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1
Hyunjin remembered the summons not by the date, but by the light.
It was late spring, and the sun had just crested the eastern rooftops, casting golden slats across the cobbled streets of the kingdom’s South Quarter. The market was breathing to life, thick with the scent of sweet barley bread and citrus peels tossed into the gutters. Children shrieked over marbles, bakers shouted over fishmongers; and Hyunjin, tucked beneath a crooked canvas awning, was lost in a face.
He was drawing a boy, maybe eight or nine, with big eyes and a missing tooth. The sketch was rough, done in charcoal on scrap parchment, but the boy’s grin had begun to emerge from the page, playful and proud.
“Almost done,” Hyunjin murmured.
He didn’t hear the horses until they were nearly at his stall.
The crowd parted like a tide before them—two riders in royal blue cloaks, the sun-and-sword crest of the Bahng dynasty stitched in gold thread across their chests. They dismounted at the edge of the market square, their boots far too clean for the dust of the South Quarter.
A hush fell, rippling outward.
Hyunjin looked up, still holding his charcoal.
“Hwang Hyunjin?” one of the men called; his voice was firm but not unkind.
He rose slowly, unsure whether to bow or run. “Yes, that’s me.”
The taller of the two unrolled a scroll with deliberate care. “By order of His Royal Highness Prince Christopher Bahng, you are hereby summoned to the Royal Palace to paint a portrait commemorating His Highness’s coming of age.”
A gasp went up behind him. The boy he had been sketching dropped his marbles.
Hyunjin stared at the scroll, then at the man, then at the palace in the distant hills, its white spires catching the sun like blades.
“I— me?” he croaked.
The second man stepped forward. “Gather your things. We ride at once.”
“But…” Hyunjin looked down at his workbench: a chipped cup of brushes, a torn sketchbook, and an open pouch of crumbly charcoal stubs. He hadn’t even sold the morning’s portraits yet.
The second man raised a brow. “Do you usually keep royalty waiting?”
That was how Hyunjin, eighteen and stained with charcoal, found himself galloping through the gates of the palace on a borrowed horse, gripping his bag slung over his shoulder with one hand and his sense of reality in the other.
The palace felt like a dream stitched in silk: too bright, quiet, and clean.
Guards in polished silver armour lined the courtyards like statues, and not one speck of dirt dared mark the marble steps leading into the grand foyer. Servants moved in silence, eyes downcast, as though they breathed only when permitted. Every surface gleamed—gilt-framed mirrors, jade vases half the height of Hyunjin himself, chandeliers crystalised like frost caught in a windless sky.
Hyunjin followed the steward wordlessly through the North Wing and into a tall, arched room lined with windows. A studio, where sunlight poured in from a skylight above, and the room smelled faintly of linseed oil and crushed roses. A canvas waited on the easel, blank. Beside it stood the subject.
Prince Christopher.
He wore ceremonial robes of carmine trimmed in gold. His hair was loosely tied back, but strands had fallen loose at his temples. He stood straight, practised, and proud, but Hyunjin saw how his fingers curled ever so slightly at his sides.
He bowed low. “Your Highness.”
The prince turned, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re younger than I expected.”
Hyunjin straightened. “I get that a lot.”
The corner of the prince’s mouth twitched. “Good. I didn’t want some court-trained fossil painting me like I’m halfway dead.”
Hyunjin flushed. “I’ll do my best not to mummify you, Your Highness.”
“Chan is fine.”
It took him a full second to realise the Prince was serious.
He set up slowly, letting his hands move through the familiar rituals: sorting his brushes, mixing the base pigments, testing the texture of the parchment. When he looked up again, Chan had settled into the chair in the centre of the room, legs crossed, posture impeccable. The light fell behind him, outlining the angles of his face in soft gold.
“Hold still,” Hyunjin said softly. “Look here. Not at me, past me.”
Chan obeyed. At first.
The first hour passed in near silence. Hyunjin worked with measured care, capturing the outline of Chan’s profile, the slope of his jaw, the lift of his brows. But the more he drew, the more he felt it: the tension in Chan’s spine, the restraint in his eyes. This was not just a young man. This was someone being asked to be more than himself.
“You don’t like sitting for portraits,” Hyunjin said.
Chan blinked. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little. You’re holding your breath.”
A pause. Then, “They always make me look like my father. Or worse, like a statue of my father.”
Hyunjin glanced down at the sketch. “You don’t look like him.”
“Not yet,” Chan muttered.
Hyunjin raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not ever.”
That earned a genuine laugh. “Careful. That sounds treasonous.”
“I’m not from the palace,” Hyunjin said. “I don’t know the rules.”
Chan tilted his head. “And that’s why I asked for you.”
The admission settled between them like sunlight through a glass pane. Hyunjin didn’t answer; he just picked up his brush again.
By late afternoon, the outlines were complete. Hyunjin’s hands were streaked with ochre and burnt amber. Chan stood, stretching his arms with a grunt.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been this still in my life,” he said.
Hyunjin smiled faintly. “You held it well.”
Chan stepped closer, studying the canvas-in-progress. “Is that really what I look like?”
“Would you prefer a lie?”
“No,” Chan said, and then more quietly, “thank you.”
Hyunjin felt those words land deep. Gratitude, real and raw, spoken not as a prince but as a boy not much older than himself.
Chan turned to him fully now, his expression softer. “What’s your name again?”
“Hyunjin.”
“Hyunjin,” Chan repeated, like he meant to remember it. “I hope this isn’t the last time I sit for you.”
And just like that, something shifted.
Not power. Not status. But possibility.
2
Four years passed before Hyunjin saw Chan again.
He had not been idle. His name, once whispered only in the markets of the South Quarter, now appeared in the salons of minor lords and merchants eager to be seen as patrons of “the peasant prodigy.” His studio overlooked the river now, its windows always open to the wind, its walls covered in faces: children, couples, war heroes, and one of the dashing prince on his twentieth birthday.
Then, one late summer morning, a letter arrived.
He is to be named Crown Prince. He asked for you by name. Come at once.
Hyunjin didn’t hesitate.
The North Wing had changed since his last visit, or maybe Hyunjin had.
There were more guards. More tension. More eyes watching from behind velvet curtains. The halls were darker too, heavier with the weight of what was coming. Everyone knew the King was ill. Everyone knew the Prince’s ascension was no longer a question of if, but when .
Hyunjin was led not to the atelier he used before, but to a smaller room this time: warm, private. Sunlight fell in broad strokes across the floor, and a single chair sat in the middle of the room like the centre of a compass.
Chan was already there.
He stood at the window, dressed in navy robes with silver trim, a gold clasp at his throat shaped like a flame. His hair was longer now, brushed back neatly. His posture had changed, straighter, heavier, like he carried the weight of something no one else could touch.
When he turned, he smiled.
“Hyunjin-ah.”
Hyunjin bowed, slower than before. “Your Highness.”
“You haven’t aged a day.”
“You’ve aged ten.”
Chan laughed, and for a moment, they weren’t prince and commoner, they were two boys remembering something soft.
“I’m glad you came,” Chan said. “Truly.”
“I heard you asked for me.”
“I did,” Chan stepped forward. “No one paints me like you do.”
Hyunjin tilted his head. “Like a person?”
“Like someone real.”
The sessions began the next day.
Hyunjin worked with careful deliberation. This was not a coming-of-age portrait; this was a declaration, an image that would hang in the palace’s Grand Hall for generations. It needed to speak of strength, clarity, and legitimacy.
But Hyunjin didn’t just paint a future king.
He painted Chan.
Not the perfect posture or the regal brow, but the tension in his jaw when he was thinking too hard, the quiet pull in his gaze when he was trying not to show exhaustion. The truth of him. The pressure. The ache.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” Hyunjin asked one afternoon, dabbing his brush in a pale wash.
Chan didn’t move. “Every hour.”
“But you never slip.”
“Not in public.”
“This isn’t public.”
Chan glanced at him, sharp and a little sad. “That’s why I called for you again.”
Their conversations grew longer each day. Chan told him about the councils, the quiet wars between dukes and advisors, the way everyone spoke around him but never to him. Hyunjin listened more than he spoke, but when he did, he spoke plainly: about art, about the Southern Quarter, about the loneliness of being admired for talent and not seen as a person.
“You get it,” Chan said once, after a long pause. “Being chosen for what you can do, not who you are.”
“Maybe that’s why I see you,” Hyunjin replied.
That evening, Chan didn’t leave right away. He stayed after the final brushstroke and stood behind Hyunjin, silent, close.
“May I see?” he asked.
Hyunjin stepped aside.
The canvas held the prince in his deep robes, seated on a stone step, his hands resting on his knees. His crown sat on a low table beside him, untouched. His eyes met the viewer’s not with challenge, but with clarity, quiet, intelligent, watchful.
“That’s what I look like?” Chan asked.
“No,” Hyunjin said. “That’s who you are.”
Chan’s hand brushed his, slow and tentative. His fingers lingered at Hyunjin’s wrist, just long enough to feel the heat there, the heartbeat.
“Hyunjin,” he said.
Hyunjin’s breath caught.
But then the steward entered, bowing low. “Your Highness. The Chancellor waits.”
The moment fractured. Chan withdrew his hand.
“I’ll return tomorrow,” he said.
Hyunjin only nodded.
The portrait was unveiled in the palace’s Grand Hall with a great ceremony at the week’s end. Nobles from across the realm gathered under the vaulted dome, dressed in brocade and whispers. The Queen stood regal and composed. The King, frail and silent, observed from a high-backed chair.
Chan entered last, flanked by guards. The courtiers bowed low, but Hyunjin, standing at the back of the room, saw the flicker in his eyes as he passed the canvas.
He saw him look at it— at himself.
At who he was, at who he had to become.
Later, Chan found him when the crowd thinned and music swelled in the adjacent chamber. Not with words; just with a glance, a step closer, a moment alone in a sea of formality.
“You did more than paint me,” he said quietly.
Hyunjin looked up. “I only showed what was already there.”
Chan’s smile was fleeting, but it reached his eyes.
“Then you’ll be back,” he said. “Again.”
And Hyunjin believed him.
3
The third summons came in the early autumn, only a few months after his last, wrapped in lavender-scented parchment and sealed not with a crest, but with a name.
Hyunjin.
My father’s Jubilee approaches. They want a family portrait. The usual portrait artist was recommended. I insisted on you.
Come when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.
Chan
By now, Hyunjin had grown used to the rhythm of the palace, the way it moved, breathed, and demanded, but returning this time felt different. He was no longer an unknown name from the South Quarter—his previous portraits, especially the Heir’s Ascension, had hung not just in the palace halls, but in embassies, libraries, and copies made their way into academic studies on modern realism.
Yet none of that steadied the tremor in his hands as he passed the same guards, the same white marble arches, the same windows of the North Wing.
Because this time, he was not just painting Chan.
He was painting his family.
And he would see, for the first time, the fullness of the world Chan belonged to.
The royal family was scheduled in blocks.
The Queen was first—elegant and sharp-eyed, her voice low but precise. She asked about his training, his techniques, and his understanding of light.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.
“I hear that a lot.”
Then the younger siblings: Princess Seoyeon, wild and impatient, who pouted when told to sit still; Prince Sungho, charming but easily distracted. Hyunjin managed their likenesses with patience and a few quiet jokes, though he noticed how often their eyes flicked toward their brother for approval.
And then the King.
He was older than Hyunjin imagined, though perhaps not in years. Age clung to him like rust to steel: slow, creeping, inevitable. He didn’t speak to Hyunjin directly, only nodded once, then settled into his seat. His eyes, however, were unnervingly sharp. They watched everything. Everyone. Especially Chan.
When Chan arrived for his session, the tension in the room broke like glass.
He wore dark green robes embroidered with black thread, a subtle deviation from his usual navy. His crown had changed too, a circlet of polished silver set with a single garnet. He bowed to his parents, kissed his sister’s forehead, tousled Sungho’s hair, and then— only then —turned to Hyunjin.
Their eyes met.
Four years stretched and vanished between them.
“Hello again,” Chan said.
Hyunjin smiled. “Sit still this time?”
Chan grinned. “No promises.”
They worked for over two weeks.
Hyunjin sketched each figure individually, then again together, testing spacing, gestures, and posture. The Queen insisted on balance. The King insisted on tradition. And Chan…Chan only watched Hyunjin.
They fell back into rhythm without needing to name it. Late afternoons became their quiet hours. Once the family departed, Chan lingered under the skylight, asking about brushwork and perspective, but mostly just watching.
“Are you happy?” Chan asked one evening, after Hyunjin finished adjusting the Queen’s sleeve on the canvas.
Hyunjin turned. “Happy?”
“In your studio. In your life.”
Hyunjin shrugged. “It’s mine. That counts for something.”
Chan leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. “Sometimes I envy that.”
Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “You envy me?”
Chan’s smile was quiet. “You have freedom.”
“You have power.”
“Not the same thing.”
There was a pause.
“Do you know why I always ask for you?” Chan asked.
Hyunjin looked back at the canvas. “Because I make you look real.”
Chan stepped closer. “Because when you’re around, I feel real.”
Hyunjin’s heart stuttered. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Chan’s voice dropped, softer than the brush resting at Hyunjin’s fingers.
“I think I like you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.
Hyunjin turned, slowly, and reached for Chan’s hand.
“I think I know,” he said. “I think I do, too.”
They kissed that night.
Not in the shadows, not behind curtains, but in the soft light of the atelier between canvases and palettes and forgotten sketches. It wasn’t the kind of kiss Hyunjin had imagined as a boy. It was slower, weightier. Real.
They parted with foreheads touching, breaths mingling.
“You know what this means,” Chan whispered.
“I do.”
“Will you stay?”
Hyunjin looked into his eyes. “If you ask me.”
The final portrait was grand.
The King sat centred, his hands resting on the hilt of the royal blade. The Queen stood to his right, graceful and composed. The children were arranged by age, Chan standing to the left, tall, quiet, watching the viewer.
But his gaze, if one looked closely, wasn’t quite centred; it leaned subtly left, past the Queen, past the court.
Toward the edge of the painting.
Toward something, or someone, just beyond reach.
When Hyunjin unveiled it, the court gasped. Not because of grandeur. But because it felt true.
“Bold,” the Queen murmured.
“Too subtle,” grumbled a duke.
“Perfect,” said Chan.
And Hyunjin, who had painted them all with his hands, painted him with his heart.
+1
The morning of the engagement announcement dawned with pale spring clouds and a hush over the capital, as if the entire kingdom held its breath. Bells hadn’t rung yet. The markets hadn’t opened. But the palace buzzed like a hive, every corridor alive with the sound of preparation.
Hyunjin, now twenty-four, sat in a private salon in the East Wing, unfamiliar in silk.
He had worn fine clothes before: at formal unveilings, at banquets where Chan insisted he be seated close. But this was different. The robes were cream, trimmed in royal blue. They had been made for him, tailored to fit not just his frame but the occasion: soft enough for comfort, elegant enough for legacy.
He felt like a lie in them.
“You look beautiful, sweetpea,” said Chan from the doorway.
Hyunjin looked up. The prince wore white, the ceremonial colour for declarations of union. His silver circlet had been polished to a mirror sheen. But it was his eyes, always steady, always warm, that made Hyunjin stand.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said quietly.
Chan approached and took both his hands. “Jinnie...”
“I’m not a noble. I’m not a courtier. I still flinch when I walk past guards.”
“You’re the man I love,” Chan said, as if it were simple. “You’re the one I chose.”
Hyunjin’s breath hitched.
“The people will talk,” he said. “The court—”
“Already does,” Chan interrupted, with a dry smile. “Let them. My crown doesn’t come with strings anymore.”
“And your father?” Hyunjin asked.
Chan’s expression sobered. “He approved the match.”
Hyunjin blinked. “He what?”
“With a grimace,” Chan admitted. “And a warning. But he saw your work. He knows what you’ve done for this family. And for me. For my happiness.”
“All I did was paint you.”
“You saw me.”
Chan kissed his knuckles, then pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“And now it’s your turn.”
Hyunjin frowned. “My turn for what?”
Chan gestured behind him.
That’s when Hyunjin saw the easel. And the artist.
She stood ready, a woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and long white braids tied in red ribbon. A master of her craft, renowned for painting only royalty.
She bowed to Hyunjin.
“May I begin, my lord?”
Hyunjin froze. “I— me?”
Chan nodded. “You’ve painted me so many times, sweetpea. Now the kingdom should see you.”
He sat awkwardly at first.
The studio was too warm, or perhaps it was just his nerves. The painter worked quietly, assessing him with the same scrutiny he once reserved for Chan. She asked no questions, only tilted his chin, adjusted his sleeve, and asked him to look slightly left.
It felt… strange.
Not to be in control of the canvas.
Not to be the one holding the brush.
But slowly, Hyunjin settled into it.
Chan stayed with him, seated just out of frame. Sometimes he offered a small smile or held his hand. Other times, he simply watched, his eyes never leaving Hyunjin’s face. And Hyunjin, in turn, found himself softening, not because he grew used to being seen, but because Chan was there.
Eventually, the painter spoke.
“How would you like to be remembered?”
Hyunjin blinked. “Pardon?”
“In this portrait,” she clarified. “What do you want the people to see when they look at you?”
He thought for a long time.
“Not a consort,” he said finally. “Not a noble. Just… someone who dared to love one.”
She nodded once and kept painting.
The portrait was unveiled hours before the engagement announcement, in a small courtyard filled with blooms. Nobles and citizens alike had been invited to the viewing, and when the velvet was pulled back, the crowd drew still.
Hyunjin sat in the chair, slightly off-centre in the image, hands folded calmly in front of him. His robes were elegant but simple. His shoulders were straight, his gaze angled upward. But it wasn’t the pose that drew the most attention.
It was the look in his eyes.
Steady.
Open.
Brave.
Not the stare of a subject trying to impress, but the gaze of someone in love.
And in the background, just faintly, Chan stood half-shadowed—close, attentive, eternal.
The crowd didn’t gasp. They didn’t applaud. They simply watched, silent.
And then, slowly, bowed.
Later that evening, under the flickering light of celebration torches, Chan took Hyunjin’s hand in the palace garden and pulled him into a private alcove lined with jasmine.
“You did well,” he said.
“I sat in a chair, blossom,” Hyunjin replied.
“And made the kingdom fall in love with you.”
Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “That’s your job.”
Chan leaned close. “No. My job is to love you.”
Hyunjin touched his cheek, tracing the curve of his smile.
“Then I think we’re both exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
And for once, no one asked them to pose: no painter stood behind a canvas, no crown gleamed in the distance.
They were just two men beneath a blooming tree.
Laughing. Loving.
And seen.
FIN