

And Jeonghan?

He did not look back.

But his fingers, folded neatly before him, had tensed just slightly in his sleeves.

It was not jealousy. Not exactly.

It was something quieter.

Something waiting.

Chapter Text

The study was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional creak of wood as Jeonghan shifted in his seat. Sunlight filtered through the latticed windows, casting intricate patterns on the floor. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls, books, and artifacts from distant lands. A pot of tea steamed gently on the low table, its aroma mingling with the scent of aged paper and ink.

Jeonghan sat at his desk, a brush in hand, meticulously transcribing notes from his meeting with Wonwoo. His expression was focused, eyes scanning the parchment as he wrote. The symbol they had discussed—the serpent entwined through a triangle and broken arc—was sketched in the margin, a visual anchor for his thoughts.

A knock at the door interrupted his concentration.

"Enter," Jeonghan called, setting down his brush.

The door opened to reveal Seungcheol, dressed in his maroon uniform, the insignia gleaming on his chest. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He bowed before Jeonghan.

"Your Grace. Am I interrupting?" Seungcheol asked, his tone casual, yet respectful.

Jeonghan gestured to the seat across from him. "Not at all. Please, sit."

Seungcheol took the offered seat, his eyes briefly scanning the room before settling on Jeonghan. "I heard you visited Wonwoo yesterday."

Jeonghan nodded, pouring tea into two cups. "I did. I needed to follow up on the merchant's death."

Seungcheol accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. "And? Did he have any information?"

Jeonghan leaned back, cradling his cup. "Quite a bit, actually. The merchant, Yi Doyun, was involved in smuggling refined ores from the western mines. The symbol we found—a serpent through a triangle and broken arc—was marked on the crates. It's not associated with any known guild or noble house."

Seungcheol's brow furrowed. "That's concerning. Smuggling refined ores is a serious offense. And the symbol?"

Jeonghan reached for a ledger on his desk, flipping it open to a bookmarked page. "Wonwoo had this in his records. It's a sketch of the symbol, matching the one we found. He said it appeared on a shipment that bypassed official tariffs."

Seungcheol studied the sketch, his expression thoughtful. "So, Doyun was a middleman, keeping the trail hidden. Someone paid him to keep things off the books, then silenced him."

Jeonghan nodded. "Exactly. Wonwoo is looking into it further. He said to give him three days."

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea.

"You know," Seungcheol said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be knee-deep in smuggling investigations."

Jeonghan chuckled. "Neither did I. But here we are."

Seungcheol smiled, a rare softness in his eyes. "Be careful, Your Grace. This goes deeper than one fire."

Jeonghan met his gaze, a hint of determination in his expression. "That's what I'm afraid of."

They sat together, the weight of their shared knowledge settling between them, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the study.

The sun had dipped low beyond the city walls, its final golden rays casting long shadows over the outer gardens of the Choi family residence. Compared to the austere grandeur of the palace, the estate grounds felt quieter—less ceremonial, more lived-in. There was a certain comfort in the way the willows bent over the gravel paths and how birds still chirped from the eaves.

Out in the courtyard behind the training hall, Seungcheol stood with his sleeves rolled up, a longbow resting against one leg and a quiver slung casually over his shoulder. The smell of cut grass lingered faintly in the air.

Across from him, a younger figure stood near the archery line, feet planted, bow in hand—none other than his half-brother, Choi Chan.

Chan was already sweating, his hair stuck to his forehead in fine strands, though his posture remained determined. He held the bowstring taut, arms trembling slightly as he tried to keep it steady.

"Anchor the draw," Seungcheol called over, voice patient but firm. "Not your elbow—your cheekbone. Let the bow feel like part of your spine."

Chan gritted his teeth. "If the bow were part of my spine, we'd both be very dead."

Seungcheol snorted. "Then I'm glad you're not a poet. Focus."

Chan exhaled sharply, realigned his stance, then loosed the arrow.

Thwack.

The arrow struck the target—not the bullseye, but solid enough to earn a small smile of satisfaction.

"Better," Seungcheol said, nodding.

"Better?" Chan lowered his bow, clearly wanting more praise than that. "That almost nicked the red ring!"

"Almost," Seungcheol replied, strolling over with the second bow in hand. "You're not aiming to almost save someone on a battlefield. Do it again."

Chan groaned dramatically. "You were more forgiving when I was ten."

"You were cuter when you were ten," Seungcheol shot back dryly.

That earned a laugh from Chan, who stuck his tongue out before turning back to the target.

Seungcheol watched him nock another arrow and adjusted the angle of his own stance, mimicking him.

"Again."

They loosed together this time. Both arrows flew—Chan's slightly off center, Seungcheol's dead on.

Chan muttered under his breath. "Show-off."

"I have a reputation to maintain."

"And I have a brother who won't stop making everything look easy."

They both laughed this time.

After a while, Seungcheol signaled for a break, and they sat together on the edge of the wooden porch overlooking the training ground, sipping barley tea that one of the servants had brought out earlier.

Chan leaned back on his palms, catching his breath. "You've been busier than usual lately. Court work?"

"Something like that," Seungcheol said, swirling the tea in his cup. He didn't elaborate right away.

Chan tilted his head. "Or something heavier?"

Seungcheol glanced sideways, noting the maturity in the question. Chan had grown up when he wasn't looking. Still bright-eyed, still prone to sulking when scolded—but smarter now. Sharper.

"There's been an incident," he finally said. "A fire. In the capital."

Chan's brows furrowed. "A fire? That doesn't sound like your kind of assignment."

"It wasn't. Until it was," Seungcheol replied. "Now I'm working with Prince Jeonghan to investigate it."

At the mention of Jeonghan's name, Chan's eyes lit up—though not teasingly. Just curious.

"Prince Jeonghan?" he asked. "The quiet one who makes the court nervous by just blinking?"

Seungcheol barked a short laugh. "That's the one."

"He's smart," Chan said, more seriously now. "The servants talk. They say he's calm like water, but that doesn't mean he's shallow."

Seungcheol's lips pressed together, amused. "What do servants not talk about?"

"Everything they're paid not to. But that's boring," Chan said with a grin. Then, after a beat: "You like working with him?"

Seungcheol considered the question for longer than necessary.

"...Yes," he said simply. "He doesn't waste words. He listens. Thinks before he speaks. Not many do that anymore."

Chan watched him, then smiled slyly. "That's not a soldier's admiration. That's something else."

"It's respect," Seungcheol corrected. Too quickly.

Chan's grin only widened. "Uh-huh."

Seungcheol threw an arm lightly around his brother's shoulders, dragging him down into a playful headlock. "And this is what happens to younger brothers who think they're clever."

"Ow—OW, okay, okay! Respect! You respect him with your entire chest, I get it!"

They both collapsed back onto the porch, laughing breathlessly. The warm light had turned golden now, the sun slipping below the tiled roofs of the estate.

After a moment, Chan turned serious again. "If it gets dangerous, you'll tell me, right?"

Seungcheol looked at him, a touch of surprise crossing his features.

"I'm not asking to follow you into danger," Chan added quickly. "I just want to know. When things stop being court business and start becoming... war."

Seungcheol studied his younger brother for a long moment. Then he gave a small, reassuring nod.

"You'll know," he said. "And you'll be ready. When it's time."

Chan nodded, satisfied.

Then he stood and walked back toward the training range, lifting his bow again.

"Let's go again. I want to beat you at least once before I turn twenty."

Seungcheol rose with a smirk. "You'll need five more birthdays for that."

"And you'll need ten more arms to block my arrows," Chan shot back.

They squared off once more, the banter fading into the rhythm of training. Arrow by arrow. Step by step.

But even as Seungcheol loosed his next shot, a flicker of Jeonghan's face passed through his mind—hair pinned, eyes calm, voice measured.

He missed the center by an inch.

Chan noticed.

"See? You're slipping."

Seungcheol didn't reply.

He simply nocked another arrow. And smiled.

Evening in the royal garden was a gentle kind of hush—soft, drowsy air perfumed with wisteria and plum blossoms, and cicadas just beginning their twilight chorus. The sun dipped low behind the palace rooftops, casting amber across the lily-covered pond and bathing the cobblestone paths in fading light.

Beneath a curved pavilion of carved sandalwood and jade tile, Yoon Jeonghan reclined with practiced grace. A pale blue teacup sat delicately between his fingers, still warm with jasmine tea. His robes today were ivory silk trimmed in soft gold, draped loosely for comfort rather than formality. His hair was gathered in a simple knot, held in place by a slender comb of white jade.

Resting peacefully in his lap was a small white rabbit—soft as cloud fluff, with long ears and a twitching nose. It nuzzled gently against the folds of Jeonghan's robes as he idly stroked its back with one hand.

Across from him, Hong Jisoo sat on a low cushion, sipping from his own cup, his expression one of quiet amusement as he watched the rabbit practically melt under Jeonghan's touch.

"I swear," Jisoo said with a soft smile, "you're better at calming creatures than half the court advisors are at calming the Emperor."

"That's because rabbits don't ask for favors or try to marry me off," Jeonghan replied smoothly, lifting his cup to his lips. "Their politics are refreshingly simple."

Jisoo chuckled and leaned over to offer the rabbit a thin slice of apple. "At this rate, you'll have the garden filled with strays. Next week, it'll be a fox."

"I would name it after a minister," Jeonghan murmured, glancing sideways. "A quiet threat, elegantly veiled."

They laughed together—soft, low laughter that felt safe between friends. The kind that made you forget, for a moment, that the world outside the garden was watching.

But the peace was not long-lived.

The rabbit, in a sudden and inexplicable burst of energy—perhaps offended by the idea of becoming part of a political metaphor—gave a sudden twitch and leapt from Jeonghan's lap, darting under the carved railing and down the path.

"Oh—!" Jisoo gasped.

Jeonghan nearly dropped his fan. "Jungho! Not again—!"

They both stood quickly—Jeonghan more flustered than he would ever allow in public—his robes brushing the ground as he stepped out into the garden. The rabbit, unbothered by titles or tea, bounded confidently across the stones and into the flowering hedges.

"Why does he always choose the dramatic exits?" Jeonghan muttered under his breath.

Jisoo stifled a laugh behind his sleeve. "He gets it from you."

But before either of them could chase the creature down, there was a soft voice from just around the bend of the garden path.

"Careful there, little one..."

A moment later, the white rabbit emerged from the bushes in the arms of the visiting Crown Prince of Min.

He wore robes of soft dusk-blue silk, embroidered at the hems with phoenixes in flight. His long hair was half-tied with a silver clasp, and his expression—usually poised and distant—was softened now with a faint, smile as he cradled the creature carefully in his arms.

Jeonghan stopped mid-step, blinking.

The prince looked up, and their eyes met again—for the second time in just as many days.

"I believe this belongs to you," he said, approaching with a calm grace that seemed built into his very bones.

Jeonghan inclined his head politely, recovering his poise with a smoothness honed by years of court performance. "He's a repeat offender. Thank you for saving the Empress Dowager's prized camellias from another incident, your highness."

The prince chuckled, offering the rabbit back. "I've faced diplomatic crises less slippery than this one."

Jeonghan took the rabbit gently into his arms again, stroking its head to calm it. "His name is Jungho. He usually listens... unless there's a flower involved."

"A creature of excellent taste," the prince replied.

Jisoo stepped forward then, bowing slightly. "Your Highness. We didn't realize anyone else was in the garden at this hour."

"I find the garden... peaceful," the prince said. "I was just exploring the palace." His gaze flicked briefly to Jeonghan—only for a second, but pointedly.

Jeonghan's smile did not falter, but he did lower his gaze just slightly, busying himself with adjusting Jungho's ears.

There was a moment of stillness, filled only by the sound of the breeze in the trees and the rabbit's soft breathing.

Then, politely, the prince inclined his head again. "If you'll excuse me. I won't interrupt your evening further."

"You didn't interrupt," Jeonghan said quickly—then slowed, correcting himself, more formal: "It was kind of you to return him. I'm in your debt."

The prince's lips curved, just barely. "I'm sure you'll find a way to repay me."

And with that, he turned, his silhouette vanishing down the lantern-lit path between rows of plum blossoms.

Jisoo watched him go, then turned to Jeonghan, who was still holding the rabbit with a suspicious amount of tenderness.

"I take it back," Jisoo said lightly. "He didn't look like a man writing poetry. He looked like a man planning a duet."

Jeonghan sighed, brushing fur from his robes. "He looked like someone very aware of an audience."

"You mean you."

"I mean the whole garden."

Jisoo gave a knowing hum and took another sip of tea.

The rabbit, now thoroughly content in Jeonghan's arms again, yawned.

"Betrayer," Jeonghan whispered to it. "You've earned us a chapter in someone's court romance already."

The royal palace had gone still.

Beyond the high lattice windows, the moon cast silver patterns through paper screens, dappling the walls with soft light. The air carried the quiet chirr of distant crickets and the faint rustle of night wind brushing against silk curtains.

Inside their private quarters—nestled deep in the eastern wing of the palace—Prince Seokmin and his husband, Jisoo, lay side by side beneath the embroidered coverlets of their marital bed.

The chamber was warm and dimly lit by a single lantern, its soft glow dancing along the edges of brocade cushions and the carved wood canopy overhead. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingled with the sweetness of the osmanthus oil Jisoo had rubbed into Seokmin's shoulders earlier.

Jisoo was curled slightly toward Seokmin, one hand resting against the prince's chest, fingertips tracing idle circles over the thin fabric of his inner robe. His eyes were half-lidded with sleep, but his smile still lingered from their earlier laughter.

Seokmin lay on his back, one arm loosely cradled around Jisoo's waist, the other tucked behind his head. His gaze was turned up toward the ceiling, soft with contentment.

"It feels like we haven't had a night this quiet in a month," Jisoo murmured.

Seokmin hummed in agreement, voice low and tired. "Let's enjoy it before the Emperor remembers I exist and gives me a mountain of tax reports again."

Jisoo chuckled softly. "Your handwriting is too neat. That's your real downfall."

"Mmm. Should've scribbled more as a child."

"You were too noble for that," Jisoo teased, nestling a little closer. "You probably scribbled in poetic verse."

Seokmin reached down to playfully pinch his side, but Jisoo wriggled and caught his hand with a sleepy laugh, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

The room settled again. Comfortable silence. Familiar breathing.

After a moment, Jisoo spoke again—quieter now.

"Jeonghan's been distracted."

Seokmin's brow furrowed faintly, though his hand didn't leave Jisoo's. "I've noticed."

"He tries not to show it," Jisoo continued, his voice gentler now. "But his mind's somewhere else lately. Or someone."

Seokmin sighed, his thumb stroking slowly over Jisoo's knuckles. "The fire? The investigation?"

"Not only that," Jisoo said. "I think it's Seungcheol."

That gave Seokmin pause.

There was no judgment in his silence, only thought.

"I saw the way he looked at him," Jisoo added, "after the fire. And then again, today, in the garden. Jeonghan's careful. Always has been. But lately, he looks... caught."

Seokmin shifted slightly, his body still warm against Jisoo's. "That would be a storm."

"Would it be so bad?" Jisoo asked, tilting his head up to meet his eyes.

Seokmin smiled softly. "Only if they don't realize they're both standing in the rain."

Jisoo rested his cheek on Seokmin's shoulder again, sighing. "I worry about him. He always holds everything too tightly inside. He never lets himself be selfish."

"That's why we love him," Seokmin murmured. "And why we have to protect him."

Jisoo's voice was even quieter now. "If this becomes dangerous... the merchant, the fire, the ring—Seungcheol won't let harm come to him."

"I believe that," Seokmin said, and he meant it.

Their room fell silent again, save for the quiet breathing of two people who had shared many such nights, and many more like it.

After a long pause, Jisoo chuckled again, a drowsy warmth in his voice. "Still. I'd like to see Seungcheol try to court Jeonghan properly. I wonder if he even knows what flowers to send."

Seokmin laughed quietly, eyes crinkling. "He'd probably offer a sword. Or a military map of secure outposts. Very romantic."

"I'd say Jeonghan deserves better," Jisoo said, stifling a yawn, "but the truth is, Seungcheol might be exactly what he needs. Someone who sees past the silk."

"Someone who doesn't flinch," Seokmin added.

They both went quiet again.

Outside, a breeze fluttered the lantern's flame. It flickered, then steadied—like a heartbeat.

Jisoo yawned one final time and nuzzled close again. "Let's hope Jeonghan finds peace. Whatever shape it comes in."

Seokmin leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jisoo's hair. "He will."

And with that, the night pulled its blanket over them, their hands still joined above the sheets—two souls entwined, watching over another.

Not with words.

But with love.

Chapter Text

Evening painted the sky in strokes of ochre and soft rose, trailing the last of the sun's light across the jagged backs of the distant mountains. A breeze moved gently through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and fading chrysanthemum.

Jeonghan stood in silence at the stone terrace outside his private quarters, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his figure still as a painted scroll. The wind played with the trailing ends of his robe, dyed deep blue with faint pink flowers and white birds embroidered to it. He wore no jewels that evening, no fan at his hip—only a pin to clip his hair, and a veil of quiet that wrapped around him like a second skin.

The mountains loomed far away, but their shapes calmed him.

He had always found solace in stillness, but tonight... the stillness did not return the favor.

The investigation had grown heavier with each layer peeled away—secrets that bled into politics, a symbol from a fire that was never meant to be found, and a merchant whose disappearance whispered of something larger.

And then there was the visiting prince—elegant, gracious, too perceptive for Jeonghan's comfort. His gaze lingered longer than it should have. His words landed like questions, even when phrased as compliments.

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes slightly toward the horizon. The wind shifted.

And behind him, a voice—low, steady, unmistakable:

"Your Grace."

Jeonghan didn't turn.

"You always approach like a storm, Commander," he said softly, though a corner of his mouth twitched.

"But I only ever mean to bring rain, not thunder," Seungcheol replied calmly.

There was a pause. Jeonghan's voice lost its humor. "And yet here I am, unsure whether I should carry a parasol or armor."

He heard the faintest chuckle behind him, followed by the sound of deliberate, measured footsteps on stone.

"I thought I might find you here," Seungcheol said, stopping a few paces behind. "Your attendant mentioned you dismissed supper."

"I didn't have the appetite," Jeonghan murmured. "Too many thoughts, not enough clarity."

Seungcheol waited, not pressing. When Jeonghan finally turned, the fading sunlight caught in his hair, casting a faint halo over his elegant features. His eyes were dark with tired thought.

"I'm worried," Jeonghan admitted, his voice low but unwavering. "This investigation—this fire—it wasn't just to destroy a shop. It was a message. And I don't know who it was for."

Seungcheol nodded once. "You believe the merchant was silenced."

"I do. And whoever orchestrated it did so knowing we'd start pulling the threads." He looked away. "It feels... bigger than us. And I don't like how close it's creeping to the palace."

Seungcheol stepped to his side, careful not to cross the invisible line Jeonghan always drew when thinking—though tonight, he seemed too distracted to enforce it.

"Your Grace," Seungcheol said, more gently now, "you're not facing this alone."

"That's what frightens me," Jeonghan said, turning slightly to look up at him. "Because the more people who stand beside me, the more of them I could lose if I misstep."

"You won't," Seungcheol said. "Not while I'm here."

There was no bravado in his tone. Only certainty. It startled Jeonghan more than if he had shouted it.

"I know," Jeonghan murmured after a beat. "And that's precisely the part that unsettles me."

The breeze tugged gently at their robes.

Jeonghan's gaze drifted again to the horizon, to the jagged silhouette of the mountains. "He watches me," he added quietly.

Seungcheol followed his gaze. "The visiting prince?"

Jeonghan nodded. "He smiles when he speaks to the court, but he studies me when no one's looking. Or rather... when he thinks no one notices."

"And do you think his intentions are political?"

"I think everything is political," Jeonghan said, a little bitterly. "But there's something else. I don't know what it is. A curiosity? An interest? A test?" He folded his arms. "It makes me uneasy."

Seungcheol was silent for a moment. "I've spoken with him twice, briefly. Polite. Trained. His reputation is clean, but his interest in you is... not without motive, I suspect."

Jeonghan's eyes flicked toward him. "Do you think I'm overreacting?"

Seungcheol shook his head. "No. I think you're reacting exactly as someone who has to play twelve games of chess at once would."

There was a long, heavy silence.

"You could speak to him," Seungcheol added quietly.

Jeonghan turned sharply. "And say what? 'Stop looking at me like I'm the jewel of his imperial treasury?'"

Seungcheol's mouth quirked. "Might be effective."

Jeonghan finally let out a soft, tired laugh. "Maker help me if that's diplomatic strategy now."

They stood together a while longer, side by side now.

Not speaking.

Just letting the weight of it hang between them, eased only slightly by each other's presence.

Finally, Jeonghan said, more softly now, "When this is over, Seungcheol... if we pull apart this knot and it leads where I think it does—are you ready for what comes after?"

Seungcheol's answer was immediate.

"If you're at the center of it, I'll be ready."

Jeonghan didn't answer. His chest rose and fell with the long, measured breath of someone trying not to feel too much all at once.

"Thank you, Commander," he said at last. "I mean that."

Seungcheol bowed his head slightly. "Always, Your Grace."

The sun slipped behind the peaks. The first stars began to prick the velvet sky.

Jeonghan turned to leave, but paused at the first step. "Will you walk with me?" he asked, not looking back.

"Of course."

And so, under the watchful quiet of dusk and mountains, the prince and his commander walked side by side—just far enough from the palace lights that for a few steps, they could simply be two men in silence, chasing the same horizon.

The Grand Hall of the palace, reminiscent of the majestic Hall of Supreme Harmony, stood as a testament to imperial authority. Its vast expanse, adorned with intricate carvings and golden accents, echoed the solemnity of the occasion. The Emperor and Empress were seated on the elevated Dragon Throne, a symbol of their supreme power. The throne, intricately carved with dragons and adorned with gold, was flanked by bronze cranes and incense burners, their gentle smoke wafting through the air, adding a serene ambiance to the solemn setting.

To the Emperor's right sat the Grand Empress Dowager, her presence commanding respect and reverence. Standing beside her was Jeonghan, poised and attentive. On the Emperor's left, the Empress Dowager was seated, with Prince Seokmin and his husband, Jisoo, positioned nearby. The council members, including Seungcheol and Mingyu, stood in their designated places, their robes denoting their ranks and roles within the imperial court. In a corner, observing with keen interest, was Crown Prince Yi-won of Min.

The court session commenced with discussions on the realm's well-being. Ministers presented reports on agriculture, trade, and security, each addressing the Emperor with the customary three kowtows and nine prostrations, a practice deeply rooted in Confucian traditions.

As the discussions concluded, the Emperor prepared to dismiss the assembly. However, Crown Prince Yi-Won stepped forward, his movements deliberate and respectful. He bowed deeply before the Emperor, his voice clear and unwavering.

"Your Majesty," he began, "I humbly request your permission to propose a union between our kingdoms."

The Emperor looked straight at the Crown Prince. "And how might that be?"

The Prince smiled. "I would like to take Prince Jeonghan's hand. I'd like to take him back to my kingdom as a consort."

A palpable silence enveloped the hall. The courtiers exchanged astonished glances, the unexpected proposal rendering them momentarily speechless. Jeonghan's eyes widened in surprise, his composure momentarily faltering.

The Emperor, maintaining his regal demeanor, responded, "Crown Prince Yi-won, such a proposal is unprecedented. What prompts this request?"

Ho-won replied, "Your Majesty, this union would not only strengthen the bonds between our kingdoms but also symbolize a shared commitment to peace and prosperity."

The Grand Empress Dowager interjected, her voice firm yet composed, "Such matters require careful deliberation. The traditions of our land dictate a series of rituals and consultations before any matrimonial alliance. And besides, as I am his legal guardian, you have to consult me before taking such decisions."

Prince Seokmin leaned towards Jisoo, whispering, "This is highly irregular. Proposals of this nature are typically initiated through formal channels, not public declarations."

Jisoo nodded, his expression contemplative. "It seems Prince Yi-won is earnest in his intentions, though his methods are unconventional."

Seungcheol, observing the proceedings, maintained a stoic expression, though his mind raced with thoughts. The political implications of such a union were vast, potentially altering alliances and power dynamics within the region.

The Emperor, after a moment of contemplation, addressed Yi-won, "Your proposal is noted. However, as per our customs, we must consult with the relevant parties and observe the necessary rituals before any decisions are made."

Crown Prince Yi-won bowed once more, "I understand, Your Majesty. I await your guidance."

The court session concluded with an air of uncertainty. As the courtiers dispersed, murmurs filled the corridors, each individual pondering the ramifications of the unexpected proposal.

The court session concluded with an air of uncertainty. As the courtiers dispersed, murmurs filled the corridors, each individual pondering the ramifications of the unexpected proposal.

The throne room, once filled with rustling robes, murmured counsel, and ceremonial proclamations, had fallen into a hush broken only by the soft echo of footsteps leaving in disciplined pairs.

One by one, the ministers bowed and turned away. Seungcheol lingered a moment longer, his eyes flickering toward Jeonghan across the room, unreadable, then followed Mingyu out through the lacquered doors. The Crown Prince of Min, Prince Ho-won, bowed again with perfect formality and was led away by a palace steward, his eyes only leaving Jeonghan's back as the doors closed behind him.

And then, silence.

Jeonghan stood in the same spot—still and statuesque—beneath the tall golden screen of coiled dragons and clouds. The sunlight through the clerestory windows poured down over him like a spotlight, illuminating the muted shimmer of his dark court robes.

His fingers, hidden in the folds of his sleeves, had gone cold.

He hadn't spoken. Hadn't moved. Not even when the Emperor dismissed the session with a single nod. The proposal—public, unexpected, and painfully precise—still rang in his ears.

Ho-won's voice had been perfectly modulated, diplomatic, and reverent.

But it had pierced him like a sword.

"Jeonghan," a voice came softly from his right.

He blinked. It took him a heartbeat to place it.

Seokmin was already walking toward him across the polished floor, Jisoo just a step behind, his expression taut with concern.

"You're still here," Seokmin said gently, reaching out and placing a hand on Jeonghan's arm.

Jeonghan gave a slow blink, then looked at them both as if just now realizing the court had emptied.

"I..." he started, then stopped. His voice didn't sound like his own.

Jisoo stepped in, taking his other arm. "It's alright. Breathe. We're not in front of the court anymore."

Jeonghan let out a breath, but it was shaky. He dropped his gaze to the floor, watching the reflection of sunlight on the stone tiles ripple faintly, like water.

"I didn't see it coming," he murmured.

"None of us did," Seokmin replied. "That was no ordinary court maneuver. It was a performance."

Jeonghan's brows knit together. "He did it knowing I couldn't respond. Not properly. Not with the entire council watching."

Jisoo nodded, his tone quiet but edged. "Which means it wasn't just a proposal. It was pressure. And he used tradition as his shield."

Jeonghan's jaw clenched faintly. "And if I refuse now, it becomes not just personal. A political slight. A Political dispute between the Empires"

"Which is exactly what he wants," Seokmin muttered. "To corner you into obligation. Either marry him, or make your own court look like it mishandled diplomacy."

Jeonghan finally looked up at the empty dais—the twin thrones vacant now, the Emperor and Empress having departed in a stream of attendants and guards.

"The Emperor won't force me," he said softly. "But if enough voices push..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

There was a long pause.

Jisoo's grip on his arm softened. "Do you want to marry him?"

Jeonghan turned to him with something that might have been disbelief—or amusement. "Would I still be standing here like a ghost if I did?"

"Fair," Jisoo murmured.

Seokmin stepped around to stand in front of him. "Then don't give them a reason to think you're hesitating. You're not some helpless figure to be bartered with. You are a prince of Yuan, raised in this palace, taught by the sharpest minds we have."

"And by you," Jeonghan added, giving a flicker of a smile.

Seokmin grinned. "Which is why I know you can handle this."

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. "This isn't just a marriage proposal. It's a move on the board."

"Then make a better one," Jisoo said.

There was another beat of silence.

Then, Jeonghan straightened. His shoulders squared, and his voice returned to its usual quiet steadiness. "If he thinks he's set the terms... he's mistaken."

"That's more like it," Seokmin said with a proud glint in his eye.

Jeonghan began walking toward the doors. Seokmin and Jisoo followed on either side.

As they reached the entrance, Jeonghan paused just before the carved phoenix doors and looked over his shoulder.

"Do you think," he asked softly, "Seungcheol heard all of it?"

Jisoo exchanged a glance with Seokmin.

"He was in the room," Jisoo said carefully. "He heard every word."

Jeonghan gave the faintest nod.

Then pushed open the doors—and walked back into the game.

The maroon robes felt heavier today.

They always carried weight—stitched with command, lined with expectation—but now, walking through the corridor behind the throne room, Seungcheol felt every thread pressing down on his shoulders like armor that no longer protected him.

He said nothing as the other council members spoke in hushed, curious tones, most still reeling from the unexpected proposal. Mingyu walked beside him but didn't speak. Perhaps wisely. He knew when silence was safer than any attempt at comfort.

Once the outer hall cleared and the noble voices faded into distant courtyards, Seungcheol stepped aside—into one of the quiet porticos that overlooked the inner lotus garden. Stone lions guarded the terrace. Lanterns swayed slightly in the dusk breeze.

And only then did he allow himself to breathe.

He leaned against a carved pillar, eyes closing briefly as if he could exhale the moment, as if the echo of Prince Yi-won's voice wouldn't still be ringing in his ears.

"...I request your permission to propose a union between myself and Prince Jeonghan."

It had been said so clearly. So formally. So public.

As if Jeonghan were a treaty, not a person.

Seungcheol's hands had remained steady through it all. His posture had been faultless. A model of discipline. But inside... something sharp had lodged itself between his ribs and stayed there.

Jeonghan hadn't turned to look at him—not even once during the proposal. And Seungcheol wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or maddened by it.

Because if he had looked...

Would Seungcheol have looked back?

Would he have let anything show?

"I see it," Seungcheol muttered under his breath, fingers tightening slightly against the wood of the pillar. "He looks at you like he's already won."

The prince of Kingdom Min had been graceful. Too graceful. Every bow, every word, delivered with perfect rhythm. And his eyes—always finding Jeonghan in a room, even when it wasn't appropriate. That wasn't admiration. That was calculation in silk robes.

And Jeonghan... Jeonghan had stood so still.

Too still.

Seungcheol had seen Jeonghan in every kind of moment—laughing in garden pavilions, scowling over scrolls, teasing Jisoo during festivals, walking through smoke and fire as if born of it.

But today, in that brief pause after Ho-won's words—Jeonghan had looked momentarily lost.

It unsettled him.

Because Seungcheol didn't know how to reach for someone like Jeonghan. Not when they stood an entire court apart. Not when his place in Jeonghan's life was shaped by duty and titles, not choice.

He had no claim. No right.

And yet.

A voice—Mingyu's—broke the silence as his friend approached, carrying a pair of small tea cups from somewhere nearby. He handed one over wordlessly.

Seungcheol took it, sipping only after a long pause.

"You didn't say anything in court," Mingyu said finally.

"What was there to say?"

Mingyu gave a humorless chuckle. "Plenty. You just never say it."

Seungcheol didn't look at him.

"You don't like him," Mingyu added.

Seungcheol raised a brow. "Who?"

"You know who. The Crown prince with perfect hair and perfect timing."

Seungcheol exhaled slowly, then glanced out over the garden again. The koi beneath the surface shimmered like ghosts in the water.

"I don't trust him," he said. "He's too deliberate."

Mingyu tilted his head. "And if Jeonghan says yes?"

A silence stretched between them.

Seungcheol didn't answer right away.

Finally, he set the cup down on the ledge, his voice quieter now.

"Then I'll honor it. And I'll protect them both."

Mingyu looked at him sideways. "You're too noble for your own good."

"No," Seungcheol replied, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "I just know what isn't mine to take."

Mingyu studied him for a moment. "You'd still follow him into a second fire, wouldn't you?"

Seungcheol turned toward the lotus garden again.

"Without hesitation."