Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

Safety pin pierced the skin on his right forearm. His brain too focused on countless thoughts going through it didn't even register the pain yet.

“Goodness Gracious! My apologies, your Majesty,” a servant kneeled in front of him, bending neck low to touch the floor with forehead in a gesture of plea. “Please forgive my indiscretion.”

Wooyoung only stared at the little glob of golden blood that trickled down his arm. “No need for that, Yeosang. I've asked you to drop the formalities when we are alone,” he smiled reassuringly.

The prince held out an arm to help Yeosang get up from the floor, hesitantly he eyed him for a second but grabbed the outstretched hand nonetheless. “Thank you, my prince. Shall we continue with the fitting?” Quick nod from Wooyoung reassured him.

Looking in the mirror in front of him he couldn't help himself but let his thoughts wander off again. The suit that was tailored for past months, especially for this day, was (to say at least) beyond beautiful. The scarlet red sewn by golden thread of blazer emphasized his royal status, as the first and only heir to the throne. Decorative golden ornaments topped up his ancestry, reminding everyone of the pure, golden blood circulating in his veins. 

The hand painted images of his ancestors reflected in the mirror, watching him attentively from the wall behind him. The weight of their gazes rested on his arms, preventing him from taking a proper breath. Wooyoung averted his gaze from the great grandpa, instead looking out of the window. Festive flags with Jung’s herb embroidered on them fluttered on the masts, heralding the great event that was the Tournament held for the 200th anniversary of persistent reign of the Jung Dynasty. 

Wooyoung's eyes traced the delicate patterns of the flags outside, their movements in the wind a stark contrast to the stillness he felt within himself. The Tournament was supposed to be a celebration, a display of strength and unity for the entire kingdom, but to him, it felt like another heavy chain added to the already burdensome expectations placed on his shoulders.

Especially when it seemed like no one beside him realized the blood that stained palms of his lineage. You see, centuries ago, when the Kingdom of Crescent was merely a small and slowly rising kingdom, peace reigned among all its inhabitants - those with silver blood as well as those with golden. 

Harmony filled every domain and aspect of life. The silver-blooded had a natural aptitude for manual labor. No one could match them in this field - whether it was plowing fields, constructing beautiful temples, or designing devices to improve daily life. They were unmatched in their craft. Their counterparts were the golden-blooded, who excelled in the realms of intellect and spirituality. Their descendants brought forth exceptional doctors, distinguished thinkers, and irreplaceable kindred spirits, always offering words of support to those with silver blood.

Yet, as in every beautiful story, darkness had to come - driven by the thirst for greatness and glory. The illusion of superiority blinded a man who, deep in his soul, nurtured hatred for the silver-blooded. This hatred spread like a plague, leading to conflicts and divisions among the people of the kingdom who had once worked so well together.

When the time came for the coup, everything had been planned down to the last detail. A long summer day was chosen to be dedicated to the celebration of Eclipse - the Moon Deity. This day was filled with intense labor in the fields, the offering of many sacrifices, and above all - a raucous celebration lasting until sunrise.

Gathered were the most important representatives of families - both gold-bloods and silver-bloods. The love and reverence for Eclipse were meant to solidify their unity in a shared celebration, like brother with brother. All the families joyfully celebrated in their own homes, with cheerful songs echoing throughout the village, converging at the point where the heads of the families were gathered. On the main square, the feast was grand, the chatter of people and the clatter of cutlery carried through the night air, straight to the moon.

The golden-blooded prepared a lavish feast meant to gather all the inhabitants, to share joy and gratitude directed towards the Moon God, praying together, and feasting. Only a few of them knew that the food had been poisoned by none other than an ancestor of Wooyoung, a distant forefather from so many generations back that it is hard to count. It was he who carefully measured the poison, taking the lives of the majority, mainly the silver-blooded and those who did not share his views on the superiority of golden blood.

Wooyoung's ancestor always seemed to be several steps ahead of everyone else, an uncanny strategist who never allowed even the slightest oversight. His keen intellect and unyielding resolve made him a formidable figure in the kingdom, someone who could anticipate every move before it happened. 

This relentless vigilance and foresight were not just byproducts of a strong character, they were the tools he wielded with precision, carving out a vast dominion. Under his leadership, most of the rebelled golden-blooded found themselves compelled to submit, recognizing that resistance was futile against a mind that could predict and counter every possible challenge.

But there was something more sinister at play, something that gave him an edge beyond mere strategic brilliance. He was the only one who knew the true nature of the poison that had quietly spread in the feast, a toxin so insidious that none could detect it until it was too late. After all, he was the only one who knew which poison had been used - and the only one who could identify the antidote.

An icy death swept through the kingdom; those who miraculously survived had enough sense to beg for mercy - swearing loyalty and servitude to those of golden blood, lead by the great mastermind - Wooyoung’s ancestor. When sworn their loyalty, granted they were the antidote, as an act of ‘mercy’.

Wooyoung could never forget that his legacy was built on the suffering of innocent people. That all the values upon which his life was based had grown only through numerous deceptions and betrayals. Time could heal wounds and conceal the harsh face of facts, but Wooyoung was not ready to forget.

For most of his life, he grew up with persistent thoughts that gave him no peace. Ever since a seed of doubt had been planted in his heart, it had taken root, disrupting his entire worldview. One question kept haunting him - why was it that gold blood was supposed to be superior? Why had his ancestor acted this way?

Whenever he posed these questions to his fathers, the answers were always cold, calculated - Wooyoung’s role was not to question reality. As long as he wanted to maintain material prosperity, as long as he wished to sit on the throne, he had to accept this state of affairs. It was not his place to challenge 200 years of tradition - if he wanted to remain the rightful heir to the throne, he had to remain obedient. 

But his heart refused to yield, even when his teachers tried to suppress his fervor, insisting that this was the natural order of things. That gold was better than silver, that the world functioned better when these two races did not stand as equals. He could never fully accept it, always asking - why?

Yeosang's careful movements brought him back to the present as the servant adjusted the collar of the blazer with practiced precision. Wooyoung admired the fine embroidery, every stitch a testament to the dedication of the artisans who had labored over it for months. But even the craftsmanship couldn’t alleviate the tightness in his chest.

“Is it to your liking, my prince?” Yeosang’s voice was soft, careful not to disturb the fragile peace that had settled in the room.

“It’s perfect,” Wooyoung replied, though the words felt hollow. He forced another smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You and the others have done excellent work.”

Yeosang bowed his head in acknowledgment, a faint smile on his lips, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. Wooyoung knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Yeosang, who had been by his side for years.

Wooyoung turned back to the mirror, his reflection a picture of regal perfection. Yet, all he saw was the young boy who once dreamed of running through the palace gardens without a care in the world, not the prince who would one day rule a kingdom.

Especially not the prince who was to marry in two weeks and still didn’t know to whom. The bitterness of that uncertainty had lingered on his tongue since he woke up. With the Tournament starting, he would soon be presented with fifteen candidates, each vying for his hand in marriage. The winner would claim him as their prize, as if Wooyoung were nothing more than a trophy for the perfect aristocrat.

He knew that arranged marriage didn’t necessarily mean that it’s gonna be an unhappy one - perfect examples were his fathers, who were destined for each other at birth. They grew up knowing that their future spouse was waiting for them in a distant kingdom - it was all just a step in strategy. There was no question of love, it was something that the poor social classes dealt with, and for the royal family, the only thing that mattered was status and the purity of blood passed down to the next generation. 

The purity of blood was of such paramount importance that the king’s concubines were selected with the utmost care by the highest council. These women, drawn from the most esteemed aristocratic families, had to possess impeccable genetic traits, deemed worthy of being passed on to the next generation of royalty. 

The selection process was rigorous, as it was believed that only the finest bloodlines could produce heirs fit to rule. The firstborn son, in particular, was the most critical piece of this intricate puzzle. He was destined not only to inherit the throne but also to lead the kingdom with his chosen husband by his side, ensuring that the dynasty’s legacy continued with strength and honor.

However, the role of women within the dynasty was sharply defined and strictly limited. Once they fulfilled their duty as mothers and bearers of children, their involvement in the kingdom's affairs was expected to cease. In this society, there was no place for queens to rule, the highest honor a woman could attain after bearing a future king was the title of The First Lady. 

Upon the birth of the firstborn son, her mission was considered complete, and she was expected to step back, having secured the royal lineage. 

The kingdom’s traditions were deeply rooted in the belief that strong, male leadership was essential for its survival and prosperity. It was thought that two such leaders - bonded in marriage - were necessary to drive the nation forward, combining their cunning and intellect to guarantee the well-being of their subjects. Yet, this partnership also served as a balance, with each tempering the other's ambitions. The kingdom’s history bore the scars of a time when unchecked power led to a disastrous schism, and no one wished to see such a catastrophe repeat itself.

Wooyoung's fathers learned to live as partners, one could say - close friends. They seemed to work out together just fine. But that wasn’t what he dreamed of. Not with the countless romance books he had read, filled to the brim with passionate love shared between two souls, bond to spend whole lives together. He longed for this kind of love, the one that would make his heart burn with desire, the one that would make him feel like he could breathe again - the one that would make him happy. 

He had met countless noblemen, each duller and more vain than the last. They paraded their titles and wealth, flaunting their lineage as if it were a crown of their own. The only thing that mattered to them was the golden blood in their lineage - granting them high status and wealthy life.

Wooyoung’s heart ached at the thought of spending his life with someone who saw him as nothing more than a stepping stone. He wanted more than a marriage of convenience, more than a life dictated by duty and tradition. He longed for a connection, for someone who would see beyond the crown and titles, someone who would love him for who he was, not what he could offer.

But deep down he knew it was beyond his reach - duties always came first. And as the perfect crown prince he was, he really had no say in this matter so he grew to accept the reality as it was.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence. “Enter,” Wooyoung called out, his voice steady.

A messenger stepped into the room, bowing deeply. “My prince, the King requests your presence in the main arena. The Tournament is about to start soon.”

Wooyoung nodded, the weight of duty pressing down on him once more. “I’ll be there shortly.”

The messenger departed as quietly as he had come, bowing deeply before closing the door, leaving Wooyoung and Yeosang alone again. He took a deep breath, heart racing with the thought that once he leaves the chamber, his life will take a drastic turn, leading him down the path of miserable marriage within next two weeks. So be it, he had responsibilities to fulfill even if that meant sacrificing his own happiness. The citizens of the Kingdom of Crescent counted on him.

“Let’s go,” without turning back he left his chamber, making way to the Great Hall with an aching heart.

…

Since the moment he set foot on the arena, the rumbling in his bones hadn’t ceased, sending deep, resonating vibrations into their very marrow. Each step he took seemed to sync with the rhythm of the drums, which reverberated across the vast space, building tension and causing a shiver to run through every fiber of his body. The waves of ritual drums weren’t just sound - they were a physical force that penetrated every cell. 

Pulses of adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, fueling the tension that gripped his muscles. The shouts and cheers of the crowd grew ever more intense, becoming almost unbearable, drowning out not just the ambient noise, but even his own thoughts. It felt as if the sounds themselves had mass, pressing down on his chest, trying to squeeze the last remnants of air from his lungs.

His chest heaved irregularly under the storm of emotions that drove his heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm. Waves of adrenaline pulsed through him, amplifying every sensation - every throb of his pulse, every shiver of his muscles. When he stepped into the center of the arena alongside his rivals, the crowd's cries surged in intensity. The pressure in the air, thick with anticipation and the weight of countless eyes upon him, felt almost suffocating.

His shallow breaths seemed to catch in his windpipe, as if they lacked the strength to reach his throat. The mask covering his nose and mouth added another layer of difficulty, preventing him from drawing in a full breath - he had an overwhelming urge to rip it off and hurl it into the sand beneath his feet. But the rules were clear: all participants had to keep their faces covered. Breaking this rule would mean immediate disqualification, cutting his journey short before it even truly began. The stakes were too high to risk it.

San closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing, gripping the folds of his robe, which was tightly wrapped around his waist. He could feel the sun’s rays piercing through the triumphal arches, part of the arena’s grand architecture, where the entire tournament was set to unfold. The heat, combined with the stress, caused the delicate fabric of his robe to cling to his skin, its long sleeves obscuring the trembling of his hands. The black hue of his clothing, absorbing the sun’s rays, only intensified the sweltering warmth that enveloped him, making every moment feel even more oppressive.

He squeezed his eyelids shut even tighter, focusing inward, shutting out the overwhelming sensations and emotions from the outside world. The drums, once deafening, seemed to recede into the background, their echoes fading as he brought his breathing under control. The crowd’s shouts, once a roaring wave, began to diminish in power as San’s calm gradually returned. 

This was the moment he had long prepared for, the culmination of countless hours spent building his confidence, agility, strength and honing his focus. He had stepped into the arena with one thought pulsing through his veins, urging his muscles into action - he was here to win. Not settling for less, and he couldn’t allow his emotions to overpower his resolve.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, steadying the trembling in his hands, commanding his body to obey his will.

Opening his eyes, he took a moment to familiarize himself with the territory where he would spend the next several days if he managed to make it to the final. He was certain of this, because that’s exactly why he was here - there was no other option but for him to win. As he felt a renewed surge of the familiar, well-practiced confidence, he raised his chin high and surveyed his surroundings. 

The expansive arena was covered entirely in sand, its dazzling whiteness amplified by the sunlight reflecting off its tiny grains, creating an almost blinding glare. This was the battlefield where he would prove himself, and he was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead

The crowd of spectators was seated in countless rows, arranged in a perfect circle around the battlefield, forming rings that enclosed the central arena. Each ring was slightly elevated above the one below it, creating a grand, ascending structure that allowed everyone, from the closest to the farthest rows, a clear view of the action below. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation, the air thick with the collective breath of thousands of eager spectators, their eyes fixed on the sandy floor where the attendants were already awaiting for the official opening.

At the very top of the arena, a series of triumphal arches stood proudly, forming the final, crowning layer of the structure. These arches weren’t just decorative - they served to open up the space, both physically and symbolically. The arches allowed the arena to breathe, letting in the sunlight that streamed through, illuminating the battlefield below. The play of light and shadow added to the grandeur, casting long, dramatic shadows that danced across the seats and the sand. 

In the center of the arena were tables arranged in five rows and three columns. They were the most basic of surfaces, stark and unadorned, lacking even tablecloths. From a distance, the only detail that stood out was the sight of feathers dipped in inkpots, scattered across the tables.

The nature of the competitions had not been disclosed beforehand, leaving San uncertain about whether the first trial would test his physical prowess or his intellectual abilities. As he approached the arena, the sight of the tables and writing instruments offered him a subtle clue about what to expect. 

Directly opposite the main entrance to the battlefield, a grand balcony was built, rising above the crowd like a throne. This was the royal box, where the Jung Dynasty sat, their presence dominating the arena. The balcony was adorned with ornate carvings and gilded accents, a stark reminder of the power and wealth of those who occupied it. Red curtains fluttered in the wind, blending with the festive attire of the royal family.

San knew these faces well - he had studied them countless times, each line, each expression etched into his memory. The kings who sat there were the epitome of noble superiority, their features exuding an air of untouchable authority. To San, they represented everything that was wrong with the world - a ruthless tyranny that had ruled over the land with an iron fist, crushing dissent and enforcing their will with brutal efficiency. Their very presence on that balcony was a reminder of the oppressive power that held the nation in its grip.

Beside the kings stood the prince, a figure that immediately caught San’s attention. His pupils narrowed as he focused on the young man who bore an uncanny resemblance to his biological father, King Jaeseong. The prince’s face was a mirror of the king’s - chiseled, calm, and composed, yet with a coldness that sent a chill down San’s spine. 

It was the kind of calm that came from a lifetime of privilege and power, a sense of superiority that was deeply ingrained and unshakable. San had seen that expression many times before, and he knew all too well what it concealed. 

Beneath that stoic exterior was a deep-seated belief in his own perfection, an arrogance that was almost palpable. To San, the prince was the living embodiment of everything he despised - the arrogance of the ruling class, their detachment from the suffering of ordinary people, and their unyielding belief in their right to rule. 

It took only a single gesture - the raising of the king's hand - for the entire arena to fall into an immediate and profound silence. The transformation was instantaneous, almost unnerving in its efficiency. The deep, resonant beat of the drums, which had been echoing through the arena, ceased abruptly. The lively murmurs of the crowd, conversations half-finished, whispers and cheers hanging in the air, were suddenly cut off, swallowed by the silence that now gripped the entire space.

King Jaeseong stood tall and imposing at the center of this silence, his presence alone enough to command such respect and fear. He waited a moment longer, letting the weight of his authority settle over the gathered masses, his icy gaze sweeping across the sea of faces. The sun's rays danced off his crown, creating a dazzling, almost blinding brilliance. This crown, fashioned from the purest gold, gleamed with an opulence that spoke of unmatched wealth and power. Adorned exclusively with vibrant rubies, the design accentuated the distinctive colors of the Jung Dynasty - rich gold and deep red.

There was no need for words, his mere glance was enough to chill the air around him. His expression remained a mask of stoic indifference, devoid of any warmth or emotion. Then, with deliberate grace, he spread both arms wide in a gesture that was meant to be welcoming, though it carried an undertone of power and dominance that was impossible to ignore. 

San’s eyes never left the king. He watched him with fierce determination, his gaze unflinching as he sized up the man who represented everything he despised. From the top of Jaeseong’s regal crown to the tips of his polished boots, San took in every detail, every line of the king’s imposing figure. This was the man who ruled with an iron fist, the embodiment of ruthless tyranny. And yet, here he was, surrounded by grandeur and luxury, preparing to celebrate an event that was little more than a display of power and privilege. 

“We have gathered here,” King Jaeseong began, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, “to celebrate the two-hundredth anniversary of our beautiful, powerful Kingdom Of Crescent.” The words dripped with pride and self-congratulation, and San couldn’t suppress a snort of derision. “Fifteen candidates from the most distinguished noble families will face each other from today onward, so that we may ultimately determine the most powerful among them. The one who proves their cunning, intelligence, and physical prowess - demonstrating they are worthy to stand by Prince Wooyoung’s side as his future spouse.”

As these words echoed through the arena, a quiet but palpable cheer rippled through the crowd. The people were eager, hungry for the spectacle that was about to unfold. San’s eyes flicked to Wooyoung, who stood beside the king, his expression as composed as ever. Yet, San noticed the subtle signs of tension in the prince’s posture. The way his body stiffened slightly at the mention of marriage, the way his eyes closed for just a fraction longer than a normal blink, as if to steel himself for what was to come. Even the slight rise of his jacket as he took a deeper breath than usual did not escape San’s notice. 

Standing beside the king, King Yongsook, Jaeseong ’s husband, observed the crowd with a sharp gaze. He raised his hand with practiced ease, and once again, the arena fell into a hushed silence, giving Jaeseong the space to continue his speech. 

As the noise faded into silence, Jaeseong resumed, his voice steady and commanding. “Over the next two weeks, you will undergo four trials, each designed to test your limits, your resolve, and your worthiness. These trials will push you to the brink, challenging not just your strength, but your mind and spirit as well. And when the dust has settled, and the final battle has been fought, only two of you will remain. The victor of that final clash will earn the royal title, standing at the side of the future king, Wooyoung, as his rightful and chosen partner.”

San felt the familiar fire of determination ignite within him. He knew the stakes, understood the significance of every word spoken.

“The first trial aims to test your medical knowledge, which proudly flows in our veins. As golden-blooded individuals, it is our duty to refine our intellect, broaden our horizons, and acquire the medical knowledge necessary to bear the noble title with dignity. Do not disappoint us, do not let down your families, and do not tarnish their good name.” The king concluded with a roguish smile, clearly satisfied with his oration. “Now, please, everyone take your assigned positions.”

San glanced around the arena, noting the entrance of guards clad in armor bearing the royal family’s crest. Fifteen of them, exactly matching the number of participants, which signified that each contestant had a designated guard to oversee the proceedings. One guard approached San with a measured stride, signaling him to move towards the table situated in the middle of one of the side columns.

As the participants took their places, the king drew in a deep breath and proclaimed, “Let the Tournament begin!” The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer, their voices swelling through the arena. The king and his family, seated majestically on thrones elevated on a balcony, observed the scene with keen interest.

San’s attention returned to the table where he had noticed a sheet of paper next to an inkpot, both seemingly out of place. The paper was blank, devoid of any markings or instructions. He frowned in confusion - was this some sort of riddle or puzzle? Considering the trial was supposed to involve medical knowledge, he expected something more substantial. He picked up the paper and turned it over, but the reverse side was just as empty, deepening his bewilderment.

His gaze swept across the arena, meeting the similarly perplexed looks of his fellow competitors. Was this a test of patience or perhaps a cruel joke? San couldn’t shake the feeling that the situation was designed to mock them, a display of the noble class’s dark sense of humor.

Just then, a frantic woman burst onto the arena floor. “Help me! Please!” She raced toward the center, where an ‘X’ was faintly marked in the sand. “My husband! He’s behaving as if he’s possessed, mumbling incoherently and occasionally losing consciousness. Please, someone help!” Her plea was desperate, but her tone was controlled, betraying that her words had been rehearsed, a part of the performance.

Realization dawned on San. This was no ordinary trial - it was a scenario crafted to test their response to an emergency. His heart raced as he listened intently to the woman, knowing that every detail could be crucial. 

San’s mind raced through his medical knowledge. If this was a case of sudden loss of consciousness accompanied by erratic behavior, it could be related to several conditions - perhaps a seizure, a severe infection, or even poisoning. He needed to act swiftly and precisely, as any mistake could result in failure or worse.

"My husband, my beloved," the woman continued, forcing tears and raising her voice slightly. "He recently returned from a long journey, and I wanted to welcome him properly, to prepare his favorite meal. I traveled to a neighboring village to the east, the road was truly difficult, but for my beloved, I would do anything. In that village, I have a dear friend who sold me a beautiful piece of meat. On my way back, along the same path, I noticed some beautiful flowers, truly stunning. I couldn’t resist and picked a few for a bouquet. They were close to the path, so I didn’t have to exert myself too much."

As she delivered her monologue, the servants began bringing props onto the arena, arranging them around the woman. San felt his pulse quicken as the first item, a simple dining table, was set up. The unexpected distraction irritated him, forcing him to divide his attention between the woman’s words and the items being brought in. Each object could hold a vital clue, and he knew he couldn’t afford to miss anything. 

A bouquet of flowers was placed on the table. San’s eyes flicked to them, trying to analyze their significance, but before he could focus, the woman’s voice pulled him back.

"I prepared the roast as it should be, just as my great-grandmother taught my grandmother, and so on through the generations. First, I rubbed it with lard and herbs, then roasted it over the fire until all the juices had seeped out, soaking the meat in fat." The servants brought the meat to the table, it didn’t look like anything extraordinary, just an ordinary piece of meat.

San’s mind raced, trying to connect the dots. Was it the meat? The flowers? He couldn’t shake the feeling that the answer was right in front of him, but the pressure was clouding his judgment. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the stakes. He needed to stay focused, but the stress was beginning to creep in, making his thoughts race chaotically.

"Along with it, I served light porridge because my husband suffers from indigestion and stomach pains with dark porridge. I pay attention to such details. Oh, my husband, what has befallen you?" The woman sobbed as the rest of the meal was brought out.

San clenched his fists, trying to suppress the rising panic. He scanned the food, the flowers, everything the servants placed on the table, but nothing seemed to stand out. His mind kept returning to the possibility of poisoning, but the symptoms didn’t quite fit. The absence of visible signs - no fever, no cyanosis - only deepened his unease. He could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him, every second that passed tightening the knot in his stomach.

"I only meant well, I even decorated his plate with those beautiful flowers. He ate the meal, enjoyed it very much, leaving nothing behind. Then he washed it down with beer, which he loves so much. I couldn’t deny him that pleasure. Not even an hour had passed after the meal when his condition worsened, and I feared that I had brought this misfortune upon him." The woman ran out of the arena in tears, signaling the end of the performance.

San stood frozen for a moment, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. His senses were on high alert, every detail from the woman’s story replaying in his mind. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. This was the moment he had prepared for - he just had to trust his instincts and his training, even as the weight of the trial threatened to overwhelm him.

The table before San was laden with food, but his mind was the complete opposite - filled with hundreds of thoughts, but none of them strong enough to follow. He began to wonder if the alcohol could have caused such a reaction in the man’s body. Perhaps it came from an unknown source, poorly brewed, or contained more ethyl alcohol than usual - leading to an overdose. That would explain the slurred speech and loss of consciousness.

A sixteenth guard entered the arena, distinguished by a red sash. “You have one minute to come to a conclusion. At the end of that time, you must submit your paper with the cause of the man’s condition.”

A cold sweat ran down San’s back. One minute? Time pressure was not his favorite companion, but it was no stranger either. He had been trained many times to function under it.

“Fifty seconds.” Damn, he needed to focus.

He scanned the table, mentally cataloging all the ingredients and the potential threats associated with various types of poisoning. His heart began to beat faster, trying to pump more blood to his brain in a desperate attempt to help him figure it out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a vase he had initially forgotten to examine closely. The flowers inside it had a rather unusual shape - standing on tall, strong stems, surrounded by broad, deeply serrated light green leaves. The lower leaves were large and elongated, gathered in a rosette, with petals beautifully tinged pink. The flower buds drooped freely, filled with numerous seeds.

“Thirty seconds.”

San had encountered this plant before - its distinctive features were well-known to him, and it didn’t take long to identify it. Opium poppy. So unassuming in appearance, yet it hides so many secrets, it’s commonly used in medicine as a painkiller, sedative, sleep aid, and narcotic. The sap oozing from the stem was the source of the opium. By decorating the plate with these cut flowers, the woman had unknowingly drugged her husband.

“Twenty seconds.”

It wasn’t something inherently dangerous, which made San wonder what could have caused such a critical condition in the man. Perhaps the poppy alone wouldn’t be enough as an answer. His eyes desperately darted around the table as he grabbed the ink-dipped quill. He pressed its tip to the paper, careful not to damage anything in the process as his nerves played havoc with his body.

“Ten seconds.” A piercing sound filled his ears, numbing his entire body so he could focus entirely on the puzzle before him. In that moment, time itself seemed to stretch and slow, each second dragging on for an eternity. His mind, usually quick and sharp, was now sluggish under the crushing weight of the pressure. The overwhelming sound acted like a shield, numbing his body to all external stimuli so that he could channel every ounce of his mental energy into solving the puzzle before him.

His senses narrowed to a single point of focus, blocking out all distractions as the world around him seemed to blur and fade away.

Beer. 

Ethyl alcohol intensified the effects of opium, potentially leading to severe drowsiness, and in extreme cases, shock or even death (depending on the dose). With a trembling hand, he wrote down the answer, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders. This had to be it as nothing else logically fit the symptoms.

“Time’s up. Put down your quills and step away from the tables.” The command rang out across the arena, sharp and final, leaving no room for hesitation. San's hand froze mid-motion, the quill trembling slightly between his fingers as he forced himself to release it. 

He felt a sudden rush of cold air as if the tension in his muscles had been holding back a dam of anxiety, now unleashed in a flood of nerves. He could hear the soft clatter of quills being set down all around him, a strangely synchronized sound as every participant complied, their faces etched with varying degrees of apprehension and determination.

San stepped back from the table, his eyes still locked on the paper before him as if hoping to glean some last-minute reassurance from the words hastily scrawled there. But there was nothing more he could do. The moment of decision had passed, and now all that remained was the agonizing wait for the verdict. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the frantic rhythm that had driven him to this point.

Only now, as he withdrew from the immediate pressure of the trial, did San become aware of the world around him once more. The murmur of conversation that had been completely drowned out by his intense focus now crept back into his consciousness, like the hum of distant thunder after a storm. The crowd, which had seemed a mere backdrop moments ago, was now a sea of faces animated with excitement and speculation.

He stole a glance at the other participants, trying to gauge their reactions. Some appeared calm, their expressions guarded and unreadable, while others were clearly struggling to hide their anxiety, their eyes darting nervously toward the royal balcony where the final judgment would be passed.

The guard adorned with a red sash, who was overseeing the competition, began to circle the tables with a measured, almost predatory pace. His eyes scanned each sheet of paper with a sharp, discerning gaze, meticulously analyzing the participants' answers. Every movement was deliberate, every pause filled with a tension that seemed to hang in the air, amplifying the anxiety of those watching. 

The guard would occasionally spend a few extra moments on certain papers, his brow furrowing slightly as he contemplated the responses. After this brief but intense scrutiny, some of the sheets were flipped over, leaving the blank side facing up.

San watched this process unfold with a growing sense of unease. The guard’s actions seemed to carry a silent weight of judgment, and San couldn’t help but wonder what it meant for those whose papers were left face up versus those that were turned over. Did one signify success, and the other failure? 

The thought gnawed at him, and he strained to catch a glimpse of the other participants' papers, hoping to compare his answer with theirs. But the distance between them was too great, and the small, delicate size of the parchment made it impossible to decipher their written responses. The frustration of this blindness only added to the already suffocating pressure.

As the guard made his way toward San’s table, a knot of tension tightened in San's chest. His eyes locked onto the approaching figure, trying to glean some hint from his demeanor, some clue that might reveal his fate. The guard finally reached San's table, and for a brief, agonizing moment, their eyes met. San’s heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears, but the guard’s face remained a mask of stone, unreadable and indifferent. Not a single flicker of emotion crossed his features, not even the slightest twitch of an eyebrow to suggest approval or disappointment.

The silence was deafening, stretching the seconds into what felt like hours. As the guard examined San’s paper, time seemed to slow to a crawl. San fought the urge to shift nervously, instead pushing his chest out slightly and raising his chin, adopting a posture of unwavering confidence, even as uncertainty gnawed at him from within. After what felt like an eternity, the guard simply turned and walked away, his decision as inscrutable as his expression.

San was left standing there, the tension in his body refusing to dissipate. His gaze dropped to the paper in front of him, the words he had carefully written still facing up, stark against the white of the page. The guard had not flipped his paper over. What did that mean? The question echoed in his mind, feeding the uncertainty that now churned in his gut. Was it a sign that he had succeeded? Or had he been dismissed, his answer deemed unworthy without so much as a gesture? 

The stillness of the guard left him with nothing but questions, and the weight of his unresolved fate pressed down on him, heavier than before. The murmur of the crowd, which had once seemed distant and irrelevant, now buzzed in his ears like an insistent drone, amplifying the tension that still held him in its grip.

San waited in tense anticipation as the guard returned to his original position, having finished evaluating all the answers. The atmosphere was thick with suspense, and every second seemed to stretch longer than the last. The guard’s voice cut through the silence, dripping with disdain and haughtiness. “I am deeply disappointed with these lamentable results.” He let his words linger in the air, allowing them to sink into the minds of the participants and the crowd. “Only half of you guessed correctly - the answer was the effect of opium intensified by alcohol.”

At these words, a noticeable shift occurred among the participants. The guards, moving with a mechanical precision, approached those whose answers had been deemed incorrect. They removed the masks with an air of indifference, revealing faces that ranged from stunned disbelief to grim resignation. The expressions were a mixture of shock, fear, and a fierce determination to hold onto whatever dignity remained. 

San noted that some participants were strikingly young, their faces flushed with the stress of the moment, while others were older, around the same age as the King Jaeseong. The latter group's presence surprised San, who wondered if they truly believed their experience could outweigh the physical vitality of the younger competitors.

As the guards revealed the disqualified participants, the focus shifted to the common feature uniting them - their papers had been turned over with the blank side facing up. This detail seemed to seal their fate, marking them as failures in this trial.

“Those whom you see,” the guard addressed the crowd with a tone steeped in contempt and authority, “have brought shame and disgrace upon their noble houses. They are disqualified from further participation in the tournament.” His words were punctuated by the sound of his deep bow towards the royalty, a gesture both ceremonious and dismissive. With that, the guard turned and exited the arena, leaving a trail of murmurs and whispers in his wake.

The arena erupted into a roar of cheers and applause for the remaining competitors, their excitement echoing through the vast space. The contrast between the earlier tension and the current jubilant atmosphere was stark. San glanced around, his eyes scanning the sea of faces, and noted that eight competitors still wore their masks. The sense of triumph among the victorious participants was palpable, their relief and exhilaration mingling with the crowd’s enthusiastic response.

As the clamor of celebration continued to rise, the King, seated with an air of solemnity and authority, finally rose from his throne. His movement was deliberate and commanding, and the sight of his regal presence drew the crowd’s attention. 

“Congratulations to the eight of you, you may rest now. The next trial will take place in three days. Guards assigned to you will lead you the way to private chambers.” With a formal gesture, the King signaled the conclusion of the first day of The Tournament. The festive noise began to subside, the cheers gradually fading into a murmur as the crowd began to disperse.

San took a moment to absorb the atmosphere around him. The weight of the day’s events was heavy on his shoulders, and he felt a mix of relief and anxiety. The applause and cheers of the crowd, once a backdrop to his focus, now enveloped him in their tumultuous embrace. The arena, though still filled with the echoes of celebration, began to empty, and San knew that the trials were far from over.

The participants began to gradually withdraw, leaving their stations - some with their heads held high, basking in the glory of their victory, while others were consumed by despair. Among the departing figures, one of those whose chin was tilted high, San recognized one individual who gave him a subtle wink, attempting to ensure that the gesture was noticed only by him. The wink was fleeting, yet deliberate, a brief flash of shared understanding.

…

 “Mom! San spilled ink on my shirt!” The boy rushed up to his mother, clutching desperately at the hem of her dress and casting a resentful look at San, who remained rooted to the spot.

The ink had not only stained the boy’s shirt but had also splashed onto the sheet of paper on which San had painstakingly practiced his writing. The crooked characters that had not been completely smeared stared up at him in disdain from the page - symbols of his inadequacy. 

The text, filled with errors, was a testament to his lack of progress, and he knew it all too well. He felt a pang of shame, as if the mistakes were a public condemnation of his efforts. Usually, he would present his work to his mother at the end of each practice session for her to correct, but today, the mistakes were too many, and he was not ready to face the reprimand that was sure to come.

The situation was overwhelming and frustrating. The emotions that had built up inside him had led to an accidental wave of destruction that had now affected his younger brother.

“Mingi, go wash your shirt in the stream.” The woman instructed firmly.

“But…”

“No ‘buts’. I need to talk to San.” She gently nudged the boy towards the nearby stream flowing just behind their home. Mingi sulked but obeyed, trudging off to follow her command.

The woman approached San with a soft demeanor, sitting beside him and observing the mess he had made on the small table where he practiced writing. “Why did you do this?” She asked, her voice calm but probing.

The expectation of an answer to such a heavy question from a teenager was intriguing. San struggled to understand the tumult within his own mind, the emotions that had driven him to act out. “I got angry. I don’t like writing. It’s stupid.”

The woman sighed, her hand gently running through his hair in a gesture of comfort. “I know, San. I understand that this is all new to you, and it can be overwhelming at times. It must be hard for you to find your place in this reality, but this is your life now. You need to commit to your training. We start slowly, with learning to write, but over time you will achieve more, gain more skills. You might even find something you enjoy. You can’t give up, San. I believe in you.”

Her words were a balm to his troubled soul. Though his frustration still simmered, her reassurance helped ease the burden he felt. San took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of gratitude and renewed determination. 

He looked at the stained paper and felt a flicker of resolve - he would not let this setback define him. Instead, he would use it as fuel to push through the difficulties and strive for improvement.

Chapter Text

2.

San opened his eyes and sighed languidly, wiping his face with an open palm. The last three days had flown by at a relentless pace, each moment slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The hours had been consumed with preparations for the upcoming trials, and the pressure was mounting. 

It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion that weighed on him, but the constant mental strain of strategizing for challenges shrouded in mystery. Despite having no concrete information about the upcoming competitions, he could sense that at the end of the tournament, a duel with a bladed weapon awaited him. This final confrontation was his true calling, his domain of mastery, and the thought alone filled him with a calm certainty.

San had no doubt that he would reach the final, nor that he would emerge victorious from it. It was a belief as unshakable as the ground beneath his feet. Victory wasn’t just a possibility - it was an inevitability, a matter of formality. Nothing and no one would stand in his way. 

As far back as he could remember, he had always been at his best with a weapon in hand. It was more than just a tool or an instrument of combat; it was a part of him. With a weapon in hand, he felt like a fish in water, as if he had been born with a sword resting beside him in his cradle, as natural to him as breathing.

Years of grueling training, countless hours spent honing his skills, had forged a bond between him and his blade that transcended the ordinary. The sword was an extension of his hand, a seamless continuation of his will and intent. He could feel the balance of it as if it were his own heartbeat, the weight of it as natural as the weight of his own limbs. It had become so integral to his existence that he felt almost uncomfortable without its reassuring presence at his side. 

This deep connection to his weapon was both his greatest strength and his greatest challenge. The strict prohibition of weapons within the palace walls was a constant source of irritation. He felt naked without his sword, vulnerable in a way that was deeply unsettling. The only exception to this rule was the training ground, a small area cordoned off in the courtyard where weapons were permitted.

It was there that San spent the vast majority of his time, finding solace in the familiar rhythm of his practice. Each night, under the cloak of darkness, he would slip out to the courtyard, the cool night air sharp against his skin. There, alone with the dummies, he could lose himself in the precise movements of his training, each strike and parry a meditation on the art of combat. 

The night was his ally, concealing him from the prying eyes of his competitors. He was determined not to reveal even a hint of his fighting style before the final battle. In the daylight hours, when he wasn’t catching up on sleep, San dedicated himself to a different kind of preparation: studying his opponents.

Observation had always been one of his greatest strengths. San had a knack for noticing the subtle details, the small imperfections that others might overlook. As he watched the remaining eight competitors, he saw not just their strengths but their weaknesses, the tiny flaws that could be exploited in the heat of battle. These observations were crucial, a key part of his strategy. 

He noticed, for instance, that one opponent carried a slight scoliosis, a curvature of the spine that subtly altered their balance, making their center of gravity unreliable. In another, he observed a sword that was poorly balanced for the fighter’s height and build, an error that would tire the arm and slow the response time over the course of a long fight.

To the untrained eye, these details might seem insignificant, but to San, they were glaring weaknesses, opportunities waiting to be seized. He cataloged these observations, storing them away for the final confrontation. He knew that when the time came, these small imperfections would make all the difference. 

His confidence wasn’t born out of arrogance, but out of a profound understanding of the art of combat. Every fighter had their strengths, but they also had their deficiencies, and San was a master at turning those weaknesses into advantages.

He knew that the path to victory was not just about brute strength or skill, but about patience, observation, and the ability to stay calm under pressure. His calm, his focus, was his greatest weapon.

When the time came to face his final opponent, he would be ready. Every observation, every hour of practice, every sleepless night would culminate in that one moment. And when the dust settled, when the final blow had been struck, San knew that he would be the one left standing, his blade still in hand, a testament to his unwavering determination and skill.

On the footstool near his bed lay the garments prepared for today’s tournament, along with the mask that always obscured his face. The outfit consisted of a tight-fitting shirt that covered the full length of his arms, made of a thin, flexible material that allowed for unrestricted movement. Beside it was a leather breastplate, subtly suggesting that today's trial would demand physical agility and endurance. The design of the shirt, seamless and sleek, was intended to minimize any resistance during sudden movements, while the breastplate, though light, provided necessary protection without hindering his mobility. 

Dressing quickly, he fastened the breastplate securely over his shirt and pulled the mask over his face, feeling the familiar constriction around his features. He was ready. A guard arrived at his door to escort him, and as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, San took the opportunity to memorize the layout of the wing where the participants' chambers were located.

Every turn, every door, and every corridor was meticulously engraved in his mind - a habit born from years of training in environments where knowledge of surroundings could mean the difference between life and death.

The corridors themselves were a study in opulence. Every surface gleamed with wealth - from the golden door handles to the ornate picture frames and the chandeliers dripping with crystals, the palace was a testament to the kingdom’s riches. To a thief, it would be a paradise, an irresistible temptation - if only they could breach the seemingly impenetrable defenses. 

The palace was guarded by countless royal sentinels, starting from the main gate, where four units of guards stood vigilant, their shifts rotating with military precision. The sheer number of guards and the complexity of their patrol routes made it virtually impossible for an intruder to enter unnoticed. It was a fortress in the guise of a palace, a place where the walls themselves seemed to whisper warnings to those who might dare to breach its defenses.

San’s gaze remained steady, fixed ahead as they moved through the palace, his senses alert to any potential threat. His training had ingrained in him a hyper-awareness of his surroundings, and now, even in the relative safety of the palace, that vigilance did not waver. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant murmur of voices was cataloged in his mind, a subconscious assessment of risk. 

Occasionally, his pupils darted toward the torches hanging on the corridor walls, their flames flickering and casting long shadows. The sight of the fire stirred something within him - unwelcome memories that he had tried to bury deep. The flames danced before his eyes, their movements hypnotic, pulling him back into the past, where the smell of smoke and the crackle of burning wood were all too familiar. 

He tried to tear his gaze away, but the images persisted, the sparks now playing in his mind, clouding his thoughts with a thick fog. The smell of burning, acrid and inescapable, was something he would never forget. It haunted him, a phantom that clung to his senses, reminding him of a past he wished to forget.

A shiver of unease ran down his spine, snapping him out of his reverie as they finally emerged into an open space. The vast expanse of the tournament grounds stretched out before him, and with it, the reality of the day’s challenge brought his focus back to the present. He forced himself to push aside the lingering memories, to concentrate on the task at hand. This was no time for distraction, his survival in the tournament depended on his ability to remain calm and focused.

As he and the other participants stepped onto the arena, they were met with a thunderous roar of applause from the gathered crowd. The sound was overwhelming, a cacophony of cheers and clapping that echoed off the stone walls and filled the air with an electric energy. The audience, eager for the spectacle to begin, showered the competitors with admiration, their excitement palpable. 

The arena itself was a grand sight - a vast field ringed by towering stands where nobles and commoners alike had gathered, all vying for the best view of the event. The sun blazed overhead, its rays reflecting off the polished armor of the guards and the gilded edges of the spectators' seats, casting the entire scene in a brilliant light.

San took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Despite his training, despite the countless hours spent preparing for moments like this, there was always a surge of adrenaline, a quickening of the pulse when faced with such a crowd. The noise, the eyes watching his every move - it was both exhilarating and unnerving. He could feel his heart beating faster, a drum in his chest that refused to slow down. But he knew better than to let it control him. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on his breathing, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm until he felt his heartbeat begin to steady.

Once he opened his eyes, San quickly scanned the field, assessing the setup. It became clear that today’s tournament would test stability, precision, and accuracy. Around the arena, targets were positioned, each marked with concentric rings painted with point values - the closer to the center, the higher the score. The bullseye, marked with a deep crimson red dyed with kermes, was the ultimate goal, a small, deadly point that would separate the true masters from the rest.

The first target was set at a distance of about 70 meters from the starting line, a reasonable challenge to begin with. The next target was positioned slightly further, at about 100 meters - a test of not just skill, but the ability to adjust quickly. 

The third target, however, was where the real challenge lay. Positioned a daunting 300 meters away, it required immense strength and flawless technique just to reach, let alone hit accurately. The sheer distance was enough to unsettle even the most experienced archers. San knew that many would falter here, their arrows falling short or missing the mark entirely.

Mastering the longbow required not just physical strength but also an understanding of its subtleties - the way the wood bent, the tension in the string, the angle of release. It was an art as much as it was a skill, one that he had spent years perfecting.

As the competitors stood in a straight line, awaiting the king's arrival to officially begin the competition, San's thoughts drifted for a moment to the row of longbows displayed nearby. He had trained with various types of bows over the years, but his most rigorous training had been in the longbow’s use. There was a time when he had even carved his own bow, a grueling process that had taken years to master. 

The memory of it was vivid in his mind, the cuts on his hands from the knife as he clumsily notched the wood, the countless failed attempts, the broken bows, and the poorly strung strings. But he had persisted, driven by a determination that bordered on obsession. It had taken him two years of relentless effort, but in the end, he had created a bow that was uniquely his own. It wasn’t the most ornate or the most impressive, but it was perfectly balanced and tailored to his build - a testament to his skill and dedication. That bow had become his favorite, the one he had trained with the most, and it held a special place in his heart. 

The king’s arrival snapped San back to the present. The monarch, accompanied by his husband and the prince, stepped onto the viewing balcony without ceremony. There was no need for further greetings as the previous day’s opening had sufficed. 

The kings, draped in the royal mantles, richly adorned with golden threads and fur, sat silently on their thrones. The intensity of the royal red of garments stood out starkly against the crowd, as vivid as the bullseye at the center of the archery targets.

If it were to close eyes, somebody could mistake the king for another bullseye. Nobody wanted this to happen, right?

Both their postures were rigid, chests pushed forward and shoulders broad, exuding an image of power and authority, figures framed by the heavy, opulent robes. They were the embodiment of strength and power, their presence alone commanding respect. 

The prince did not fail to amaze the crowd with his attire - though less formal than the king’s, was no less striking, the intricate details and rich materials a testament to his status and the wealth of the kingdom.

Though not high enough in the hierarchy to merit his own mantle, he was dressed in a jacket of the same intense red, adorned with black details - lapels and decorative embroidery running along the sides. Beneath the jacket, he wore a deeply cut black vest, exposing his chest. The vest’s buttons, made of pure gold, caught the sunlight, their brilliance accentuating the prince’s honey-colored skin. Completing his ensemble was a long, delicate gold necklace that hung down to his chest, disappearing between the folds of the black vest. 

San licked his lips, dry under the relentless sunlight, and averted his gaze to the guard who was leading today’s competition. The guard began his address with a deep bow toward the royal family, paying them the respect they were due. The movement was precise, practiced, his armor glinting in the sun as he straightened up, the red sash fluttering slightly with the motion. There was an air of solemnity about him, a reminder of the gravity of the event.

“Today, you will have the opportunity to showcase your archery skills,” he announced, his voice clear and authoritative, resonating across the arena. “Each of you will be given a classic longbow, carefully matched to your build and strength.” 

His hands were clasped behind his back as he spoke, his eyes sweeping over the participants with an intensity that suggested he was measuring their worth, not just as archers, but as contenders for something far greater. His forehead glistened with sweat, a result of the oppressive heat and the weight of the armor he wore, armor that was heavily adorned with the insignia of the royal guard, the red sash across his chest accentuating his position of authority.

“You will shoot in the order of the chamber numbers assigned to you yesterday,” he continued, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Each of you will have three arrows in your quiver, which means no second chances on each target. This is a royal tournament, there is no room for hesitation or failure. The two of you with the worst scores will leave the palace today.”

San took a deep breath, recalling the heavy, gilded number that hung on the door of his chamber - eight. Knowing that he would be the last to compete brought a mix of anxiety and relief. On one hand, it gave him time to carefully consider his strategy, to learn from the mistakes of those who went before him. On the other, the pressure of being the final contestant weighed heavily on his shoulders. He would have to endure the tension of the entire tournament, from the moment the first arrow was loosed until the final second when his own arrow would find its place on the target.

The first to step forward was a young man, barely twenty by the looks of him. His physique was impressive, muscles well-defined and suggestive of strength. But the lack of confidence was clear - evident in the way he held his bow awkwardly, his hands trembling despite his attempts to mask it. The boy's inexperience was glaringly obvious to those who knew what to look for. His face, though determined, was marred by the unmistakable signs of nerves; a slight twitch in his jaw, a barely perceptible tremor in his grip.

The first target posed no real challenge for him. With his muscles taut, he stood completely upright, his front shoulder set well, head high and still, centered. His shooting style was explosive yet balanced, a combination of raw power and steady control. He easily hit the bullseye, securing ten points and earning applause from the crowd. The cheers were loud, but not overwhelming - this was only the beginning, and the audience knew it. 

Before moving on to the second target, he took a moment to adjust his stance, the bowstring curving in a graceful arc as he aimed. For the spectators, his calm demeanor radiated confidence, but San noticed a slight hesitation just before the arrow was released. The hesitation, almost imperceptible, was enough to throw off the arrow’s trajectory slightly. It still hit the target, but only managed nine points. Though it wasn’t a bad score, it wasn’t perfect either, and with the competition just starting, it was too early to predict his standing.

The third shot, however, would be the deciding factor. Without a pause to rest, the young man’s muscles began to tremble with fatigue as he drew the bowstring back one final time, his eyes locked on the distant target. The strength required to send an arrow 300 meters was nearly unimaginable, pushing his body to its limits. His back muscles strained as they struggled to stabilize his arms and align the bow properly.

But it was in vain.

When the boy released the arrow, a murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd - a harbinger of his failure. The arrow fell short, embedding itself in the dirt several meters away from the target instead of hitting the mark. Out of a possible thirty points, he had managed only nineteen, making him the first likely candidate for elimination, provided the other competitors could hit the third target.

Dejected, the young man dropped his arms, his grip tightening on the bow until his knuckles turned white with frustration. He walked off to the side, his head hanging low, forced to watch the others take their turns. All he could do now was hope for their failure, for that was the only chance he had left. The bitterness of defeat was already settling in, a heavy weight that he would carry with him as he silently prayed that someone else would fare worse. The once eager crowd, so quick to cheer, now seemed indifferent to him, their eyes already fixed on the next archer in line.

Among the six remaining participants, only one managed to come close to the highest score, securing his position as the current leader with twenty-nine points. The man, appearing to be about the same age as San, had a broad, muscular build that hinted at years of dedicated training. His physique was not just for show; it was a testament to his physical prowess, which made achieving his goal relatively straightforward. He had earned nine points on the last target, displaying a mix of strength and skill.

He didn’t hesitate for a moment before boasting about his score, striking a pose as he flexed his biceps towards the audience. His display of confidence and physicality quickly made him a favorite among the spectators. Objectively, he was strikingly handsome. His lower body was as well-developed as his arms, and although his face was partially obscured by a mask, his eyes - enhanced with heavy lines of kohl along the waterline - captivated the audience, particularly the women in the lower rows, who sighed with admiration.

San snorted at him. His theatrical display and confident demeanor turned him into a spectacle of pride and charm, drawing appreciative gasps from the crowd.

San's turn came next. With a steady and measured step, he approached the starting line. He took a moment to carefully balance the bow in his hands, feeling its weight and assessing its center of gravity. The first target, a mere formality for someone of his skill, was hit dead center. He didn’t bother to look up at the audience, who clapped and cheered in response. San was focused, his mind clear and concentrated on the task at hand.

As he moved to the second target, the heat began to affect him. The sun’s relentless glare made his skin sweat, and his already tight shirt started to cling uncomfortably to his body. He brushed his bangs away from his eyes, squinting slightly as he zeroed in on the second target.

The routine remained consistent: notch the arrow, align the bow, draw the string, and release. The arrow struck true, adding another ten points to his total and placing him in seventh place at this stage. He still had one target left to hit.

He grasped the arrow between his thumb and index finger, balancing it with practiced ease. This was a habit he had developed over years of training, making him feel as though the arrow was an extension of himself, guiding him directly to the target. 

With a swift motion, he repositioned the arrow between his index and middle fingers, drawing it onto the bowstring. He raised the bow to the correct height, pulling the string taut and resting it lightly against his cheek. The bow's curve formed a perfect arc - steady and stable, thanks to the intense work of San’s muscles. He could feel his back muscles working in tandem with his deltoids, biceps, and triceps to maintain a stable position and ensure a strong draw.

…

He felt his hands start to tremble, the muscles in his arms screaming with fatigue from holding the bowstring taut for so long. Every fiber in his being was strained, yet he couldn’t afford to relax even for a second. 

His eyes, laser-focused on the small figure of the young hare, refused to waver. The animal, oblivious to the tension it was causing, sat still, nibbling on a patch of grass, completely unaware that its life hung by a thread. San’s breath was shallow and uneven, the effort of maintaining his stance and concentration taking its toll. 

Despite his intense focus, a creeping blur began to cloud his vision, the edges of his sight slowly dissolving into a hazy mist. Desperate to clear his eyes, he shook his head in a vain attempt to dispel the tears that were forming. He wanted to wipe them away, but his hands were locked in place, the bow demanding every ounce of his attention and strength. 

The tears were a manifestation of the emotional storm brewing within him. No matter how hard he tried to push them down, they kept coming, a relentless tide of grief and inner turmoil. His hands, once steady and sure, were now quivering not just from the physical exhaustion of holding the bow, but from the emotional weight that was crushing him. It was as if every suppressed emotion, every unresolved feeling, had risen to the surface, ready to drown him the moment he let his guard down.

‘San, it’s just an animal, you have to get over it.’ Her voice rang in his ears, each word a heavy stone sinking into his heart. She had repeated this so many times that it had become a mantra, a phrase that had lost its meaning through sheer repetition, yet still held a power over him. 

The task was simple, so simple it should have been done already: during training, he was supposed to hunt an animal, to hone his skills at aiming at a moving target. San knew he could do it. He was unmatched when it came to stationary targets, his arrows never missed, always striking dead center. But this wasn’t about hitting a target - it was about confronting the mental block that had haunted him since that dreadful night.

That night. The night that was seared into his memory, a night of unending pain and horror that had changed him forever. It was the night he had sworn a solemn vow - to never bring death upon anything nor anyone.

To others, it might seem foolish, this refusal to take the life of a creature as insignificant as a hare. But for San, it was the foundation of his very being, his most powerful commitment to his own values.

He knew, deep down, that he wasn’t ready to break that vow. He doubted he ever would be. Life, in all its forms, held too much value in his eyes. Who was he to play God, to decide who deserved to live and who didn’t? The thought of taking a life, even a small one, filled him with a profound sense of dread.

So when he finally let the arrow fly, it was with a deliberate intention. The arrow cut through the air with precision, its path true and unerring. It struck the ground just millimeters above the hare’s head, close enough to send the animal into a blind panic. The hare bolted, disappearing into the underbrush in an instant, its life spared by San’s calculated mercy. It was an impressive shot, one that required immense skill and control. But it wasn’t enough - not for her.

“San, how many times do I have to tell you that you need to get over it? You can’t act like a child over a mere animal.” Her voice, tinged with exasperation, cut through the stillness of the forest. She let out a long sigh, slinging her bow over her shoulder, her disappointment palpable. It wasn’t just that he had missed the kill - it was that he had hesitated, that he had allowed his emotions to dictate his actions.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered, the words barely audible, his voice so soft that even he wasn’t sure she heard him. But whether she heard or not didn’t matter. 

The weight of his words hung in the air, a confession of his weakness, his inability to fulfill the expectations placed upon him.

They were alone in the forest, the two of them surrounded by the lush greenery and the gentle rustle of the spring breeze. It was the perfect time for hunting, a time when the animals emerged from their winter slumber, hungry and eager to find food. But San couldn’t bring himself to hunt, not when the very act of it went against everything he now believed in.

He stood there, turned away from her, unable to meet her eyes - eyes that he knew were filled with disappointment, frustration, and perhaps even a hint of contempt.

“I’m not asking if you can do it. You have to do it, or don’t bother coming home. I don’t need to support a boy who won’t be ready for the fate that’s been written for him. Either you return with prey by sunset, or you can never show your face to me again.” Her words were cold, devoid of the warmth and understanding he so desperately craved. She didn’t wait for a response, turning on her heel and walking away, her footsteps steady and resolute as she followed the well-trodden path back to their home.

For her, the training was over. But for San, it was only just beginning. The weight of her ultimatum pressed down on him like a physical burden, each step she took away from him a reminder of the impossible choice he now faced. He was alone in the forest, the gentle whispers of the wind the only comfort he had as he stood there, lost and uncertain, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he might not be able to return home.

His footsteps echoed through the silent forest, the crisp snap of twigs and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sounds breaking the stillness. Each step felt heavy, as if the weight of his unresolved emotions was pressing down on him, making it harder to move forward. 

The trees around him stood tall and indifferent, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him. San’s mind was a battlefield, his thoughts clashing and colliding in a relentless struggle. He had been walking for hours, yet he had no destination in mind - only the need to escape, to outrun the voices in his head that would not leave him in peace.

The forest, usually a place of solace for him, now felt like a maze with no way out, a physical representation of the confusion and despair that clouded his mind. Every step he took was meant to clear his thoughts, but instead, it seemed to deepen the chasm between what he felt he should do and what he was capable of doing. 

Her words replayed in his mind, a cold and unyielding command that echoed louder with each passing minute. The further he walked, the more distant he felt from the person she expected him to be, and the more impossible the task before him seemed.

San was lost - not in the physical sense, for he knew these woods well - but in a way that was far more profound. He felt adrift in a sea of uncertainty, his moral compass spinning aimlessly as he tried to find a way to reconcile his beliefs with the harsh reality he faced. The idea of taking a life, even that of an animal, was anathema to him, yet he knew he could not return home without fulfilling the command. 

Just when he thought he might be doomed to wander the forest forever, San’s eyes caught a glimpse of something out of place among the undergrowth. He stopped, his breath catching in his throat as he approached the object. Lying in the grass was the small, still body of a bird. 

Its wings were folded in, its eyes opened with horror, but there was no mistaking the finality of its stillness. San knelt beside the bird, a mix of relief and sorrow washing over him. It was already dead, presenting San with a twisted opportunity.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the arrow in his quiver. A sense of guilt tugged at him, the last vestiges of his moral resistance flaring up one last time. But he knew what had to be done. 

Slowly, with a hand that trembled ever so slightly, he took an arrow and positioned it above the bird’s lifeless form. His grip tightened on and then, with a swift and decisive motion, he rammed the arrow into the bird’s body. The force of the impact pinned the small creature to the ground, the arrow standing upright like a marker of his supposed victory.

San stood there for a moment, staring at the scene before him. The sight of the arrow embedded in the bird’s body made his stomach churn, a bitter taste rising in his throat. But it was done. To anyone who found the bird, it would look as though San had hunted and killed it himself. 

With a heavy heart, San took the lifeless body and began the walk back home, leaving behind the forest. As he walked, the forest seemed darker, the shadows longer - the sun already nearing to the horizon line - and the path ahead more uncertain than ever before.

…

San took a deep breath, his pupils dilating as he concentrated on the distant target. A solitary drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, meandering down his neck before it finally disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

He could feel his diaphragm tighten as he held his breath for the final shot. The air around him felt charged with anticipation, every spectator holding their breath along with him, their eyes locked on the target.

With one final adjustment, San drew the string to its critical point and released. The arrow sped toward the target, propelled by the force of his release. His right hand recoiled dramatically from the force, a testament to the power behind his shot. He exhaled, watching intently from his position as the arrow struck the target. From this distance, he could only see that the arrow had embedded itself firmly in the target - a result he was confident about.

The atmosphere was thick with anticipation as the judges assessed the final shot. Their expressions were serious, scrutinizing the target with sharp eyes. The audience, too, was caught up in the moment, every spectator leaning forward, their eyes fixed on the target, waiting for the final verdict.

Finally, the head guard's voice rang out, cutting through the tension. “Ten points. Scoring himself a total of thirty points, placing him in first place.”

A triumphant roar erupted from the crowd, a wave of cheers and applause sweeping through the arena. San stood tall, feeling the weight of the moment and the significance of his achievement. The arena was alive with the vibrant colors of banners and flags, and the noise of the crowd seemed to echo in his ears. The spectators' expressions ranged from awe to admiration, their eyes focused on him.

San was expected to acknowledge his victory with a gesture of triumph, a wave, or a bow, much like the previous participant had done. However, he chose to forgo such theatrics. With quiet dignity, he placed the bow back in its designated spot and returned to the group of participants. The other contestants looked at him with a mixture of admiration and envy. 

The previous contestant, Mr. Biceps as we may call him, who had been a strong contender, now found himself overshadowed and shot San a look filled with frustration and resentment. It was clear that the competition had elicited deep emotions, not just of pride and achievement but also of envy and hatred.

As the rules dictated, the guards approached the two participants with the worst scores and tore off their masks, filling the air with murmurs of disapproval from the gathered crowd. The defeated contestants, scions of powerful noble families, tried to maintain an air of dignity. They held their heads high, striving to conceal the crushing weight of their failure. Nevertheless, their eyes betrayed their true feelings of defeat and disappointment, reflecting the bitter taste of loss that words could not capture.

The king, with a subtle nod, acknowledged the remaining six participants. “Good job,” he said curtly, his tone devoid of elaboration. Without waiting for any further exchange, he turned on his heel and exited the arena. 

Prince Woyoung lingered for a moment longer, subtly separating himself from the rest of the royal entourage. He took his time to examine the participants more closely, his sharp eyes scanning each face with an intensity that spoke volumes. Despite the keen interest he displayed, he did not waste even a fraction of a second on the losers. Their presence seemed to barely register in his observant gaze.

There was a hint of mystery in the prince's examination. His expression was a mask of impassivity, with his lips and eyebrows remaining perfectly still, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. The cold, calculating look in his eyes left an unsettling impression on San. As the prince’s gaze settled on him - the victor of today’s challenge - it felt like a tangible weight, laden with unspoken judgment or perhaps a more complex evaluation.

Their eyes met for a moment and San felt flicker of anger burn down his spine.

After a brief and almost imperceptible pause, Prince Woyoung turned away and followed his fathers back to the palace. His retreat was smooth and deliberate, marking the end of his momentary interest in the tournament's participants.

San, not waiting for his guard, moved swiftly towards his quarters. The sky was beginning to darken, casting long shadows over the palace grounds. With the setting sun signaling the end of the day, San knew he had little time left. There was no room for complacency or rest.

As the last rays of daylight faded and the arena buzzed with the celebratory atmosphere of those advancing to the next stage, San prepared himself for the grueling reality that lay ahead. While others would bask in their accomplishments, he would push forward, continuing his training under the cloak of night.

The darkness would be his only companion, as he labored away, driven by the knowledge that true mastery required relentless perseverance.

…

“Here is your herbal tea, Your Highness. Can I assist you with anything else?” Yeosang bowed deeply after carefully placing the cup on the small wooden table beside the bed. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting the room in soft twilight. Despite the darkness outside, Wooyoung remained wide awake, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit room, reflecting an internal restlessness that refused to be quelled.

For several years, Wooyoung’s sleep had been plagued by persistent disturbances, and the cause remained elusive. 

He had consulted numerous royal physicians, each offering theories ranging from the possible effects of excessive stress to imbalances in his vital energies. Some suggested that he might benefit from calming infusions and sleep aids. However, these endless speculations only deepened his frustration, adding layers of anxiety to his already troubled mind. Each theory seemed like another thread in an intricate web of confusion, spinning around him and obscuring the path to relief.

The frustration of his situation was compounded by the exhaustive medical examinations he had undergone. It seemed particularly maddening that, despite the absence of any identifiable illness, he found himself struggling with insomnia.

Every night, he grappled with a parade of restless thoughts that whirled through his mind, leaving him no peace. The nights were especially tormenting, filled with the unending cycle of anxiety and guilt that gnawed at him, disrupting any chance of restful sleep.

“Stay with me for a moment,” Wooyoung said softly, his voice betraying a rare glimpse of vulnerability. “I just need to talk to a friend. And I’ve asked you to call me by my name. We are alone in this room.” A gentle smile appeared on his face, an expression of sincere gratitude as Yeosang pulled a small, wooden stool closer to the bed. Wooyoung sat there, cross-legged, the warm light of the oil lamp casting a soft glow on his contemplative features.

The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light of the oil lamp, the only source of illumination in the otherwise shadowy space. The lamp’s steady flame provided a comforting warmth that Wooyoung cherished, especially in moments like these.

The darkness, on the other hand, was unsettling to him, it amplified his anxious thoughts, making him feel trapped and overwhelmed by the weight of his own guilt and self-reproach. The small, warm circle of light felt like a sanctuary against the encroaching shadows of his mind.

“Can’t you sleep again? You have bags under your eyes,” Yeosang asked with genuine concern. Yeosang, whose blood was of pure silver, was one of the palace servants trained from a very young age to serve the royal family with utmost dedication and precision. His presence was a constant reminder of the deeply entrenched hierarchy that defined their world.

The only exception to this rigid structure was the royal guard, who had to be golden-blooded. The king entrusted them with the crucial responsibility of maintaining order and safeguarding the royal family. Their unique status afforded them a level of trust and authority that was unmatched, making their role essential to the kingdom’s stability.

“I know, I can see it myself in the mirror. It’s all so overwhelming,” Wooyoung sighed deeply, his frustration evident in the way he spoke. “And then there’s the tournament, where I have to sit and feign pleasure at being merely a prize in this entire spectacle. It's so boring.”

“At least the contestants look good. You have to admit, the archers' outfits were quite impressive on their well-built frames. And that one participant who flaunted his muscles? Quite the showman.”

Wooyoung shot him a sidelong glance, his eyes betraying a flicker of irritation. “Don’t even start. Even if someone did catch my eye, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t have the luxury of choosing my own spouse.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the view during the tournament,” Yeosang said, trying to lighten the mood.

“What’s the point?” Wooyoung’s tone was resigned. “I have no reason to entertain any hopes or dreams. I’ve come to accept the fate that has been decreed for me by my fathers.” He took a deliberate sip of the tea, attempting to calm his frayed nerves.

Yeosang sat quietly for a moment, searching for the right words to say. The silence between them was thick with unspoken concerns and shared burdens.

“Never mind,” Wooyoung said finally, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Call Jongho.”

Not long after, the heavy oak door creaked open, and Jongho, Wooyoung's personal guard, stepped into the dimly lit room. The flickering light from the oil lamp cast long shadows across the chamber, giving it an almost surreal atmosphere. Jongho had been waiting outside, his posture rigid and alert, as he always was when on duty. 

Now, standing before the prince, his expression softened just slightly, a subtle shift only those close to him might notice. "You called for me, Prince?" he said, bowing deeply, his voice a mix of respect and concern.

"Yes," Wooyoung replied, his tone carrying the weight of the decision he was about to make. "I have a request. Close the door," he added, his eyes momentarily flicking toward the entrance to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. Jongho moved swiftly, the door shutting with a solid thud that seemed to echo through the room, amplifying the tension in the air. 

If Wooyoung had to name the people he trusted most in the entire palace, it would undoubtedly be Jongho and Yeosang. These two had been with him since his early teenage years, through the rigorous preparations that came with being the future king. They had grown alongside him, each step of their journey cementing the bond they shared. Jongho, with his unyielding loyalty and formidable strength, had always been Wooyoung’s protector, both in body and in spirit. Yeosang, with his calm demeanor and thoughtful insights, was his confidant. Together, they formed an unbreakable circle of trust around him, a rare comfort in the isolating world of royalty.

Wooyoung took a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. He knew what he was about to ask would not sit well with his friends. "I need you to go into the city," he began hesitantly, his voice betraying the inner turmoil he felt. He could already anticipate the looks of disbelief and concern he would receive. "On the outskirts, there's a hermit's house. Go there undercover and obtain a sleeping elixir for me. Just don't mention who it's for, no one can know about this."

Jongho's eyes widened slightly, his usually stoic expression faltering for a brief second. "With all due respect," he began, his voice firm but tinged with the underlying tone of a friend about to deliver a harsh truth. "As your guard, I will dutifully carry out your command. But as your friend, what the fuck, Wooyoung? Do you really think it's a great idea to drink an elixir of unknown contents from some hermit? Have you lost your mind?" Jongho's hands moved in front of him, his gestures uncharacteristically animated, reflecting his frustration and disbelief. His usually calm and collected demeanor cracked under the weight of the situation, revealing just how deeply he cared for Wooyoung's well-being.

Wooyoung winced at Jongho’s reaction, but before he could respond, Yeosang chimed in, his voice laced with the same worry that Jongho had just expressed.

"Jongho, watch your words." He started, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum, but even he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes. "But seriously, Wooyoung - what the fuck are you thinking?" Yeosang’s usually serene face was etched with concern, his brow furrowed as he looked at Wooyoung, trying to understand the desperation that had driven his friend to this point.

Wooyoung looked between the two of them, his heart heavy with the weight of his exhaustion and the burden of his responsibilities. "I can't take it anymore, you have to understand," he said, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, trying to hold himself together. "This is my last resort." The words hung in the air, a stark admission of just how far he had been pushed. "I haven't slept a wink in two days, I'm barely standing, everything is blurring before my eyes. If this goes on any longer, instead of a royal wedding, you'll be attending a funeral."

Silence filled the room, the gravity of Wooyoung’s words settling over them like a heavy blanket. His friends exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. They had seen Wooyoung struggle, had watched as he grew more and more haggard with each passing day, but hearing him speak so plainly about the toll it was taking on him was a harsh reality check.

Yeosang was the first to move, closing the distance to sit beside Wooyoung. He placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "We'll figure this out," he said softly, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions he felt. "Jongho will make sure the hermit prepares the elixir in front of him."

“I won't let anything happen to you.” Jongho nodded, though the worry in his eyes didn’t dissipate. "The royal tester will drink it before you, we'll ensure your safety," he added, his voice firm with resolve. Despite his earlier objections, he could see how desperate Wooyoung was, and he knew that they had to find a way to help him, even if it meant taking risks.

Wooyoung looked up at them, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He was too exhausted to argue, too drained to resist the kindness they offered. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know what I’d do without you two."

Yeosang squeezed his shoulder gently, offering a small, reassuring smile. "You’ll never have to find out," he said simply, the weight of their shared history and unspoken loyalty evident in his words.

Jongho, still standing by the door, took a deep breath, his expression softening. "I’ll leave first thing in the morning," he said, his voice quieter now, the frustration gone, replaced by determination. "Rest now, Wooyoung. We’ll handle everything."

Wooyoung nodded, finally allowing himself to lean back against the cushions, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. "I’ll try," he murmured, though the doubt was clear in his tone. Sleep had become such a foreign concept to him that even the promise of rest felt distant, almost unreachable.

Yeosang and Jongho exchanged another look before Jongho quietly slipped out of the room, leaving the prince in the capable hands of his oldest friend. Yeosang stayed by his side, the comforting presence Wooyoung so desperately needed as the night stretched on, the shadows lengthening, but the warmth of their friendship pushing back the darkness just enough to keep the prince’s fears at bay.

Wooyoung curled deeper into the pillow, seeking solace in its soft, satin cover, but the fabric's comfort was no match for the turmoil swirling within him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself into sleep, yet it was as if his very soul resisted the idea of rest.

Every creak of the wooden beams in the ceiling, the rustling of leaves against the window, the distant murmurs of the palace staff - each sound felt amplified in the silence of the night. The lamp beside his bed, though dim, seemed to grow brighter with every passing minute, its faint crackling flame a constant reminder of his wakefulness.

As he tossed and turned, the smooth sheets began to feel like chains, binding him to a bed that offered no comfort, no escape. His mind, usually sharp and calculating, was now his enemy, dragging him through an endless loop of thoughts that refused to quiet. The sensory overload was maddening, he could almost hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a steady drum that kept time with his racing thoughts.

Yeosang had left hours ago, reluctantly retreating to his own quarters after Wooyoung insisted he didn’t need company and he should go to sleep.

Alone now, the prince felt the weight of his solitude more acutely than ever. His thoughts, which he had tried so hard to push away, returned with a vengeance. The marriage that loomed ahead felt like a shadow, dark and inescapable. It wasn't just the thought of taking a spouse that unnerved him - it was everything that came with it.

He thought about the ceremony, the eyes of the court upon him, the pressure to fulfill the role expected of him. His entire life had been leading to this moment, but now that it was close, the path ahead seemed fraught with unseen dangers. 

And beyond the marriage lay the expectation of an heir - a duty he could not refuse, yet one that filled him with dread. The idea of lying with a concubine, of siring a child out of obligation rather than love, felt cold and hollow. The continuation of the royal bloodline was a burden that had been drilled into him since birth, but now it felt more like a shackle than a noble responsibility.

Even more troubling were his thoughts about his future subjects. Wooyoung knew that the crown carried with it not just power, but the weight of a kingdom’s welfare. The people would look to him for guidance, for protection, for justice. The welfare of the kingdom wasn’t a burden he carried alone - the highest council would share in those responsibilities. But the thought that he might falter, that he might fail to live up to the expectations of his people, was a fear that haunted him in the quiet moments before dawn.

In the stillness of the night, Wooyoung's thoughts turned darker. What if his future husband, whoever he might be, wasn’t someone he could trust or rely on? What if the marriage, instead of bringing stability to the kingdom, only created more tension and strife? 

Wooyoung opened his eyes, staring into the dimness of his chamber. The once-familiar surroundings felt oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him. The future, which had always seemed so clear, now appeared murky and full of threats.

The responsibilities that awaited him no longer felt like a noble calling, but a sentence - one that would bind him to a life of sacrifice and duty, with little room for personal happiness.

He couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that had settled over him like a heavy cloak. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, it clung to him, whispering fears and doubts that refused to be silenced. As the night dragged on, Wooyoung realized that sleep would not come. The rest he so desperately needed was beyond his reach, held captive by the anxieties that plagued his mind.

He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes burning with exhaustion. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of his unspoken fears. There was no escape from the thoughts that tormented him, no relief from the crushing expectations that awaited him with the dawn.

In that moment, Wooyoung felt more trapped than ever, not by the walls of the palace, but by the inescapable fate that had been written for him long before he was born. His future was set in stone, yet it was a path he now feared to walk. And in the darkness, with only the flickering lamp for company, he realized that the true enemy was not the future itself, but the fear of what it might hold.

Chapter Text

Fear does not lead to change, only rebellion.

“Set out immediately after sunset. The time has come to show them their place.” A sharp, commanding voice sliced through the still air of the throne room, the authority in its tone sending a palpable wave of unease across the space. The ornate hall, usually a place of regal calm and calculated decisions, now reverberated with the chilling intensity of the king’s words. 

The massive stone walls, draped in rich tapestries depicting the kingdom’s storied history, seemed to absorb and amplify the tension in the room. Even the royal guards, seasoned and unflinching in their duty, found their usually steady hands faltering slightly at the weight of the command, their faces betraying the slightest flicker of fear as the echoes of the king’s decree died away.

“Jaeseong… Perhaps this isn’t the right move. We shouldn’t act on impulse.” The second king, Yongsook, shifted uneasily on his opulent throne, its gilded arms cool beneath his fingers as he gripped them in a vain attempt to steady his nerves. 

His voice, usually measured and calming, now carried a note of anxiety as he dared to challenge his husband’s decision. The throne room, a place where they had spent countless hours in deep discussion and careful planning, now felt like a battlefield, the stakes higher than they had ever been.

“You dare oppose me?” Jaeseong’s eyes flashed with a mix of fury and incredulity as he turned to face his partner. Jaeseong’s nostrils flared as his anger surged, the tension in his body evident as he squared his shoulders, his gaze icy and unforgiving. “Guards, leave at once. Carry out my orders or your heads will hang as decorations next to the portrait of my father.” 

His voice, though controlled, carried an underlying threat that was impossible to ignore. The room seemed to grow colder as his words hung in the air, a testament to the iron grip he intended to exert over his kingdom.

Without hesitation, the royal guards, their expressions masked by the discipline drilled into them over years of service, turned on their heels and exited the throne room. Their footsteps echoed ominously off the marble floors, each step taking them closer to the grim task that awaited. They carried with them only the essentials needed to fulfill their king’s orders - torches, the flames of which flickered in the dim light, casting long, wavering shadows along the cold stone walls of the castle. 

As they made their way to the armory, a heavy silence settled over them, broken only by the soft clinking of their armor. The gravity of their mission was not lost on them - they knew that what they were about to do would forever mark their souls. Despite being merely tools of the king’s will, they felt the moral weight of the sin they were about to commit, a burden that would haunt them long after the torches had burned out, the flames died down.

In the now empty throne room, a frigid silence stretched between the two kings. The tension between them was almost tangible, like a thick fog that dulled the room's grandeur. The usually vibrant tapestries seemed muted, their colors dimmed by the oppressive atmosphere. Both kings remained seated, locked in a silent battle of wills, their expressions equally hardened but for different reasons.

“You're making a mistake,” Yongsook finally broke the silence, his voice calm but filled with an underlying sorrow. His eyes, usually soft and understanding, now held a glimmer of desperation as he sought to appeal to whatever reason remained in his husband’s heart. “We still have a chance to call the guards back before it’s too late. You know as well as I do that nothing good will come from this.” His words were a plea, a final attempt to steer them away from a course that would surely end in disaster. 

The weight of the kingdom’s future pressed heavily on his mind, and he knew that the consequences of this decision would ripple through the lives of countless innocents.

“Stop spouting nonsense!” Jaeseong’s patience snapped like a brittle thread, his voice rising in frustration. The calm, calculating ruler that Yongsook knew seemed to have been replaced by a man driven by bloodlust. “We can’t afford to let the subjects rebel. Those silver-blooded rats have overstepped. It’s time to remind them of their place.” 

His words were laced with venom, each one a declaration of his intent to crush any dissent with ruthless efficiency. To him, the world was divided into rulers and the ruled, and any challenge to that order had to be stamped out mercilessly.

Yongsook gazed at him with a mixture of sorrow and pity. He had known Jaeseong for many years, long before the weight of the crowns they now bore had turned their lives into a delicate balancing act of power and responsibility. In those early days, they had shared a vision for their kingdom, one where they ruled as partners, guiding their people with wisdom and compassion. But as the years passed, the differences in their approaches became more pronounced. Yongsook, ever the diplomat, believed in ruling through understanding and cooperation, while Jaeseong, increasingly hardened by the burdens of leadership, had come to see fear as the most effective tool for maintaining control.

Yongsook held his gaze, though his heart ached with a quiet, resigned sorrow. He had known his husband long enough to understand the tempest within him. They had ruled side by side for years, balancing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Most of the time, they had found harmony, a shared vision for the kingdom. But in this, they were worlds apart.

Jaeseong rose from his throne, his movements sharp and decisive, as if he were physically cutting through the tension that had built up between them. His face appeared as a mask of determination, hardened by the resolve to see his will enforced at any cost. “This is the only way. If they think they can rise against us, they’re gravely mistaken. They’ll learn to fear their king, and in that fear, they’ll find their place beneath us.” His voice was cold, final, leaving no room for further debate.

Yongsook remained seated, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he had failed to dissuade his husband from this destructive path. He knew that Jaeseong’s approach might bring temporary control, but it would also sow the seeds of future unrest. Fear might keep the people in line for a time, but it would never bring about the lasting peace that Yongsook so desperately wanted for their kingdom.

“There’s still time to reconsider,” Yongsook tried one last time, his voice softening into a tone of quiet pleading. He hoped to reach the part of Jaeseong that still cared for the well-being of their subjects, to remind him of the vision they once shared. “Fear may keep them in check, but it will never win their loyalty. Without their loyalty, we’ll always be fighting an enemy within our own walls.” His words were a final attempt to save the kingdom from the brink of disaster, a disaster that he feared would tear apart the kingdom.

But Jaeseong’s expression remained unyielding, his mind set. He waved off Yongsook’s words with a dismissive gesture, turning his back as he strode toward the door with purpose. His silhouette, framed by the grand arch of the throne room’s exit, seemed more imposing and distant than ever. 

“Let them fear. Rebellion is born of weakness. We will show them strength.” With those final, chilling words, he left the room, leaving Yongsook in the cold, oppressive silence that followed.

Yongsook sat alone in the vast throne room, the silence around him now feeling like the weight of impending doom. His gaze fell on the grand portrait of Jaeseong’s father, hanging high on the wall, its stern expression a haunting reminder of the legacy they were expected to uphold. 

He knew that Jaeseong’s course of action might secure their rule in the short term, but in the long run, it would only breed more resentment and anger. And Yongsook feared that when the time came, the rebellion that Jaeseong sought to crush would rise from the ashes of the fear he had instilled, stronger and more determined than ever.

It was well past sunset when the royal guards entered one of the city’s poorer districts, where most of the homes were inhabited by the silver-blooded lower classes - families that hardly made ends meet. 

The moonlight bathed the narrow, uneven streets in a cold glow, casting long shadows from the dilapidated wooden houses. These streets, which during the day buzzed with the quiet resilience of its people, were now eerily silent, save for the occasional scurrying of stray animals searching for a place to hide from the impending night. The air was thick, a suffocating stillness that seemed to foreshadow the destruction to come.

Each guard gripped a torch tightly, their faces partially illuminated by the flickering orange glow. Though small in number, they moved with purpose, splitting into groups to cover more ground, their footsteps barely making a sound on the dusty cobblestones. 

The weight of their task hung heavy in the air. As they approached the homes, many of them exchanged uneasy glances, hesitation evident in their movements. For a brief moment, the possibility of disobedience flashed through their minds, but they were bound by the orders of the king - disobedience meant death.

With resigned hearts, they pressed the torches against the thatched roofs. At first, the flames flickered hesitantly, small and almost harmless, as if the fire itself was unsure of the destruction it was meant to unleash. 

But as the dry straw caught fire, it erupted with terrifying hunger, greedily devouring the roofs and crawling along the wooden beams like a predator on the hunt. The soft crackling of the initial flames quickly gave way to the ferocious roar of a full-blown inferno. The fire, no longer timid, spread rapidly, carried by the breeze that swept through the narrow alleyways.

Thick, black smoke began to rise, swirling into the night sky like a dark omen, wrapping its tendrils around the homes that had once sheltered families for generations. These houses, though humble and worn, had been sanctuaries - places where the silver-blooded had found peace despite their struggles. Now, that peace was engulfed by flames that showed no mercy, reducing everything to ash.

Inside the homes, the heat intensified, and the smoke began to seep through the cracks in the doors and windows, filling rooms with suffocating fumes. The first cries of alarm broke through the night as children awoke to the sight of their homes ablaze, their innocent eyes widening in terror. Their parents scrambled to their feet, disoriented, torn between saving their families or their meager belongings. 

Some ran without hesitation, abandoning everything they owned, driven solely by the instinct to survive. Others, however, lingered, frantically gathering whatever they could - jewelry passed down through generations, family heirlooms, clothes, and money - anything they could carry in trembling hands.

Fathers, their faces twisted with desperation, could be seen emerging from the inferno, clutching their children close to their chests while dragging the unconscious forms of their wives, who had collapsed from the smoke. 

The acrid stench of burning flesh began to fill the air as some families were not quick enough to escape the wrath of the fire. The heat was unbearable, burning their lungs with every breath, while the thick smoke clouded their vision, reducing the once-familiar streets to a disorienting maze of shadow and flame.

The fire spread like a plague, consuming everything in its path. It was as if the very hand of death had descended upon the district, with the flames acting as its cruel instrument of judgment. The sky, once dotted with stars, was now obscured by a thick blanket of smoke, and the village, which had once been a refuge for the struggling, was now reduced to a charred ruin. The scent of burning wood mixed with the pungent odor of singed flesh, the air so thick with smoke that it choked anyone who lingered too long.

A Crown that cared not for who bore the consequences of rebellion. It was not only the lives of those involved in uprisings against the monarchy that were claimed by the flames, but also their families - innocent children and mothers who had no hand in the treachery. 

The Crown showed no mercy to the helpless citizens, those who had never rebelled, who sought only to live quietly within their modest means. Now, they too were forced to pay the price for the sins of others, caught in the crossfire of a king's insatiable hunger for control and dominance.

The fire knew no boundaries, just as King Jaeseong's cruelty knew no limits. The blaze swept through the district, indifferent to the innocent lives it devoured, sparing none in its wake. Innocent lives were reduced to ash, feeding the king's twisted desire for vengeance and reminding the kingdom that even the meekest subjects were not beyond the reach of his wrath. 

It was a grim spectacle, a scene of utter devastation, where justice had been replaced by tyranny and punishment was meted out without discrimination.

And all the while, as homes collapsed into smoldering ruins and the air thickened with smoke and despair, the king's will remained firm. There was no room for compassion, no moment of hesitation for the powerless souls trapped beneath the weight of his command. The flames danced to the tune of a ruler who ruled with an iron fist, uncaring and unyielding in his pursuit of obedience through fear.

As the inferno raged on, it became more than just an act of violence it was a symbol of the king's ruthless governance, a display of his unrelenting hold over his kingdom. In the heart of the chaos, it was clear that Jaeseong's rule was one of absolute dominance, and under his reign, there was no sanctuary from the merciless force of the Crown.

As the fire's final embers flickered out, casting long, eerie shadows across the devastated village, the boy's wails continued to rise, raw and relentless, breaking through the oppressive silence. The world around him was a twisted landscape of ruin.

The woman gripping the boy pulled him closer. She glanced down at the child, whose face was streaked with soot and tears, his small body wracked with sobs too heavy for someone his age to bear. His fists pounded weakly against her, fueled by a desperate, primal need to undo the horror that had claimed his family. His arms shook as much from exhaustion as from the enormity of the tragedy that had unfolded before his eyes. 

But his voice faltered as his strength waned. "Dad... Mom..." The words barely escaped his lips, choked by sobs and the unbearable weight of knowing they would never answer him again. His legs buckled under him, and he collapsed against the woman's body, utterly spent, sinking into the dust and debris that was now all that remained of his world.

"Let me go!" He screamed, the fight in him finally giving way to despair. His small frame trembled violently, not from the cold but from the overwhelming loss that crashed over him like waves of fire. He no longer had the energy to scream or fight - his limbs hung limp, his heart broken beyond repair.

The woman knelt beside him, holding him tighter now, her hands brushing the soot from his cheeks in a gesture meant to soothe, though she knew it was futile. Her heart ached for him, for all the children who would never understand why they had to suffer the consequences of a king’s rage. She had seen it before - the cruelty of power wielded without conscience, the lives of innocents trampled underfoot like they were nothing more than fuel for the ambitions of men far removed from the devastation they caused.

But what could she say to this child? What words could ever fill the hollow void left by the loss of family, of safety, of love?

“I’m sorry…” she whispered, though she knew those words would mean nothing to him. They were a drop of water in an endless sea of grief. She could offer him no comfort, no justice - only the hollow embrace of a stranger in a world that had just betrayed him.

The boy stared blankly ahead, his wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on the spot where his home had stood, where his parents had disappeared into the flames. His tiny hands clutched the hem of the woman’s cloak as if seeking some semblance of stability, but he knew, even in his young heart, that nothing could make this right.

The ruins still glowed faintly in the dark, embers flickering like the dying heartbeat of the village. The faint sounds of crackling wood and distant cries of survivors echoed through the night, but all of it seemed so far away to the boy, who was lost in his own shattered world. 

His chest heaved with the effort of breathing in the smoke-filled air, each breath tasting of ash, bitter and lifeless.

Time dragged on, each second feeling like an eternity, as the woman finally began to lift him into her arms, gently carrying him away from the carnage. He didn't resist anymore. He was too tired, too broken. The woman’s footsteps crunched over the charred remnants of the village as she moved further from the wreckage, her hold on the boy tightening, as though trying to shield him from the reality of what had just happened.

Yet, despite the warmth of her arms, there was a coldness that settled deep in the boy’s soul. It was the cold of abandonment, of knowing that no embrace would ever be enough to replace the one he’d lost. 

No comfort could erase the image of his father running into the flames, never to return. No whispered words could undo the cruel promise his father had made - one that now felt like a lie.

‘I’ll be back soon, little one. I just need to save your mother. Wait for us here. I promise we’ll come back together.’ Those were his father’s last words before he vanished into the thick smoke, disappearing from the boy's sight.'

And so, even as he was carried away from the destruction, his mind remained there, in the flames, with his family, with the life that had been stolen from him. The boy’s future stretched out before him, bleak and uncertain, a landscape as desolate as the village left in ruins behind him.

As the night wore on, the sky remained dark, starless, as if even the heavens had turned their back on this place. 

The boy closed his eyes, his tears drying on his soot-streaked cheeks, but sleep did not come. Only the memories of the fire, the screams, and the sight of his home collapsing and consuming both his parent’s lives haunted his every thought.

And in the distance, the embers of the village continued to glow, a cruel reminder of the power that had torn his life apart - a power that did not care for the innocent, that demanded sacrifice, even from those who had no part in the rebellion.

This was the reality of the world he now lived in. And as the woman carried him further away from the wreckage, the boy’s heart hardened, vowing never to forget, never to forgive the Crown that had taken everything from him.

Chapter Text

3.

Afternoons like this were particularly burdensome for the prince. He found himself at a delicate crossroads in life - on the cusp of becoming king, yet, in this moment, still bound by the restraints of inexperience and protocol.

His position was one of careful observation, without the privilege of wielding any true power. As future ruler, his presence at the weekly meetings of the highest council was mandatory, though he was there more as a listener than a participant.

Since his early teenage years, his father had been adamant that these meetings were essential to his training, insisting they would mold him into a wise and capable king.

Wooyoung, however, felt otherwise. As far back as he could remember, his voice had been systematically silenced. His opinions, no matter how minor, were dismissed, leaving him feeling not like the heir to the throne but a mere ornament in the room, expected to watch and learn but never to engage.

The council chamber, vast and grand, with its high vaulted ceilings and gleaming marble floors, only amplified his sense of isolation. The heavy oak doors, closed tightly behind him, seemed to lock him into this world of silence and restraint. The round table at which they sat was a fortress of power, and Wooyoung, though physically present, felt as if he were always on the outside looking in. 

“What do you mean, Hongjoong?” Kim Chul’s stern voice echoed throughout the council chamber, cutting through the air like a blade. Wooyoung, who had allowed his thoughts to wander, was suddenly forced to focus on the ongoing discussion. 

Something in the chairman’s tone unsettled him, breaking the monotonous flow of the meeting. Instinctively, he straightened in his chair, trying to piece together the fragments of what he had missed.

Kim Chul, as the chairman of the highest council, was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, second only to the both kings. In fact, his words carried more weight than anything that might come from the young prince. For years, Chul had presided over council meetings with unwavering authority, not tolerating even the faintest hint of dissent. Wooyoung had long since understood that even as the future king, in Chul’s presence, he was merely an observer. His influence over the kingdom had yet to begin, and in the meantime, he was forced to remain silent, learning patience.

“I was saying,” Hongjoong, Chul’s son, continued, his voice trembling slightly but determined, “that some farmers have reported their crops failing. Some fields produced nothing at all, while others completely dried up, leaving only barren land. It’s... concerning.”

“How many farmers have reported this?” another councilman interjected, his tone one of mild interest, but not enough to suggest alarm. After all, agricultural issues were not considered particularly pressing for the nobility, who had full granaries and rarely suffered from shortages.

“Three farmers, two from the western regions and one from south, who grow corn. It’s not a large number yet, but it’s strange that, in the height of the season, they weren’t able to harvest a single ear of corn, even though there’s been no drought…” Hongjoong cast a nervous glance toward his father. He knew that bringing up details that might seem trivial to the others could jeopardize his standing.

Kim Chul remained expressionless, his face betraying no emotion. His cold eyes rested on his son, who, despite defending his point, couldn’t entirely hide his uncertainty. 

The relationship between father and son was complex. Despite their familial ties, Chul had never shown Hongjoong any leniency or support. Quite the opposite - his son had to continually prove his worth. Years of hard study and dedication had finally earned Hongjoong a place on the highest council, but his position was still fragile, insecure. Hongjoong was acutely aware that one wrong move could cost him everything he had worked so hard to achieve. But despite the risk, today he had decided to take a chance, prioritizing the kingdom’s well-being over his own fears.

King Jaeseong, lounging comfortably in his chair, sighed with evident disinterest, his fingers lazily drumming on the wooden table. “Problems with crops are of little consequence as long as we have other sources,” he said, his voice laced with boredom. “We should focus on keeping the people entertained. The tournament has brought them so much joy that no one will even notice a few missing ears of corn.”

“An excellent suggestion, Your Majesty,” Kim Chul immediately nodded, signaling to his son that the matter was now closed and that it wasn’t worth bothering the king further with such trivialities. Hongjoong was expected to drop the issue before it could escalate.

Wooyoung barely stifled a scoff at the sight. Regardless of how high-ranking they were, everyone around the table seemed to bend their necks without resistance before the king, clinging tightly to their positions in the kingdom. They were like cogs in a great machine, subservient to the will of Jaeseong, who had ruled with an iron fist for decades.

The prince’s gaze shifted to Hongjoong, who had visibly deflated in his seat, his back now hunched, and his shoulders slumped. His genuine concern for a real issue had been dismissed, and he had been treated like a disobedient boy who had dared to bring up a matter the king considered insignificant. 

Hongjoong remained silent, his eyes fixed on the table as if he wished to disappear from sight. Wooyoung felt an unexpected wave of sympathy and a strange sense of solidarity with him. Both, despite their different standings, were young men who desired change. Both wanted to do something for the good of the people, yet their voices were constantly stifled by an older generation that had long held onto power and refused to deviate from the established order.

The problem, which seemed insignificant now, could escalate into something larger in the future. Wooyoung knew that ignoring such signs was unwise. Something had to be wrong with the land if three independent farmers had reported the same issues. The thought troubled him.

Rightfully so, after all, it would be him who would soon have to face that problem in a matter of weeks, when the crown would finally rest upon his head. Then, he would not only inherit the title of king but also the support and resources necessary to enact the changes the kingdom so desperately needed.

As he sat in that council chamber, listening to the older men bicker about trivial matters, Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel the weight of the future pressing down on him. His father’s reign, long and unchallenged, had brought stability but at a cost - stagnation. The kingdom had grown complacent, its leaders more interested in maintaining their wealth and status than in solving real issues like the mysterious crop failures or the growing discontent among the common folk.

Wooyoung knew that the moment the crown was placed upon his head, all eyes would be on him. There would be expectations - some would expect him to follow in his father’s footsteps, to rule with the same iron will. Others, especially the younger generation, would look to him with hope, longing for the fresh ideas and reforms he had quietly promised. But the road ahead would not be easy.

The moment he ascended to the throne, he would face the challenges his father had ignored. The people suffering from famine and poverty. The farmers whose lands no longer yielded crops, despite the kingdom’s apparent prosperity. The growing rift between the silver-blooded and the golden-blooded - a rift that threatened to erupt into rebellion if left unaddressed. 

And he wasn’t yet sure what he wanted to do with that matter - the dilemma within him still troubled him, as he had yet to find the answer to which path was the right one to follow. Assuming that there even was a right path worth following. 

But more than anything, he would face the council. Men like Kim Chul, who had grown comfortable under his father's rule, who wielded their influence to keep things as they were. They would not welcome change easily. They would resist him, undermine his efforts, and try to force him into the same mold as his father. But Wooyoung knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.

He would have to be strategic. He would need to gather allies, like Hongjoong, who also wanted to see progress in the kingdom. He would need to navigate the delicate balance of power, knowing when to push for reform and when to hold back. It wouldn’t be enough to simply want change - he would have to fight for it, every day.

But for now, all he could do was wait.

Their eyes met briefly, and Wooyoung offered Hongjoong a subtle smile, trying to convey that he wasn’t alone in his disappointment and frustration. Hongjoong responded with a small, hesitant smile, but quickly lowered his gaze, remembering whom he was addressing. 

This was not just any peer, but the prince - the future king. Although clearly grateful for the gesture, the young nobleman bowed his head in respect, as etiquette demanded.

"Let’s focus on the tournament and not bother ourselves with such petty matters,” Jaeseong declared, his voice carrying an air of authority mixed with casual indifference. He leaned back into his chair, a smug smile curling on his lips as he looked around the room, knowing he commanded the attention of every person present. “The most pressing concern right now is to find a suitable husband for my son and the future second king. The candidates so far are... impressive, to say the least.” He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberated in Wooyoung’s ears, making his stomach churn.

Wooyoung clenched his fists tightly under the table, feeling the sharp press of his nails digging into his palms. His father’s words stung, not just because of what he said, but because of the mocking tone he used, as if the entire situation was a source of amusement for him. It was as if his father's biggest concern wasn’t his happiness or his future, but the entertainment value of parading him around like a prize.

To Jaeseong, the tournament was nothing more than a spectacle - an event where a group of men would fight for the honor of marrying the prince, and to him, that was exciting. But to Wooyoung, it was degrading. 

His father was treating this entire process with the same enthusiasm one might have for selecting a breeding mare to mate with the finest bull, and Wooyoung had never felt so dehumanized.

He knew better than to expect some grand, sweeping romance - he’d long resigned himself to that reality. But he still had hopes, small as they were, for something genuine. A connection, a partnership that wasn’t forced upon him by tradition and duty. 

Instead, he was faced with a future where his husband would be chosen for him in a bloody competition, a stranger he would barely know, yet be expected to share his life, his burdens, and his heart with.

What made it worse was the humiliating fact that he wasn’t even allowed to meet or speak with his future spouse before the wedding. There would be no getting to know one another, no shared moments to build any kind of foundation. Wooyoung’s stomach twisted at the thought. Even his fathers, who were not in love by any stretch of the imagination, had at least known each other before their marriage. 

They weren’t forced to pledge eternal loyalty to someone whose name they barely knew.

The tournament’s participants were kept anonymous throughout the entire process. Their identities were concealed, and no one knew from which noble houses they hailed. Only the royal guards overseeing the tournament were entitled to obtain such information. 

The rest of the kingdom, including Wooyoung himself, were left in the dark. His future husband could be anyone - some unknown face hidden behind a mask, nothing more than a pair of eyes and a finely sculpted body that had been trained for battle.

Not that Wooyoung wasn’t capable of appreciating their physical form. He wasn’t blind. He had noticed the toned muscles and the athleticism on display during the tournament, and he couldn’t deny that some of the competitors were... attractive. 

But that was all superficial. His heart craved something deeper, something more meaningful than mere physical allure. He wanted a partner he could share his life with, someone who would stand beside him as a monarch, someone he could trust, someone who understood the weight of the crown and the responsibilities that came with it.

His mind flitted between thoughts, jumping from one anxious concern to the next. He felt the heavy weight of exhaustion pulling him down, his eyelids drooping, as if they were made of lead. Despite his best efforts to stay alert, his body was betraying him, the fatigue from another sleepless night dragging him into unconsciousness. His head bobbed forward, only to jerk back up again, his mind teetering on the edge of sleep. He tried to fight it, to stay present, but his body was at its limit.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been drifting in and out of sleep when a firm hand suddenly pressed down on his shoulder, startling him awake. “Wooyoung…” The voice was gentle but insistent, pulling him back to reality.

Wooyoung blinked, disoriented and panicked, his eyes darting around the room. The council chamber was empty. Everyone else had already left - the councilmen, his father - he was alone, save for the person standing behind him. 

His heart sank with embarrassment as he realized that he must have fallen asleep during the meeting. He could already imagine the stern lectures and disappointed glances he would receive for this lapse in composure.

Rubbing his eyes, he turned to look over his shoulder and saw Jongho standing there, his hand still resting on Wooyoung’s shoulder, grounding him. “Let’s go for a walk. I need to talk to you in private,” Jongho said quietly, his voice steady and calm.

Wooyoung groaned softly, the weight of exhaustion making every movement feel sluggish. “I’d prefer to go to my chamber,” he muttered. “I don’t know if a walk is a good idea right now.”

Jongho, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “This won’t take long, and it’s important.” His tone was firm but not harsh, leaving little room for argument. “I got what you asked for.”

Those words snapped Wooyoung out of his daze. His heart leaped in his chest, and suddenly the weariness that had been dragging him down seemed to evaporate. He shot up from his seat, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to stand. “That quickly? Where is it?” His voice was filled with excitement and anticipation, his earlier exhaustion forgotten.

He couldn’t hide the eagerness in his step as he quickly matched Jongho’s pace, his mind racing at the possibilities. If Jongho truly had what Wooyoung had asked for, maybe - just maybe - he would finally get a break. 

Maybe tonight, for the first time in days, he would be able to rest. Finally, he could have a night of deep, uninterrupted sleep, free from the nightmares and the constant weight pressing down on his chest. The thought was almost too good to be true.

They fell silent as they passed by members of the palace staff, careful not to let their secret slip. Every step was deliberate, measured, and silent. Wooyoung glanced around nervously, trying to mask the tension gnawing at him. He knew they had to keep up appearances - no one could know about their private dealings. 

Jongho walked beside him, his face a mask of composure. His presence was reassuring, even if his demeanor was more serious than usual. Together, they moved down the long corridor, the echoes of their footsteps barely registering against the polished marble floors. Massive stone columns lined the hallway, bathed in the soft glow of flickering torches. 

They were headed toward Wooyoung’s private chamber, but as they passed a set of large windows overlooking the palace courtyard, a scene below caught Wooyoung’s eye. In the courtyard, several of the tournament participants were engaged in a rigorous training session. He slowed his pace, lingering by the window. Jongho stopped too, noticing Wooyoung's attention had shifted.

From their vantage point, they could see five of the contestants either sparring with one another or choosing to train alone, their movements sharp and precise. The clash of swords echoed faintly through the air, while the occasional grunt of effort or frustration added to the soundtrack of the arena below. 

Wooyoung watched, transfixed for a moment, as one of the competitors - a tall, broad-shouldered figure with strong arms - delivered a powerful strike, disarming his opponent in a single, fluid motion. The man moved with such grace and precision, it was almost mesmerizing to watch.

His eyes scanned the entire training sector, unable to spot the man who had won the archery competition the previous day. His almost feline-looking eyes had left a lasting impression on Wooyoung, but now it seemed as though he couldn’t find him in the crowd. Was he resting? Or perhaps his ego was so inflated that he believed he didn’t need any more training.

Jongho noticed his friend's fascination and leaned slightly closer, his voice low, just enough for Wooyoung to hear. “Admiring the competitors?” he teased gently, a hint of amusement flickering in his usually stoic eyes.

Wooyoung tensed, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks. "I'm not… It’s not like that," he muttered defensively, tearing his gaze away from the sparring men. 

But he couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that he had been caught. It wasn’t just about admiring them - though, in truth, that was part of it. Watching them spar, seeing the sheer determination in their movements, he couldn’t help but wonder who among them would be his future husband.

His eyes drifted back to the sparring men. The anonymity of the tournament unnerved him. Who were they, really? These masked men could be anyone from noble families he barely knew, or perhaps even familiar faces he had never considered in that way.

"Who do you think will win?" Jongho asked, his tone more casual now.

Wooyoung hesitated. "I don't know. How could I?" His voice was quiet. "They’ve all got… something. But no one really caught my eye if you understand what I mean. They seem dull, like most of the nobility I’ve met. I doubt calling any of them my husband will be pleasant.”

Jongho placed a firm hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, grounding him again. “Give yourself some time to open up and get to know them. Who knows, maybe one of those masks hides a real gem.”

Wooyoung managed a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I hope you're right. Let’s go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper as he tore his eyes away from the scene in the courtyard.

Jongho gave a brief nod, his face unreadable as always, and together they resumed their walk down the long corridor. The stone walls echoed their footsteps, the faint hum of activity from the palace slowly fading behind them. 

As soon as they entered the dimly lit room, Wooyoung couldn’t stop himself from circling around Jongho, eager and impatient. “So, where is it? Do you have it with you?” His hands fumbled, instinctively reaching for Jongho’s pockets, searching for the elusive elixir he had been waiting for.

Jongho chuckled softly and gently batted his hands away. “Calm down, Wooyoung. I don’t have it on me. Look over there,” he said, nodding toward a small cup placed by the bedside. The faint steam rising from it was almost invisible in the low light, but it was enough to catch Wooyoung’s attention.

He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. “What does tea have to do with the elixir?” He had expected something more... spectacular.

Jongho, noticing his friend's puzzlement, sighed and explained patiently. “I delivered the elixir to Yeosang before dawn, just as we discussed. I made sure to watch the entire process myself. There’s nothing unusual about it - just a precise mixture of herbs and flowers, carefully measured out. It’s all been handled exactly as requested.”

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment, his fingers nervously brushing against the soft fabric of his coat. “But… has it been tested? By anyone?” A knot of anxiety twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jongho, but something about the idea of drinking a mysterious brew from an old hermit was enough to unsettle him. 

Even though it was his own idea, now when the mixture was already delivered directly to him a strange pang of hesitation hit him. What if it was too strong? What if it wasn’t what he thought? The fear of falling into an eternal sleep instead of finding solace in rest haunted the back of his mind.

Jongho, ever the steady presence, nodded firmly. “Of course, it’s been tested. Yeosang administered a small dose to someone earlier today. We waited several hours, and the tester had no adverse reactions. In fact, he slept soundly, like a newborn. No nightmares, no restlessness.”

Wooyoung relaxed a little at that, though a trace of doubt still lingered. He glanced at the cup again, the warm scent of herbs faintly filling the air around him. It wasn’t what he expected, but maybe that was for the best.

“To be cautious,” Jongho continued, “we’ve started with a smaller dose than the hermit originally prescribed. We’ll gradually increase it if needed, but for now, it should be enough to help you sleep through the night.” He smiled reassuringly, his eyes flicking to the cup. “Yeosang will bring you a fresh infusion every evening, just like this one.”

Wooyoung sighed deeply, feeling the weight of exhaustion pull him toward the bed. He lowered himself onto the soft mattress, his body sinking into the familiar comfort. He stretched his tired limbs, feeling the tightness in his muscles loosen ever so slightly. “I really hope this works, Jongho,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if the thought of sleep alone was enough to lull him into a brief reprieve.

Jongho’s expression softened as he watched his friend. “Me too, Woo,” he said quietly, moving closer to the bed. “You’ve been through a lot. You deserve some peace.”

The quiet in the room was almost suffocating now, broken only by the faint crackle of the oil lamp and the distant murmur of the palace beyond. Wooyoung opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as the reality of it all settled in. Would this small cup of tea, this simple elixir, really be the key to relieving the burden of sleepless nights and restless thoughts?

“I don’t know if I can do it, Jongho,” Wooyoung admitted suddenly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know if I can keep going like this.”

He wasn’t sure himself if he referred only to the insomnia haunting him, or had he thought about more complex thoughts corrupting his mind.

Jongho didn’t respond right away, but Wooyoung could feel the warmth of his presence beside the bed. When Jongho finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady, like an anchor in a storm. “You’re stronger than you think, Wooyoung. You’ll get through this. One step at a time.”

Wooyoung gave a small, tired nod, his eyelids growing heavier by the second. Maybe Jongho was right. Maybe this would be the beginning of the end of his sleepless torment.

“Drink it while it’s warm,” Jongho reminded him, gently placing the cup into Wooyoung’s hands.

Wooyoung took the cup, the warmth of the tea radiating through his palms. He brought it to his lips, the earthy scent of the herbs filling his senses as he took a slow, tentative sip. It tasted slightly bitter but not unpleasant. With each sip, he could feel a wave of drowsiness start to wash over him, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. Finally, as he drained the last of the tea, he handed the empty cup back to Jongho.

“Rest now,” Jongho whispered. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Wooyoung nodded, his body already surrendering to the overwhelming fatigue. Within moments, his eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in days, his mind began to quiet.

…

His eyes remained closed, and he focused on keeping his eyelids relaxed, resisting the urge to squeeze them shut. He knew from experience that the tighter he held them, the more the sensations would intensify, the sharp sting of every drop of water landing on his forehead becoming unbearable. 

What he needed now was for his mind to slip away from his body, to enter that place where physical pain couldn’t reach him. He had mastered this practice long ago - this delicate art of detachment.

It wasn’t a skill he used lightly. Slipping into an almost non-physical state, where his consciousness retreated deep within himself, was something he reserved for moments of extreme need. 

It was a last resort, a survival mechanism for when the world around him became too overwhelming, too crushing. He vividly remembered the first time he’d used this technique. It had been years ago, during one of those long, agonizing nights at home, when everything had seemed too much to bear. 

Tears had burned behind his eyes, threatening to spill, as a woman’s voice screamed in fury, her words tearing through the air like shards of glass. The sound had driven him out of the house, propelled him into the night without thought, without direction. He hadn’t even bothered to grab his cloak. He’d simply run, as fast and as far as his legs would carry him, until he’d reached the one place where he could breathe again: a secluded meadow deep in the forest.

That meadow had become his sanctuary, his refuge from the chaos of the outside world. Surrounded by towering trees and the gentle hum of nature, he had found peace in the rustling of the leaves and the soft chirping of birds. The crisp breeze had wrapped around him like a protective embrace, and for a moment, he could pretend that the burdens of his life didn’t exist. 

Every time he fled there, he wished he could stay forever, to lose himself in the serenity of the woods and never return. But no matter how much he craved that life, he knew it wasn’t his path to take. He wasn’t destined for peace. Not yet.

The weight on his shoulders - the responsibility, the unresolved fury that boiled within him - was too great. He couldn’t afford to dream of a quiet life. He could long for it all he wanted, could fantasize about disappearing into the wilderness and living as a simple villager, but it was an illusion. 

His true desire, the one that burned hotter than any dream of tranquility, was for revenge.

The weight of the vow he made so many years ago haunted his nights, turning even moments of rest into a battleground. Each night, the ghost of that promise returned, twisting his thoughts and pushing his body closer to the brink of collapse. 

What had once been a solemn oath had now become the fuel driving him, day after day, toward one singular purpose: vegnance. His desire wasn’t a fleeting hunger but a gnawing obsession, fed by the bitter taste of injustice.

It was not fate that had dealt this cruel hand but King Jaeseong himself. The fire that had raged through his home that fateful night was not merely an accident of chance - it was an act of destruction ordered by the crown. 

The flames that consumed his home, reducing it to ash, now coursed through his veins, scorching away any hope for peace. That night, the life he had known was swallowed whole by the inferno, and from those ashes rose a singular, burning goal - to see justice done, no matter the cost.

Drip.

The water slid down his forehead, following a familiar path along his temple before vanishing into his damp hair. Seven days had passed since the start of the tournament, and with each passing hour, his resolve grew stronger. 

He was now halfway through the event, and from the initial group of fifteen competitors, only six remained. These were the strongest, the fiercest, the ones who had proven themselves worthy of the title they sought. But today’s challenge was different. 

Today, the tournament wasn’t testing their physical prowess. It was testing their minds. 

Drop.

San’s muscles tensed involuntarily, frustration rippling through his forearms as he gripped the table harder. He hadn’t expected today’s challenge to be this dull, nor this grueling in its simplicity. 

The Chinese water torture was a psychological weapon, designed to break a person’s mental fortitude, to push them past their limits with nothing more than the steady, rhythmic dripping of water onto their foreheads. 

Each competitor was bound to a solid table in separate cells, motionless, as ice-cold water dripped from buckets suspended above them.

At first, the cold had been shocking, a jolt to the system that made them all gasp. But after four long hours, the water had warmed to room temperature. 

Drip.

The irregularity of the drops was the worst part. There was no pattern, no rhythm to follow. Sometimes they came in quick succession, and sometimes minutes passed between each one. It was maddening. 

Under different conditions, this torture could last an entire day, but San knew that someone’s mind would give out before then. The first two competitors to rise from their spot and surrender would be eliminated. 

And no one wanted to be the first to fall.

He could feel the tension in the air, hear the subtle shifts of the others as they fought to remain still. 

Their cells were close enough to hear each other if some were to focus enough on the sounds, the walls didn’t muffle much.

San lips had dried, parching his throat. His entire body ached from the strain of remaining motionless for so long. Every fiber of his being screamed for relief, for water. But he couldn’t give in.

There was no audience for today’s trial, providing not a single distraction from the crowd. It was all about the competitors and putting their minds to the limit.

But San didn’t care whether there were spectators or not. He didn’t need their cheers, his only focus was on surviving, on outlasting the others, on proving that he was stronger - not just in body, but in mind.

Drip.

Hours dragged on, the relentless dripping of water continuing its torturous rhythm, the discomfort had only grown worse. 

Then, suddenly, a sharp sound cut through the air - someone had moved.

San’s heart leapt in his chest as he heard the telltale shuffle of fabric, followed by a groan of defeat. The first competitor had finally broken, rising from their spot, conceding the challenge. 

But as much as he wanted to feel relief, a heavy weight settled in his chest instead - he didn’t know who had given up. His thoughts immediately turned to Mingi. Had it been him?

The very idea made San’s throat tighten. Mingi was strong, but this trial wasn’t about physical strength. If Mingi had succumbed to the psychological torment, it would mean that San’s greatest ally in the tournament was gone. 

He couldn't risk losing focus now. One more. Just one more competitor had to fall, and he would be safe for this round. 

He was teetering on the edge of his own limits, his mind frayed by the endless monotony, his body screaming for relief. But he couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t be the next to rise. The silence was deafening. Time felt like it had slowed to a crawl, each second stretching endlessly as he waited. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on, but he knew he had to.

The only sign that nearly an entire day had passed since the trial began was the fading sunlight. The once-bright rays now slipped through the bars of the small window, casting long shadows across the cell. After hours of lying motionless, a tingling sensation spread through San’s entire body, the numbness slowly giving way to discomfort. Every drop of water hitting his forehead unleashed another wave of frustration.

Drip.

He began to wonder how much longer his body could last without water.

Drop.

It felt as if the relentless dripping had carved a dent into his forehead. His skin, irritated and raw, burned with the worst kind of pain.

“It’s over. Congratulations,” a guard's voice broke the silence as he entered the room, reaching to unfasten the shackles around San’s ankles and wrists, which had kept him bound in place throughout the entire trial.

“What do you mean it’s over?” San's voice was hoarse. He must have missed the moment when the second person finally broke.

San blinked, his mind still foggy from the hours of enduring the torturous drip of water on his forehead. His limbs felt like lead, stiff from disuse, and his skin throbbed where the water had continuously struck.

He forced himself to sit up slowly, his body protesting every movement. His vision blurred momentarily, but when it cleared, he glanced around the room. It was empty, save for the guard, who had already moved on to the next competitor, releasing them from their restraints.

San’s mind raced as he tried to process what the guard had said. It’s over . He made his way out of the room, gathering at the cobble corridor, where rest of the contestants had already gathered, two of them had their masks taken off in a symbol of defeat. Thankfully, none of them was Mingi, which made him sigh in relief.

The guard straightened up, addressing the room. “Two competitors have been eliminated. The rest of you may rest until the next trial.”

His eyes scanned the room again, this time slower, more deliberate. Then, finally, he saw Mingi rubbing his wrists, looking as exhausted as San felt. They had both made it. Locking gaze with each other, a single nod of the head was enough for them to understand each other without words.

San made his way out of the trial chamber, his steps slow and deliberate, every muscle in his body aching from the long hours of torture. He kept his expression neutral, masking any sign of emotion or relief that might betray the weight lifted from his shoulders now that the trial was over.

The path back to his quarters was quiet, the corridors mostly empty as the other competitors retreated to their own spaces to recover. San moved with purpose, heading straight to his room without glancing around, careful not to draw attention to himself. 

Reaching his chamber, San entered without hesitation, closing the door behind him. He took a moment to sit on the edge of his bed, exhaling slowly as he let his body relax. His mind, however, remained sharp. He had to be strategic, cautious. He couldn’t rush to Mingi’s side, not yet. Any hint of an alliance between them would be dangerous, especially now that the competition was thinning.

After a few minutes of resting and collecting himself, San stood up again, his movements more fluid now that he’d regained some strength. He left his room, moving quietly through the halls, keeping his pace steady, casual, as though he were simply taking a walk to clear his head after the trial. His eyes, however, were alert, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. He couldn’t afford to be followed. Every turn he made, he did so with caution, doubling back a few times to ensure no one was tracking his movements.

Finally, when he was sure the coast was clear, he approached the corridor that led to Mingi’s quarters. He reached the door, pausing for a moment to listen for any sounds behind him. The hallway was silent. Satisfied, San knocked softly, a signal only Mingi would recognize, before slipping inside the room.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Did anyone follow you?”

“No, we’re good. The hall is empty.” San sat down heavily on the chair across from Mingi, letting out a deep breath. “Just one trial left, huh? I can’t believe it’s almost over. The opponents… too easy.”

Mingi leaned back, kicking his feet up on a nearby stool, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, don’t even get me started. It’s like they’re barely even trying anymore. We haven’t had to lift a finger. Where’s the real fun in that?”

San smirked. “Fun? We didn’t come here for fun. We came here to win.” His voice was low, a sharp edge of warning threading through it. He glanced toward the door, ensuring it was still shut tight. “But yeah, one trial left. Who knows what kind of game they’ll throw at us. We can’t afford to underestimate them, especially after that water torture. Cruel, even for the gold-blooded.”

“At least we made it,” Mingi replied with a stretch, his arms rising above his head. “Could’ve been worse. Honestly, though, I’m surprised that muscle-bound idiot from a few days ago hasn’t dropped out yet. You remember? The one who kept flexing for the crowd and grinning like he was some kind of hero.”

“Which one?” San’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Mr. Biceps?”

Mingi laughed out loud at the nickname, shaking his head. “That’s the one! All talk, no game. He’s been all show since the first day. We’ll take care of him in the next trial, and if everything goes the way we planned, we’ll be facing each other in the finals.”

San stood, feeling the tension in his legs ease as he stretched. His footsteps were soft as he began pacing around the room. “And when that happens, one of us takes the throne. The rest of the plan will fall into place.”

Mingi’s gaze followed San as he moved, his eyes sharp with focus. “Speaking of that,” Mingi cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. His voice lowered to a near whisper. “I got word earlier today. Seonghwa finally found the plant - the one we’ve been waiting for. The missing ingredient.”

San stopped pacing, his expression shifting from curiosity to intent focus. “The one for the elixir?”

Mingi nodded, sitting up straight now. “Yeah, he’s going to start working on it immediately. It won’t take long.”

San’s mind raced. The elixir, the final piece they needed to complete the intricate puzzle of their plan, was within reach. “And mother and Seonghwa - have they finalized everything? How are we going to administer the poison to the prince without suspicion falling on his spouse? No matter which of us wins the final trial, we need to make sure everything is perfect. There can’t be any mistakes.”

Mingi rubbed the back of his neck, his brows knitting together in thought. “Seonghwa assured us that the poison won’t show any symptoms in small doses. It’s slow, subtle. It’ll take longer than we’d like, but it’ll be just as effective. The prince won’t even know what’s happening until it’s too late.”

San’s expression darkened, his fingers twitching slightly as the weight of the plan settled over him. “It has to be flawless. One slip-up and everything we’ve worked for will fall apart. Do you think Prince Wooyoung is naive enough to drink an elixir from a husband he barely knows?”

Mingi smirked, his confidence unshaken. “Wooyoung? That pampered fool? He’ll be too distracted by the festivities and his newfound ‘love’ to question anything. He’s been sheltered his entire life. He won’t see it coming.”

San narrowed his eyes, but a small, cold smile crossed his lips. “Good. The less he suspects, the easier this will be. Once he’s out of the picture, the real fun begins.”

Mingi leaned back again, letting out a satisfied sigh. “I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.”

San chuckled, though there was no warmth in the sound. “He’ll serve his purpose, and then he’ll be gone. That’s all that matters.”

There was a brief silence as the two of them sat in the dimly lit room, their thoughts aligning with the dark future they were crafting. The weight of their decisions hung in the air, but there was no turning back now.

“You know,” San finally said, his voice thoughtful. “We’ve come too far to let this slip through our fingers. One more trial, one more step. After that, everything we’ve fought for will be ours. No one will stand in our way.”

Mingi grinned, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “To the revenge, then.”

San nodded, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and anticipation. “To the revenge.”

And with that, they sealed their pact in silence, both knowing that once the final trial was over, their world - and the kingdom - would never be the same again.

Chapter Text

4.

"I have to admit, the tailor really outdid himself," Yeosang said with a tone of admiration, his fingers delicately tracing the intricate embroidery along the collar of the white jacket. Pearls and small diamonds shimmered in the light, catching every glimmer and refracting it into a subtle, mesmerizing display. It was a suit fit for royalty, designed with painstaking detail to highlight every inch of Wooyoung’s figure. “This is the kind of craftsmanship that makes even the finest kings envious.”

Wooyoung, however, wasn’t as impressed. He tugged at the stiff fabric of his trousers, which clung to his legs a little too tightly for his liking. “It’s a nightmare to wear, though,” His voice held a faint edge of irritation as he shifted uncomfortably. “I really don’t get the point of going so over-the-top with a suit when I’ll just be putting on the ceremonial robes anyway.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes, not surprised by Wooyoung’s usual impatience. “But that’s just for the coronation. Don’t forget, you’ll be in this suit during the wedding, and all day afterward. You need to look like a king, Woo. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure your future husband’s jaw hits the floor when he sees you. Who knows, it might give you a little extra leverage.” Yeosang winked, clearly teasing but also knowing the power of appearances.

“Yeosang,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped to a warning tone. He shot his friend a sharp look before continuing. “We agreed you wouldn’t bring it up.”

Yeosang waved his hand dismissively, not backing down. “Oh, come on, don’t be so stiff about it. We’re at your wedding fitting, for heaven’s sake. I think I’m allowed to mention the fact that you’re getting married.” He nudged Wooyoung’s arm lightly, the teasing smile still plastered on his face. “In just over a week, our little Wooyoungie will be a married man and a king. Talk about a transformation.”

Wooyoung sighed, feeling the weight of that statement as it settled on his chest. His gaze flicked toward Jongho, who had been standing stoically by the door since they had entered. Jongho’s presence was that of a quiet sentinel, always watching, always protecting. 

"How are you feeling?" Jongho asked, his voice low but steady.

"Stressed, mostly," Wooyoung admitted, his hands brushing absently over the jacket, smoothing the fabric though it was already perfectly pressed. "I want to be a better king than my father, and..." He hesitated, his throat tightening. There was so much to live up to, so many expectations weighing on him.

Jongho’s eyes softened slightly, though his expression remained firm. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, lowering his voice. “Did the elixir help? You look more rested today.”

Wooyoung blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. Then a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Oh, yeah. It helped a lot, actually. For the first time in weeks, I slept through the entire night. I feel... fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jongho nodded, his gaze filled with a quiet understanding.

Before the conversation could take an even more serious turn, Yeosang jumped back in, his voice cutting through the moment. “Good to hear you’re well-rested, Woo. Now, come on, we still have the second outfit to try on. We’re not done yet.”

Wooyoung groaned audibly, throwing his head back in exasperation. “Why do I even need a second outfit? This suit is already way too much. It’s more than enough.”

Yeosang’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned in slightly. “Who said anything about another suit? The second outfit is for the wedding night.”

Wooyoung froze, his expression shifted from annoyance to outright disbelief. His eyes widened in shock as he processed Yeosang’s words. “What? Absolutely not.” His voice turned cold, sharp like a blade cutting through the air. “There will be no wedding night, Yeosang. You know full well that there’s no need for that, and having sex with a stranger won't do any good for the kingdom.”

Yeosang shrugged. “You might not think so, but appearances matter, especially to the court. It wouldn’t hurt to-”

“I said no.” Wooyoung’s tone was final, his hands already working to remove the jacket. He was done with this conversation. “You can return whatever ridiculous outfit the tailor-made for that and tell him I don’t want to see it. Ever.”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, amused but also slightly concerned. “You’re really going to avoid this, huh?”

Wooyoung bet his ass, he would. Not even once in his life had he lain with anyone, neither women nor men. It was beyond his reach, something connected to the ‘keeping purity until marriage’ rule. Besides, the royal family couldn’t afford to have bastards or any other risks associated with spending the night with random people.

He was not ashamed of being a virgin, it had never been a big deal for him - nothing worth worrying about.

But the thought of his first intimate encounter being with someone he would have met just moments before the wedding made him feel incredibly uneasy.

“Enough, Yeosang.” Wooyoung’s voice was quieter now, but there was a weight behind it, something heavier than mere irritation. “This marriage... it’s not about love, or tradition, or any of the things people think it is. It’s about power. And I will not play into the illusion of something it’s not, especially not when it includes intimacy.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension thick in the air. Yeosang, sensing that he’d pushed enough, held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No wedding night outfit. I get it. But...” He hesitated, glancing toward Jongho before looking back at Wooyoung. “Just remember, Woo. You’re stepping into a world where every little detail will be scrutinized. You can’t afford to slip. You need to build a strong partnership between you two.”

He knew that better than anyone. “I won’t slip,” he said, determination hardening his voice. “I'll find a way to play pretend, I've done it all my life. You’ll see me being the best partner he could dream of.” He grinned mischievously. 

Wooyoung buttoned up his shirt nervously, tugging on the sleeves. “Shall we go? The trial is about to start.”

With a small nod, Jongho stepped forward and opened the door. The hallway stretched ahead of them, a path leading to the arena where the final competitors would fight for their chance at the throne. 

With each step they took, Wooyoung could feel his heartbeat quicken, a steady drum in his chest. Despite the growing tension, he kept his head high, his pace measured. Appearances, after all, were everything.

The walk was shorter than he expected, and before long, the grand arena came into view. The air was different here - charged, electric. Wooyoung took a deep breath as they approached the royal platform where his fathers already sat.

"Right on time," King Jaeseong said, his voice smooth and steady. He gestured for Wooyoung to sit.

Wooyoung nodded in response and took his seat, eyes immediately drawn to the arena below. The competitors stood in formation, pairs already selected, their fencing gear gleaming under the afternoon sun. 

Each figure looked identical, with their faces hidden beneath the custom headgear that not only protected them but stripped away their identities for the trial.

The sabres in their hands hung loosely at their sides, but Wooyoung could sense the tension in their bodies, muscles coiled, ready to spring into action at the sound of the signal. 

The crowd buzzed in excitement, but it was a controlled hum as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable clash.

…

San stood in a ready position, his right side slightly angled forward, weight distributed evenly between his feet. His opponent mirrored his stance, a man of similar build, though the wrinkles on his hands betrayed his older age. San narrowed his eyes, assessing the situation. 

He adjusted his foot, ensuring it touched the starting line precisely. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sabre, muscles tensing in anticipation. The arena fell into a hush, the only sound the soft rustle of the competitors’ uniforms.

The guard’s signal cut through the silence, and they launched forward simultaneously. San’s blade flicked out in a lightning-quick thrust, aiming for his opponent’s chest. His opponent blocked the strike with a swift parry, their sabres clanging together with a sharp metallic sound that echoed through the arena.

San immediately stepped back, adjusting his stance. His eyes remained locked on his opponent, watching every movement, every shift in weight. His opponent counterattacked with a series of rapid strikes, each one aimed with deadly precision. But San’s reflexes were sharper, and he deftly deflected each blow, his movements graceful yet powerful.

The older man lunged forward, hoping to catch San off-guard with a sudden aggressive move. But San anticipated the strike, side-stepping with a fluid motion and using the momentum to swing his sabre in a wide arc. The tip of his blade grazed his opponent's shoulder, earning him the first point.

San didn’t allow himself to relax - the fight was far from over. His opponent, though momentarily stunned, recovered quickly. The man’s face was a mask of determination as he readied himself for another attack.

The next exchange was faster, more intense. San’s opponent fought with the kind of ferocity born from years of experience, his strikes growing more unpredictable. 

However San remained calm, his movements efficient, as if every step had been planned in advance. He began to push his opponent back, slowly gaining control of the fight.

A final thrust came from the older man, desperate and forceful, but San sidestepped once more, his sabre gliding smoothly in a counterattack. 

With a sharp twist of his wrist, he disarmed his opponent, sending the sabre clattering to the ground.

The arena erupted in applause as San lowered his weapon, victorious. He glanced up at the balcony where Prince Wooyoung sat, his expression unchanged, arms crossed over his chest.

“We have the first finalist!” The guard announced. 

The crowd's roar intensified, and the pressure weighed heavily on San as he stepped aside, his pulse quickening with anticipation. He watched as Mingi took his place on the starting line, ready to face Mr. Biceps - the nickname they had given the arrogant competitor who now stood proudly opposite him. 

The man’s posture was bold, his chest puffed out as if to declare his superiority before the fight had even begun. Mingi, on the other hand, was calm and focused, his gaze never leaving his opponent as he adjusted his stance.

San leaned slightly, his eyes fixed on Mingi. He had to win. “Good luck, brother,” San whispered as Mingi passed him by, keeping his tone light but meaningful. Mingi nodded slightly, his jaw tightening in response.

The sound signaling start of the match cut through the air. Mingi moved first, his sabre slicing through the air with a swift, precise motion. His opponent, despite his bulky frame, reacted quickly, parrying the strike with surprising finesse. Their sabres clanged together, sparks flying as metal met metal, the match immediately intense.

Mingi danced on his feet, using his agility to outmaneuver Mr. Biceps. His strikes were calculated, probing for weaknesses, but his opponent was relentless. 

Despite his showy demeanor, the opponent proved to be a formidable adversary, his muscles not just for show but a testament to his strength and endurance. He blocked each of Mingi’s attacks, responding with heavy, forceful swings that pushed Mingi back.

The match became a careful balance of speed versus strength. Mingi dodged a powerful strike, countering with a quick thrust toward Mr. Biceps’ side. For a moment, it seemed like the blow might land, but at the last second, the other twisted his body, deflecting the blade and retaliating with a strike that clipped Mingi's shoulder.

The crowd gasped, and Mingi staggered back, his breathing heavy. He quickly recovered, refusing to give up ground, but it was clear he was tiring. Mr. Biceps, seeing his opening, pressed the advantage, delivering a series of powerful blows that Mingi struggled to keep up with.

Finally, with one decisive move, Mr. Biceps swung low, catching Mingi off-guard. The blade connected with Mingi’s thigh, and though it was a minor hit, it was enough to unbalance him. Mingi stumbled, and before he could fully recover, Mr. Biceps struck again - this time, a clean hit to the chest.

The guard raised his hand, signaling the end of the match. Mingi had lost.

Mr. Biceps, victorious, immediately raised his sabre to the sky, flexing his muscles for the crowd with a smug grin plastered across his face. He basked in their cheers, feeding off their adoration as if the entire arena were there to worship him. He strutted around the arena, pumping his fists and flaunting his win as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Mingi, though clearly disappointed, kept his composure. He removed his headgear and nodded respectfully toward his opponent, though it was clear from his clenched jaw and stiff movements that the loss stung.

San, watching from the sidelines, could barely conceal his frustration. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Now the responsibility of winning the tournament and securing the prince’s hand rested on his shoulders. Everything depended on him.

The guard stepped to the center of the arena. "We have our second finalist," he announced, pausing as the crowd’s applause swelled and then slowly faded. "Both finalists, step forward."

San took his position once again, this time standing beside the guard, facing the royal balcony. His gaze, though hidden behind the headgear, remained fixed on the prince. Wooyoung’s eyes shifted between the two finalists, his expression thoughtful as if he were studying their stances, evaluating them.

San noticed something was different about the prince. His posture wasn’t as tense as usual - he appeared more relaxed, almost curious. His eyes moved over their forms, analyzing every detail.

"The final will take place tomorrow," the guard shouted, his voice echoing through the arena. "Tomorrow, we will discover who will earn the honor of becoming the future royal consort."

The crowd stirred in anticipation.

"Now," the guard continued, his tone commanding, "starting with the finalist to my right, declare the weapon you will use in the final."

Mr. Biceps, standing proudly, puffed out his chest, trying to make an impression. "I ch-choose the sword," he stammered, his voice cracking embarrassingly. The awkward squeak echoed through the arena.

San caught a glimpse of the prince struggling to stifle a laugh, his lips pressing together as he turned his gaze away, clearly amused.

Hearing his rival’s choice of weapon, San didn’t hesitate for even a second. “Sai,” he called out smoothly, his voice reverberating across the arena.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as they processed his unusual choice of weapon. The sai, with its short reach and the years of training it required to master, made San’s selection bold and unexpected. For a fighter to choose such a weapon in a duel against a sword spoke of immense confidence in his own skill.

Wooyoung, hearing his confident and steady voice, felt a slight chill run down his spine. In comparison to the other finalist, the voice held authority, no sign of the nervous cracks that had plagued Mr. Biceps’ earlier declaration. 

He realized, with some surprise, that he was already thinking about who he would root for in the final. It was undeniable - both finalists had proven themselves to be the strongest competitors in the entire tournament. However, one of them's arrogance and inflated ego had soured Wooyoung’s opinion. He was tired of nobles who saw nothing beyond their own inflated sense of self-importance.

As for the other finalist… he didn’t stand out in any particularly flashy way. He wasn’t one to boast or seek attention. He was simply quiet, skilled, and efficient. And perhaps that simplicity was what made him intriguing. There was no flamboyance, no need to show off - just pure talent and focus.

Wooyoung’s gaze lingered on him, curiosity creeping into his mind. For the first time, he wondered who the man behind the mask truly was.

…

The following day, San stood in the center of the battleground, tightening the bandages around his wrists with focused precision. His mind wandered back to the conversation he’d had with Mingi just before the final battle that was about to begin.

“Do it for us, San. Show Mother that all those years of preparation weren’t in vain,” Mingi had said, patting his brother’s back in a gesture of support, though his eyes were hard with determination. “You’re our last hope.”

San took a deep breath, fastening the last button of his battle attire - a simple linen shirt that clung to his chest, covering every inch of skin. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, yet it did nothing to shake his confidence.

“You can count on it,” San had replied, his voice steady with certainty. “The king won’t even have time to blink before the match is over.” A mischievous grin spread across his face.

“Just be careful he doesn’t cut you,” Mingi warned, the tension in his voice betrayed his worry.

“Mingi…” San sighed, slipping the mask over his face as he moved toward the exit of his chamber. “I came here to win and won’t settle for less.”

Now, as he secured the last of his bandages, San felt an overwhelming calm settle over him. Despite the noise of the arena - the chants of excitement - his mind was elsewhere, focused, clear. 

He would win. That much he was certain. It was his destiny. 

But beneath that ironclad confidence lay a single fear: that his opponent might land a blow, even a minor one. Any injury, even the smallest scratch, could reveal a drop of his silver blood. Blood that had no place in this tournament, and certainly no right to compete for the hand of the prince. 

That same silver blood had driven him to train harder than anyone else, to defeat opponents whose veins ran with the purest gold. But lineage alone wasn’t enough.

San had meticulously covered every inch of exposed skin, leaving only his fingers and the small strip of flesh between his mask and hairline exposed. His sharp gaze, unyielding and intense, locked onto the prince sitting in his usual place on the royal balcony. 

Today, Wooyoung bore an uncanny resemblance to his father. The same stoic expression graced both their faces, the same haughty lift of the chin. Their perfectly sculpted features mirrored one another, making them appear like reflections of the same figure.

San’s jaw clenched as he studied the prince’s face, the face resembling the one that had fueled the fire of hatred in his veins for almost half of his life. 

Even though he didn't know much about the prince, he hated him. He hated Wooyoung for reminding him of the king who had brought death upon his family. He hated the king for bringing fire and terror upon innocent people.

The face that Wooyoung shared with Jaesong ignited in him a singular, all-consuming desire.

To get revenge.

This was only the beginning of his vengeance.

"Subjects! Today marks the fateful day when, in a bloody duel, the rightful victor will be chosen, proving their worth and skill..." The king's voice sent a shiver down San's spine. The speech was cut short for effect, the dramatic pause heightening the tension. "A battle to the death. The one who stands alone in the arena and raises their weapon in victory will win the hand of my son."

San froze in place. A fight to the death?

His breath caught in his throat. He had been prepared for anything. He was ready to win every competition, to wield any weapon with expert precision. He could push himself beyond any limit - except this one.

He wasn’t ready to kill. Even if it meant losing.

His hands began to tremble uncontrollably as the guard announced the upcoming start, instructing both fighters to step into the designated area. 

His mind raced through memories, moments flashing before his eyes. Every time he’d faced the final decision to take a life - whether it was an animal or an opponent - he had always hesitated, backing away at the last moment, unable to make that final strike.

"Good luck, may the best win," the guard declared, signaling the beginning of the duel.

San tightened his grip on the sai, forcing his hands to stop shaking. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced his breathing to slow, sharpening his focus. Across from him, his opponent stood tall, his posture mirroring San's determination. They locked eyes for a brief moment - a glimpse of fervor flashed through San’s eyes.

The first strike came swiftly, his rival lunging forward with a powerful slash aimed at San's side. The attack was fast, but not unexpected. San raised his sai in a fluid motion, crossing the blades to block the strike. The impact sent a jolt through his arms. He let the attack glance off, pivoting slightly to absorb the force without losing balance.

His opponent didn't let up. Another blow came from above, then from the side, each one fueled by brute strength. San stayed on the defensive, using his sai to block and deflect the strikes with precision. 

Each clang of metal against metal echoed across the arena, the crowd's murmurs growing louder with every exchange. Mr. Biceps was relentless, but San could see the cracks forming in his endurance. The man's wild energy, though powerful, was unsustainable.

San dodged a wide horizontal slash, twisting his body just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly by. 

The clash of metal continued to echo across the arena, San expertly blocking and parrying each strike from his opponent. Sweat trickled down his temples as he maintained his defensive posture, but Mr. Biceps, despite his growing exhaustion, still had one trick up his sleeve.

With a sudden burst of strength, he swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming directly at San’s torso. 

The speed of the attack took San off guard for just a split second - enough for the blade to graze his chest, slicing through the fabric of his shirt.

A sharp sound filled the air as the blade cut clean through the linen. San barely avoided a deeper wound, twisting his body at the last moment to dodge the full force of the strike. 

He staggered back, regaining his balance, but his chest was now exposed - the ripped shirt hanging loosely, revealing the defined muscles underneath.

The reaction from the crowd was immediate. A collective gasp went through the audience, followed by high-pitched squeals and murmurs. Several women in the front rows clutched at their companions, eyes wide with admiration as they took in the sight of San's bare, chiseled chest. The toned lines of his muscles gleamed.

Despite the near-miss, San remained composed. He felt the cool breeze on his skin, immediately checking if there was a tear in his skin but luckily not a single droplet of blood was visible.

His rival, noticing the attention San was receiving, clenched his jaw in frustration. He had intended to end the fight with that strike, but instead, it had only added to San's aura of strength. 

The prince, seated above, couldn’t help but glance at the exposed muscles, his stoic expression faltering ever so slightly as he studied the unwavering focus in San’s eyes.

San, however, paid no mind to the attention. His focus was solely on the fight, his heart racing not from the brush with danger but from the drive to win without compromising his values.

Instead of counterattacking immediately, San continued to let his opponent wear himself out, waiting for the perfect moment. He swung the sword again, his movements becoming more labored, more desperate. Sweat dripped from his brow as his breathing became ragged. 

Then, it happened. The opponent overcommitted, putting too much weight into a downward strike. San sidestepped, letting the blade crash into the ground, and before he could recover, San moved in.

In one swift motion, San hooked the prongs of his sai around the hilt of Mr. Biceps' sword, wrenching it from his grasp. The sword flew from his hand, landing a few feet away with a dull thud. The crowd gasped, sensing the shift in power.

Now disarmed, he let out a furious roar, charging at San with his bare fists, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer physical strength. But San was ready. 

He ducked beneath the wild punch, slipping past his opponent and spinning around him in one smooth motion. With a precise strike, San jabbed the blunt end of his sai into the side of Mr. Biceps' knee, forcing him to collapse to the ground.

But even on his knees, Mr. Biceps refused to give up. He lunged again, trying to grab San, but San sidestepped once more. This time, he brought his sai up to Mr. Biceps' throat, pressing the blunt edge against the man's skin. The crowd held its breath as San paused, his opponent panting heavily, beaten but still alive.

San’s mind raced. He could end this here and now - finish the duel and claim victory. But as the king's words echoed in his head, a battle to the death, something inside him refused to follow through.

He couldn’t kill him. 

He swung his sai with precision, the hilt aimed directly at the back of his opponent’s head. With a swift, calculated force, San delivered a powerful strike, the impact resonating through the air. The sound was sharp, followed by an eerie silence as Mr. Biceps’ body froze, eyes rolling back momentarily before crashing to the ground in a lifeless heap.

San watched as his opponent collapsed, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the adrenaline coursing through him. He lay sprawled at his feet, unconscious, his body completely limp.

The crowd erupted into a mixture of chants and confusion as San stepped back, lowering his sai. 

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” Resonated through the arena.

He could feel the eyes of everyone on him, especially the Kings’ and the Prince, but his decision was made. He would not take a life to prove his worth.

San raised his sai, waiting for the guard to state him as a winner. But the guard seemed to hesitate, looking toward the king.

“It's not the end yet,” the king stated, gaze fixed over San. “The rules were clear enough, you have to put his life to an end.”

“Your Highness,” San bowed down in an empty gesture. “With all due respect, the rules said I had to stand alone and raise my weapon, not to take away his life.”

Raising his eyes he saw fury igniting in King Jaesong. 

“You dare to undermine my authority?! Scared to stain your hands with blood? You are not worthy of being king,” he spit out in anger.

San lowered his gaze, neck bending low although spite was buzzing in his veins. 

“Worthless bunch of warriors, one lays unconscious on the ground and the other is scared to put the show to an end. Neither of you is good enough to-”

“I demand a council meeting," Prince Wooyoung cut in. San lifted his gaze in surprise. 

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. San glanced up toward the royal balcony where Prince Wooyoung sat. The prince’s eyes were fixed on him, unreadable yet undeniably focused. “We will vote on the outcome of the tournament, and a decision will be made within two days."

The King’s furious gaze bore into San. Wooyoung’s sudden intervention had shifted the balance of power in a way no one had expected.

The crowd, sensing the shift, began to murmur. Some whispered in confusion, others in frustration. 

As the guards began to approach to retrieve the unconscious body of his opponent, San took one last look at the royal balcony. Wooyoung’s posture remained composed, but his eyes followed every movement San made, a sparkle gleaming in his gaze. 

“Return to your quarters,” the head guard ordered, snapping San out of his thoughts. He nodded, slipping his sai back into the holsters, and began walking off the arena floor. 

As he passed through the corridors, the cheers of the crowd faded behind him, leaving only the echoes of his own footsteps to fill the silence.

When San finally reached the solitude of his room, he closed the door and leaned heavily against it, exhaling loudly.

A solid knock interrupted his thoughts.

“San?” Although muffled, he recognized the voice - Mingi.

San opened the door to find his brother standing there, anger etched on his face. Without a word, Mingi stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“What the fuck was that? Why didn't you kill him!” He paced around the room. “You had the crown right at the palm of your hand and wasted the opportunity just like that.”

“Calm down. It's not over, the council has yet to vote…”

“How will you fulfill our plan if the council won't vote in your favor? What do you think will happen if you don't become the King? Did you think about that? Or were you blinded by fear, not strong enough to kill? ” Mingi snapped at him.

“Not strong enough? Wasn't that you who wasn’t good enough to even reach the final?” San didn't buckle down, pointing an angry finger at Mingi. “Cut that bullshit!”

“God damn, you know I won't. Thirteen years of bloody training just to give up right at the end? Go fuck yourself San, it's not only about you. Stop being selfish for once, shove your morals, aside and do. Your. Fucking. Job.” Every word was accented by a heavy push against San's chest.

“You dare to call me selfish?” San chuckled, frozen in disbelief. 

“You disappointed me, and most of all our mother.”

“She is not our real mother, don’t forget that,” San gritted his teeth.

“See my point? After everything she has done, you won't even acknowledge it. Selfish. She saved our lives, giving us the chance to avenge our families.”

“She did it for herself, I'm doing it for myself. Our paths are laced together but our reasons are not.”

Mingi’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and desperation. “You think this is just about you? It’s not. This isn’t only about your personal revenge or some moral high ground. It's not about her either. This is about a better future for all of us, silver-blooded people.”

San’s expression hardened, his frustration evident. “What are you trying to say? That I should sacrifice my principles to please everyone?”

“Damn right!” Mingi shot back, his voice rising. “We’re not just fighting for a crown - we’re fighting for everyone. So shove your morals up your ass, San.”

San’s shoulders tensed, his internal conflict evident. “And what if that future is built on bloodshed and betrayal? That kind of legacy is already built by the Jung dynasty, we don't need repetition.”

Mingi stepped closer, his voice a harsh whisper. “We’re in a position to change things, to make life better. So just stick to the plan - get close to the Prince, poison him, and take over the throne. Simple as that.”

“You don't have to remind me.” San let out a sigh. “Everything is under control.”

“You call this under control?” Mingi snorted, halting his movement. 

“The prince seemed intrigued by me, didn't he?” 

Mingi seemed to be on the edge of fury.

“You’re walking on the edge, San and one misstep will ruin everything we’ve built."

San crossed his arms, staring down his brother. "I know what I'm doing, Mingi."

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re gambling with our future.”

San clenched his jaw, his voice dropping. “I didn’t kill him because I refuse to be like them . Like the King. Like his whole bloodline of tyrants. Poisoning the Prince is one thing, but killing someone who’s already defenseless?” He shook his head.

"We’ve always been at the bottom, treated as if we’re nothing, but this is our chance to flip the script. If you don’t get that throne, if you don’t follow through, then we’re just going to remain slaves to their whims!" 

San’s eyes flickered with his internal struggle, but he held his ground. “I’m going to win the prince's trust. I’ll poison him, but on my terms.”

Mingi’s lip curled into a sneer. "Your terms? You’re still thinking like a child. This isn't a game, San. You think the Prince being intrigued by you is enough? You think he'll just hand you the kingdom because you're charming?"

“He’s curious,” San countered, a glint of confidence in his eyes. “That’s the first step. I’ll get close enough to him. And when the time is right-”

“When the time is right?” Mingi interrupted, his voice dripping with scorn. “Do you even hear yourself? You had the moment. You could’ve killed your opponent and cemented your place. But now, you’ve left everything in the hands of the council. Waiting for their mercy.”

San’s frustration flared. “I know that! But I’m not going to risk everything by being reckless. Wooyoung is watching me. I’ve caught his attention, and that’s how we’ll win this.”

Mingi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re playing a dangerous game, brother. I just hope you’re as clever as you think you are.”

San met his brother’s gaze, unwavering. "I am."

For a long moment, the tension between them lingered. Finally, Mingi shook his head, stepping back toward the door. “Just remember,” he said quietly, his voice cold, “if you fail, you’re dragging all of us down with you.”

With that, Mingi turned and exited the room, leaving San standing alone in the deafening silence. 

…

Wooyoung anxiously picked at his cuticles while surrounded by the council, who were deeply engaged in deliberating the previous day's finale.

“Care to explain your reasoning, Prince?” Kim Chul asked, gaze fixed on Wooyoung.

His reasoning? Well, there wasn't much of a thought in his head at the moment.

When Wooyoung saw the finalist hesitate to kill his opponent, it intrigued him. It was risky to openly defy the king, especially in front of the entire arena. Yet, the contestant had a point.

“My father clearly stated that the one who would win my hand would be the last one standing in the arena,” Wooyoung explained. “I think we can all agree that the other participant wasn’t exactly in any condition to continue fighting.”

“He showed weakness by not killing his opponent,” the King cut in sharply.

“I wouldn’t call that weakness,” Wooyoung countered, choosing his words carefully. “Besides, sometimes it's a greater dishonor to leave an enemy alive, humiliated and stripped of pride.”

“Why are you defending him so vigorously?” the King asked, his voice laced with suspicion. His brow arched, and his fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden table, a sign of his growing impatience.

Wooyoung straightened. He had to be careful, challenging the King too directly could backfire. “I’m simply trying to be fair, father. I’m considering all possibilities.”

The council members murmured amongst themselves, exchanging glances as tension thickened in the room.

King Jaesong’s gaze never wavered from his son. “Fairness has little place in matters of the crown. Strength and decisiveness do. And that boy showed neither.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his composure. “Strength comes in many forms, father. Killing in cold blood is one way, but it’s not the only way to prove power.”

Not that you know any other , he thought.

Kim Chul cleared his throat, sensing the escalating tension between father and son. “Regardless, the council must deliberate on the matter. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”

"Indeed," the King said, his voice lowering. "But make no mistake, mercy is not a trait fit for a ruler." He turned his gaze back to the rest of the council. "Let's take a break to clear our thoughts. We will continue after." He stood up, leaving the room without looking back.

Wooyoung didn't move from his spot, resting his head in his hands.

"May I have a moment, Prince?" Hongjoong approached him cautiously, bowing slightly.

"Of course, what's the matter?" They were alone in the chamber, as the rest of the council had most likely gone for lunch.

"It’s about the farmers... I know I should address this before the council, but I feel as though I can only trust Your Highness with this matter. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I wanted to share it with you first."

Wooyoung felt a sense of satisfaction that the young councilman trusted him enough. "Of course, you can trust me. What happened?"

"I’ve been informed that one of the farmers’ hens has stopped laying eggs entirely, and just recently, a few of his cows died. I know it’s not a priority issue, but it’s been weighing on my heart. This can’t be a coincidence." Hongjoong met the prince’s attentive gaze. They seemed to share a connection, both striving for the kingdom’s well-being.

Wooyoung hoped he would find a good ally in him when he eventually ascended to the throne. The council needed fresh blood, it couldn't rely on the seniors who still remembered the twilight of his grandfather's reign.

"Especially when you combine this with the failing crops, it paints a concerning picture," Wooyoung added, rubbing his temples. "You're right. I'll look into it right after the coronation." He could already feel a headache coming on just thinking about the issue, and he pitied his future self who would have to deal with it.

He waited for Hongjoong to leave him alone with Jongho, but the young councilman remained standing next to him, arms folded behind his back as if there was more on his mind.

"Is there something else?"

"Well, no. But… forgive my curiosity, Prince, but why are you so insistent on giving that nobleman from the finale a chance?"

Wooyoung sighed, feeling the weight of Hongjoong's inquisitive gaze on him. "There’s something intriguing about him. Why did he insist on sparing the other's life? Maybe it was the voice of reason. Someone who doesn’t act purely out of a lust for victory and glory might make a good king."

Was there some hidden motive behind his actions? Not necessarily. Wooyoung didn’t know much about the man, and for all he knew, he could be making the biggest mistake of his life, gambling everything on this mysterious stranger.

"Besides," he continued, "did you hear the other one’s voice crack the day before the finale? Lost all his aura right there." He joked, drawing a soft chuckle from the councilman.

"I will trust your instinct, Prince. You’ll have my vote then."

…

Stepping out of the bath, San almost felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. Almost.

A whole day had passed since the final and he had yet to receive the verdict. Mingi hadn't spoken with him ever since their fight and had been avoiding San. 

Dressing himself casually he decided to visit the training grounds where he could get lost in the best feeling - just him and his sword.

He cursed under his breath, putting on a mask as the rule formally applied with him still being a competitor. 

As expected, the training ground was empty. There were a few guards scattered around patrolling the royal garden, but besides that, it was just him and the dummies.

Starting with a proper warmup, he zones into a familiar rhythm, weighing the sword in his hands, missing him like a good, old friend. Dancing to the rhythm of his heavy breaths and the shuffle of gravel beneath his feet, he regained inner peace. 

Whatever awaited him in the future would get heavy, no matter if it was becoming king or embracing defeat. But as long as he didn't lose himself, it would be okay.

"Mr. Choi, the royal family, and council await you in the Great Hall," the guard snapped him out of his thoughts.

San turned his attention to the guard, lowering his sword. “Right now?”

The guard looked up at San, disbelief clear in his expression. “Yes, Mr. Choi. You better not make them wait.” San placed the sword back on the rack, smoothing out his clothes, which had gotten wrinkled during his training.

Following the guard, he pushed his sweat-dampened hair back, though a few strands fell across his forehead. He didn’t look presentable, but he had to make do with it.

A row of guards opened the doors, allowing him into the throne room, the most powerful and lavishly decorated room San had ever stepped into. Rows of marble, plain columns supported the vaulted ceiling adorned with murals that soared several meters above them. The paintings depicted the kingdom’s history, commemorating significant events, with the centerpiece showcasing the day of celebration that marked the beginning of it all - the day when the golden-blooded turned against their brothers of different blood.

Light streamed through the intricate stained glass windows, casting rainbow hues across the floor, while golden chandeliers hung overhead, glittering in the candlelight.

The throne, cast from pure gold and adorned with red upholstery, stood elevated in the center, a symbol of opulence. San couldn’t help but think how many families could be fed with the cost of this throne room alone, how much unnecessary wealth lay in the possession of the royal family, merely to stroke their egos.

He despised them to his core. “Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply, bending almost in half.

“I assume you know why you’ve been summoned,” King Jaesong glared down at him.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” San’s gaze briefly flickered toward Prince Wooyoung, who sat on a separate, slightly smaller, and less imposing throne than Jaesong's. Yongsook sat on the other side, on a throne identical to Wooyoung’s, signaling his lower status compared to the pure-blooded King of the Jung lineage.

“We have decided not to publicly disclose the council’s vote. Therefore, as the representative of the council and head of the kingdom, I officially declare you the victor of the tournament,” the King announced through gritted teeth, a fake smile plastered on his face. “And at the same time, I welcome you as the fiancé of my firstborn son, Prince Wooyoung. Congratulations on your victory.”

San’s heart raced. He did it. He won. He was going to be king.

“Take off your mask and introduce yourself first, fiancé .” There was something in Wooyoung’s tone - something akin to mockery. A cocky smile on his lips as their eyes locked intensely.

San didn’t falter, determined to put on the best performance possible. He reached for the ties of his mask, gracefully removing it from his face.  

Wooyoung’s pupils subtly widened at the sight of San’s sharp features, his feline eyes, and the confident smile that completed his striking aura.

Well, if San didn’t turn out to be a good monarch, at least he would be easy on the eyes. The crowd would probably go wild for him. Not that Wooyoung didn’t like what he saw. Well, San was… hot. He wasn’t going to deny it.

"Choi San, it is my honor to meet you, fiancé ." Wooyoung's eyes remained locked on San as he introduced himself, a smirk dancing on his face.

Tension hung thick in the air between them - both playing their own parts in this grand performance. Wooyoung, pretending to be the perfect prince, welcoming a complete stranger as his future husband. San, feigning dignity when, in reality, he had to suppress the urge to claw out Wooyoung's eyes simply because soon he would be standing by his side, as the successor of a dynasty that had brought enough suffering upon its subjects.

"Pleasure to meet you, congratulations on your victory."

A dynasty San was determined to bring to an end.

Chapter Text

5.

[content warning: torture, death] 

His body trembled uncontrollably, wracked by the fresh pain carved deep into his heart. A faint glow still lingered in the distance, coming from the smoldering remains of the fire where his home had once stood. The orange light barely illuminated the path before them, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with the wind, cruelly echoing the chaos of the night.

“What is your name?” The woman asked gently, wrapping him in her shawl, her voice soft against the stillness of the night.

“San,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and broken from crying.

She smiled warmly, though sadness flickered in her eyes. “That’s a pretty name. I’m Aeri.”

The warmth from her shawl couldn’t penetrate the chill that gripped his body. His skin was cold as stone, heat had left him long ago. Together, they made their way through the village - or rather, what was left of it. Charred remnants of homes and lives lay scattered around them, the air thick with smoke and loss. The weight of the silence around them only deepened the ache in his chest. The world that had once been so familiar was now foreign, twisted beyond recognition.

As they neared the edge of the forest, San saw a figure already standing there. A boy, a little younger than him, was waiting, his body rigid with fear. Dust streaked across his tear-stained face, and his eyes… those wide, terrified eyes... had seen too much. San recognized that look because it mirrored his own.

Neither of them had been ready for this. No one could have been prepared for the horrors of that night.

“I’m glad you waited for me,” the woman said as she reached the teen, ruffling his hair affectionately, though her touch couldn't soothe the pain at all. “San, this is Mingi.”

Their eyes met briefly. Two strangers, yet somehow bound by shared trauma.

“Hi,” San whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Hey,” Mingi replied, equally muted.

Words seemed unnecessary after that. They walked in silence, step after heavy step, as the remnants of their world burned behind them. San’s mind was a storm of thoughts - dark, swirling, and relentless. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the aching void growing inside him. He tried to reason with himself, to find some kind of hope in the wreckage of his thoughts.

What if his parents were still alive? What if they were waiting for him right now, hidden somewhere amidst the ashes? He could still see them, hear them. He replayed the moments over and over in his mind, convincing himself that he had imagined their deaths. It was just a trick of the fire, a play of light against the walls. They had to be alive. His father had promised to protect him, after all. Promised that everything would be okay, that he would be back.

His breath caught in his throat. No, they couldn’t be gone.

San suddenly jerked free from the woman’s hold, panic surging through him like wildfire. “I have to go back to my parents!” he cried out, trying to run back toward the village, his legs struggling against the weight of the night’s devastation.

But Aeri was faster. Stronger. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him back before he could get far. Years of training as a guard had prepared her for this, for moments when quick reflexes and strength were necessary. She’d spent so many years patrolling the streets, keeping people safe. Now, in her retirement, she thanked herself for maintaining shape. Even now, with age creeping in, her agility was intact. Catching a frightened kid, no matter how fast, was nothing new to her.

Poverty filled the streets where she had patrolled for countless days. She had handled matters both trivial and serious - from small thefts of bread by those driven to the brink of desperation by hunger, to thwarting rebellions and uprisings against the crown and the Jung dynasty.

At the beginning of her service, she was wholeheartedly devoted to the kingdom, fighting crime and delivering justice - or at least she thought so. Rebellion had been woven into the history of the Crescent Kingdom since the very beginning of the Jung family’s reign. Initially, it was suppressed through fear and the iron grip of each successive king. On the surface, it appeared that the subjects were content, but deep within their hearts lay hidden emotions - anger and a desire for freedom, to be equal to the golden-blooded. This sentiment passed from generation to generation.

The plotting of rebellion took place under the cover of night, beyond the watchful eyes and ears of the royal guard. But not everyone was careful enough. One man was captured by Aeri’s fellow guard during a routine patrol. The King’s orders regarding this silver-blooded man were clear: extract every possible piece of information about the rebellion, at any cost.

Torturing the prisoners was a common practice. Pain and the looming inevitability of death often drove people to the brink, forcing them to reveal even their most guarded secrets. This wasn’t Aeri’s first time witnessing torture. She had seen it all - fingernails being ripped off, waterboarding, locking prisoners in cramped cells. She had witnessed these horrors firsthand.

But what happened to this unfortunate man took cruelty to a whole new level. After all, physical pain was nothing compared to the pain of losing your loved ones. Aeri watched as his family was brought into the torture chamber one by one, starting with his wife, who tearfully gazed at the man strapped to the chair by leather straps.

“Tell us everything you know, and we will spare her life,” said the guard standing beside Aeri, his voice void of any emotion.

The man shook his head in despair, tears flowing freely down his face. His lips trembled with fear and agony as he looked at his wife. The guard pressed his sword to the woman’s throat as she whispered, “Darling, please.”

The man tried to decide whether the silver-blooded case or his wife's life was more important to him. Was he ready to devote months of planning for the uprising, to betray his brothers with whom he shared blood and shared suffering - in order to selfishly save his wife? Were hundreds of lives less important than the one so close to his heart?

“No, please, I don’t know anything about the rebe- ”

Slash.

Her final breath left her body along with the swift slice of the blade that severed her neck. Her breath mixed with the blood that dripped from her lips. She collapsed to the floor, bleeding silently, while her husband struggled against his restraints. But the straps held him firmly in place.

Aeri flinched at the sight, a wave of sympathy piercing her heart. But she fought to maintain a stoic face. This was the price one paid for rebellion, she reminded herself. This man had brought it upon himself - or so she tried to believe.

“Why did you do that?!” the man screamed in agony. “She didn’t do anything, she was innocent! You monsters!” he spat through sobs, his face smeared with tears and snot.

“You’d better start cooperating,” said the guard as he brought in another victim - this time, a child, no older than two, cradled in his arms.

“No, no, no…” the man groaned. “Leave my child. I beg you.”

“Then cooperate. When is the rebellion planned? Give us the place and time.” 

The child wailed, kicking in the guard’s grip.

“I swear, I don’t know!”

Slash.

The child’s small body went limp in the guard’s arms, dying in a cold embrace, far from the warmth of a loving heart. It faced the harsh reality of death at such a tender age.

Aeri couldn’t take it any longer. She burst into tears, rushing out of the room, unable to bear the sight of the bodies lying on the ground or the pain on the man’s face - whether he truly had information about the rebellion or not no longer mattered. She knew he would soon meet the same fate. All she could do was pray that after death, he would find peace and be reunited with his loved ones.

Leaning against the wall, she broke down in tears, unable to push away the painful memories that flooded her mind, plunging her into a vulnerable state she had tried so hard to protect herself from. The sight of the man's grief, his face etched with the suffering of loss, reminded her of the pain she had only recently buried deep within her consciousness - the pain of losing her beloved husband, whom fate had taken from her far too soon.

After witnessing the death of innocent beings caused by the rebel and King Jaesong’s ruthlessness, nightmares haunted her regularly. The smell of blood and the screams of pain echoed in her mind, consuming her with guilt and a deep sense of injustice. She could no longer look at herself in the mirror - her conscience was eating her alive. Did it make sense to be loyal to a crown that didn’t care for its people? The ruthless tyranny of King Jaesong had planted a seed of doubt within her. Though she was a noble with golden blood, witnessing the suffering of innocent people had shattered her resolve.

Leaving the guard platoon, Aeri vowed to atone for her past life by dedicating herself to a new cause - helping the silver-blooded. Neither the royal guard nor the King knew about her rebellion. Aeri had left the service for health reasons - or so she had told them. She disappeared, moving to the outskirts of the city, and soon after, any trace of her was lost.

Luckily, everything that tied her to the kingdom - her role as a patrol guard, the bonds that had once tethered her to the dynasty - were severed. It was now part of her past, one she was deeply ashamed of. She despised the King and his foul ways of ruling.

Tonight had only reaffirmed that turning her back on the royal family more than thirty years ago had been the right decision. Watching yet another display of Jaesong’s heartless reign reignited her memories and fueled a renewed sense of injustice. Seeing the pain of innocent children and their families stirred within her a burning desire for revenge.

It was the same desire she intended to plant in the hearts of San and Mingi. Shaping them into warriors who would one day bring down King Jaesong and end his merciless rule.

“Oh dear…” she murmured, her voice catching in her throat as she watched him collapse into tears, his body trembling in her arms. Her heart broke for him, but she knew the truth would be too much for him to bear right now. “Let’s get you and Mingi to a safe place, shall we?” she said softly, her tone as soothing as she could manage. “We’ll go back to the village tomorrow and look for your family.”

It was a lie. A comforting lie, designed to give him a fleeting moment of hope. She knew that by tomorrow, his heart would be shattered again, the truth impossible to avoid. His parents - like so many others - were gone, reduced to ash in the inferno. 

But how could she tell him that now, when the weight of the night already threatened to crush him?

…

They walked in silence again, and soon, they arrived at her small, cozy home. At the time, San didn’t know that this place would become his new home. He didn’t yet understand that for the next thirteen years, this would be where he’d lay his head, eat his meals, and grow. 

But even as he stepped inside, a part of him knew that his real home - the place where his heart truly belonged - was still among the ruins. It lay in the ashes of the village, with the family he had lost.

But for now, all he had was the cold comfort of this house. And the unbearable weight of his grief.

…

As the announcement of the royal engagement spread like wildfire across the kingdom, the bustling streets of the capital came alive with excitement and curiosity. Trumpets blared from the high towers, and townsfolk gathered in groups, whispering about the upcoming union between Prince Wooyoung and the mysterious victor of the tournament. Even in the royal palace, the air was thick with anticipation, as preparations for the wedding were happening at breakneck speed.

There were less than five days left until the wedding - according to tradition, it was to be held on the night when the full moon rose high in the sky. This symbolized the blessing of the god Eclipse, a gesture of unity between two monarchs. With so little time remaining, the entire kingdom was in a frenzy of final preparations. Luckily, most of the arrangements were already in place.

Even during the tournament, chefs and architects had been hard at work, preparing for the grand wedding feast and celebration. Now, only the finishing touches remained.

San stood in the grand tailoring chamber, the servants rushed to continue their work. The room was filled with the scent of expensive fabrics and the soft rustling of silks being unfolded and measured. It was a place of luxury - one that San had never imagined he would find himself in. The same hands that had once gripped swords now hung at his sides, forced into passivity while tailors adjusted lengths and stitched intricate patterns into the ceremonial robes he would soon wear.

"We’ll make sure your attire matches the grandeur of the occasion, Sir," one of the tailors remarked with a smile, as he carefully measured San’s arms. "These garments will be a perfect blend of elegance and strength - much like yourself." San only nodded, his face expressionless. 

"I’ll make the final adjustments and the suit should be done in a few days," a tailor said as she adjusted the flowing sleeves, giving San an admiring glance. 

His body, now draped in the royal colors, felt foreign, as if he were donning a costume in a grotesque play. He understood what was expected of him. He knew the weight of the role he had to assume. But every fiber of his being resisted it. He wasn’t here to serve the kingdom or to become a dutiful husband to Wooyoung. He was here to destroy them all from the inside.

The thought brought a bitter smirk to his lips. He glanced at himself in the mirror as the tailors continued their work. The reflection staring back at him was not just that of a commoner elevated to royal status. No, it was the reflection of a wolf among sheep, biding its time.

As the adjustments were being made to his garments, San’s mind wandered to Wooyoung. The prince had been nothing but cordial, even charming, in his manner. But San could sense something darker lurking beneath that façade. There was intelligence in Wooyoung’s eyes, measured precision in his every action. It wasn’t going to be easy to earn his trust, but San had dealt with worse. He had learned how to deceive, how to manipulate - how to make others see what they wanted to see. And that’s exactly what he would do with Wooyoung.

The doors to the chamber swung open, and a servant entered, bowing low. "Your Highness," he said to San, using the title that still felt strange to his ears. "The final preparations for the wedding are being completed. Prince Wooyoung has requested to see you later this evening in the royal gardens."

San’s brow furrowed slightly. Why would Wooyoung want to see him now, so close to the wedding? Was it part of some test, or perhaps a formality required by royal tradition? Either way, he had no choice but to comply.

"Of course," San replied, his voice steady. "I will meet him there."

As the servant left, San turned back to the mirror. The royal colors wrapped around him like chains, binding him to a future he had never wanted. Yet, in his heart, there was a flicker of hope, a promise he had made to himself long ago.

He would see this kingdom fall. He would make sure that every piece of gold in this palace, every ounce of power held by the royal family, would be reduced to ashes - just like his home had been.

The same guard who had been at San’s side since the tournament now led him to the meeting. San had learned his name was Yunho, and he had been assigned as San’s personal bodyguard. Not that San needed protection, he was more than capable of defending himself. 

But Yunho proved useful when San found himself lost in the palace’s labyrinthine corridors, still unfamiliar with its layout. Despite his reluctance to rely on anyone, especially a royal guard, San had to admit that Yunho had been handy a few times.

The prince was already waiting for him, seated on a wooden bench by a small pond. The surface of the water reflected the setting sun, creating a shimmering layer of glitter on the water. The warm hues of late afternoon bathed Wooyoung in a soft, golden light, casting long shadows and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His expression was serene, lost in thought, but as always, there was an underlying tension in the way he held himself.

“You called for me?” San's voice broke the silence. Wooyoung looked up, as though shaken from his reverie.

“Yes,” Wooyoung gestured to the space beside him. “Come, sit. I thought you might want to know a little more about the wedding traditions here - unless you’re already familiar with them?” He raised an eyebrow.

San took the seat next to him, “No, I’m not familiar.” He glanced out at the pond, Yunho and Wooyoung’s guard stood at a respectful distance, far enough not to overhear, yet close enough to intervene if necessary.

Wooyoung hummed thoughtfully. “I suspected as much,” he said. There was a brief pause before he asked, “Have I seen you before? I usually remember most noble families, but you’re a new face to me.”

San had expected this question. “Ah, my mother retired some time ago. She moved to the outskirts of the city, away from the court life, so we haven’t been very involved in noble circles. My father passed away a long time ago,” he recited the lie as smoothly as possible. One they had meticulously crafted to explain his background. Mingi and his mother had rehearsed it with him over and over until it had sounded as natural as the truth.

Wooyoung’s expression softened slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I was just a child when he passed. I don’t remember much about him,” Lie, lie, lie… San replied, keeping his voice steady. Even though he spoke of an imaginary father - a noble, as their cover story dictated - San couldn’t help but think of his real father. The one with silver blood who had loved him until his last breath, the one who had been stolen from him in the ashes of a forgotten village.

“Then, are you at least familiar with some noble traditions? The formalities, the dances?” Wooyoung inquired, shifting slightly to face San more directly, his curiosity piqued.

San almost scoffed at the mention of ballroom dancing. “My upbringing was more focused on swordsmanship than spinning around in ballrooms. So no, I don’t know the dances.”

Wooyoung hummed again, a thoughtful sound escaping his lips. “Well then, we’ve got quite a bit of work ahead of us. I’ll have Yeosang schedule dance lessons for us tomorrow.”

“Is that really necessary?” San asked, his voice laced with reluctance. The last thing he wanted was to spend hours learning to twirl around like some puppet in front of the court.

Wooyoung chuckled softly but the mirth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Unless you want to embarrass both of us during our first dance as kings, then yes, it’s necessary.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “I know this is new for you, but trust me - living in this palace my entire life, I understand the pressure that comes with pleasing our subjects. It’s not just about being a good king. It’s about appearing to be a king they can trust.”

San observed the prince in the fading light. The orange glow softened Wooyoung’s normally sharp features, casting a gentle warmth over his skin. But despite the calm demeanor, San could see the tension in Wooyoung’s posture. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his shoulders were stiff with the weight of expectations.

The prince's voice grew quieter, almost thoughtful. “Being a ruler isn’t just about making the right decisions. It’s about creating an image. You have to be more than just a king - you have to be a symbol. Someone they can look up to, believe in. Every little thing matters here - the way we speak, the way we move, even the way we dance.”

San noticed the exhaustion hidden beneath Wooyoung's calm surface. For all his confident words, the prince was just as trapped as San was. Trapped in the expectations of a kingdom that demanded perfection from both of them. 

San could feel Wooyoung observing him with keen, almost predatory focus, his sharp eyes tracing every subtle shift in San’s posture. This was their first chance to speak privately, without the formalities of court or the prying ears of servants and guards. It was a moment for them to test the waters.

“Besides,” Wooyoung continued, his tone growing more serious, “the coronation is a bit complicated. There’s a specific order, a tradition that must be followed.”

San listened intently, his expression focused, absorbing every word.

“First, the rightful heir to the throne is honored - that’s when my father will pass the crown and the golden cornucopia to me. It symbolizes the wealth and prosperity of the kingdom, bestowed upon the new ruler.” Wooyoung paused. “Only after that, as your husband, will I crown you as the second king. You’ll stand beside me as an equal in title, though the responsibilities of the crown are shared differently.”

“So the wedding comes first, then?” San asked, seeking clarification.

“Yes,” Wooyoung nodded, “the coronation acts as the bridge between the wedding and the start of the celebrations. It’s a symbolic gesture, linking the union of two people with the continued strength of the kingdom. Everything must be timed perfectly, especially under the full moon.”

San furrowed his brow, trying to keep track of the details. The more Wooyoung spoke, the more layers of tradition seemed to reveal themselves. 

“Uh, and what then?” San asked hesitantly, clearly overwhelmed but trying to stay composed.

“What?” Wooyoung blinked, momentarily distracted.

“You know, I don’t really have a chamber assigned for myself.” San’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.

Wooyoung’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Oh, after the wedding, the servants will move your things into my quarters. The bed is wide enough that we should fit comfortably, though…” His eyes flickered with mischief. “If you prefer, there’s always the chaise.”

San’s brows shot up in mild surprise. “Not so fair of you, is it?”

Wooyoung shrugged, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’m just giving you a choice. It’s not like I’d banish you from the bed if you didn’t want to share.”

San rolled his eyes. “You’re all heart, prince.”

Wooyoung chuckled softly, his amusement evident. But the playful tone quickly gave way to something more serious as San's next question lingered in the air, his voice trailing off awkwardly.

“Is there anything I should know about the night of…” San didn’t finish the sentence, hoping Wooyoung would catch on.

In most kingdoms, consummating the marriage was mandatory. In some cases, servants were even required to ensure efforts were made to produce a royal heir. Well, their situation was different, so San was curious about the specific customs here.

“Oh, actually yes, I almost forgot!” Wooyoung exclaimed, his voice brightening with mock enthusiasm. “We do have to seal the marriage ourselves, but don’t worry - our only witness will be the god Eclipse.”

Hell no, San thought. If he was expected to have sex with King Jaesong’s son, he might actually throw up.

“But you’ve got experience with swords, so it should go smoothly,” Wooyoung added with a wink.

San blinked. First of all, kinky. Second of all - what the fuck?

“Excuse me?” San’s face slightly twisted.

Wooyoung giggled, thoroughly enjoying San’s reaction. “It’s for the ritual that has been tradition since the kingdom’s founding, and it’s the most important one, I should say.” His eyes gleamed with mischief, though there was truth beneath the teasing. “Sealing the bond between kings.”

San swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. “How does that work?” He muttered.

“Well,” Wooyoung continued, “the main point is the blood pact. During the ritual, we’ll cut our hands and press them together, making a vow to each other, asking for Eclipse’s blessing. It’s a sacred act, binding us together as rulers and as partners.” San felt a chill run down his spine.    

San’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat like the sound of a ticking clock counting down to his impending doom. He knew that the moment their blood was drawn, the truth he had hidden for so long would be exposed. There were no second chances in a kingdom where secrets like his were synonymous with betrayal.

Beheaded. The thought was as cold and final as the steel of a blade. Wooyoung’s easygoing demeanor would turn into something far deadlier once he found out. As much as Wooyoung could be charming, he was still the heir to the throne - someone who wouldn’t hesitate to remove anyone who endangered his reign. Like father, like son.

As if sensing the fear tightening around San’s chest, Wooyoung’s voice broke through the stillness of the evening. “Please don’t tell me that you’re afraid of blood.” There was a casualness to his tone, as though the question was merely out of curiosity.

San couldn’t let him see the truth. He averted his gaze, pretending to focus on the moon that had begun to rise, shyly peeking from behind the clouds. His throat tightened, and the usual sharpness of his tongue failed him. 

“That’s why you didn’t kill your opponent?” Wooyoung pressed, his voice soft.

San remained silent, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain his composure. Perhaps it was better for Wooyoung to think of him as weak, as someone unfit for battle. Maybe it would shield him from further scrutiny, at least for now. If Wooyoung thought that San’s hesitation during the tournament was due to fear of violence, it might buy him some time - time to come up with a plan to avoid the blood pact, to keep his secret hidden.

But as the silence stretched on, Wooyoung’s disappointment became palpable, sinking into the space between them like a shadow. “Well then,” Wooyoung said, his voice cold, any trace of warmth now gone, “if you don’t want to talk anymore, I’ll be going.”

“Good night, Mr. Choi,” Wooyoung added, the formality of the title making the distance between them feel even wider.

San forced himself to respond, though his voice was strained. “Good night, Your Majesty.” He knew he had messed up, after taking a step forward to get to know Wooyoung, he had taken two steps back.

…

San had a hard time adjusting to life in the palace - he struggled to find a routine or any meaningful activity to fill his days. Once the tournament was over, no other participants would remain in the palace - he felt lonely without Mingi. Spending half of his life with the boy by his side had given him a sense of safety, even though they bickered and fought often, they were each other’s stronghold. 

Right now, his days were an endless cycle of wedding preparations. San had lost count of how many times he had stood in front of the mirror, arms outstretched, while the tailor adjusted every seam and fold. But, in the end, it was all worth it. The fabric clung to him like a second skin, moving with him effortlessly.

His wedding attire was as regal as one would expect. The base of the outfit - a pair of perfectly tailored white trousers and a loose-sleeved shirt in the same color - provided a clean, simple canvas. Gold embroidery adorned the shoulders and cuffs of the shirt, intricate patterns woven with care and precision. Around his waist, a wide golden belt cinched his slender frame, accentuating his already slim silhouette. 

Draped diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip was a crimson red sash, bold in its color, with a gleaming gold emblem pinned to it - a symbol of royal unity. But it all felt… odd.

When the day of final fittings came, San noticed the change in the way the servants looked at him. Their eyes, usually filled with curiosity or indifference, now held something closer to reverence. They didn’t dare meet his gaze for too long, their glances darting away in quiet admiration. 

He could feel the weight of his newfound position pressing down on him - the power in his veins was intoxicating, urging him to leave his past behind and embrace the promises of royal luxury. It whispered to him, tempting him to forget the struggles he had endured and to claim the life of privilege and opulence that now lay before him.

But the fire in his chest was tempered by his conscience, pulling him back down to reality. He couldn’t allow himself to be swept away by these seductive dreams of power. Instead, San would ground himself in the routines he had known before - the routines that had defined him. After all, it was what made San truly him .

It took countless attempts to coax Yunho into joining him for sparring sessions, but the guard finally agreed. What began as a begrudging favor turned into a regular part of San’s day. They fell into a steady rhythm during these friendly bouts, and for San, the time spent sparring became the highlight of his day - something to look forward to amidst the monotony of palace life. Each swing of the sword felt like a moment of clarity in the overwhelming haze of royal duty.

The more time San spent with Yunho, the closer they grew. Their days were spent together, naturally, as Yunho was assigned to be San’s personal guard, shadowing his every move. 

Over time, San began to peel back the layers of Yunho’s stoic exterior. He learned that Yunho had been raised in the palace, training alongside Jongho - Wooyoung’s personal guard whom San hadn't been officially introduced to yet. 

Through his conversations with Yunho, San began to gather bits and pieces of palace life, slowly understanding its intricate workings. Their afternoons were filled with idle chats, rigorous training, and the occasional moment of quiet where neither felt the need to speak. These simple exchanges helped San solidify his position, not only within the palace but also in Yunho’s eyes. 

Befriending Yunho proved to be an advantage in more ways than one. Not only did it provide him with an ally, but it also allowed him to glean valuable information about the palace’s inner workings - the strategies the royal guard used in combat, the dynamics between key players in the court. However, despite these small victories, San knew that his ultimate goal was still to gain Wooyoung’s trust.

Winning over Wooyoung was a challenge, though. The prince remained distant, with their only consistent interaction being during their dance lessons - a torture San could barely endure. The waltz was foreign to him, his body stiff and uncooperative under the stern gaze of their dance instructor. Even though he stumbled rather often, the Prince never made fun of him, he just nodded and urged San to try once again.

Beyond the dance floor, San would sometimes catch fleeting glimpses of Wooyoung, whether passing by the training grounds or having lazy walks alongside Jongho and some mysterious man. Upon asking Yunho about him, it turned out he was his closest servant, Yeosang.  

Wooyoung moved with the grace and poise of someone born to rule, his every step filled with the confidence of a future king. Despite his cool demeanor, Wooyoung was not the lofty, selfish figure San had initially expected. There was a complexity to the Prince that caught San off guard. Although Wooyoung was meticulous when it came to the legalities of their union, he didn’t hesitate to offer support when San struggled, especially during their dance lessons. 

In fact, Wooyoung proved to be an excellent dance partner, guiding San with patience and grace. The Prince had been trained in the art of the waltz from a young age, and every step seemed ingrained in his muscle memory. San, on the other hand, struggled to find his footing. Their instructor often commented on his mistakes, which only added to his frustration.

Wooyoung’s true passion, however, lay not in the ballroom but in combat. Sword fighting had been his chosen discipline for years, a skill he had honed with dedication and precision. There was a time when he could spend hours in the training yard, lost in the thrill of the fight, but those days were long behind him. 

So he couldn't help himself but to feel jealous seeing Yunho and San having a blast together. He longed for the weight of a sword in his hands, craving to let himself get lost in the familiar rhythm of metal clashing.

But his responsibilities now lay in politics, diplomacy, and the heavy burden of preparing to lead the kingdom - lacking time to let himself wander off to the training area, like he did many years ago. 

Standing on the balcony Wooyoung looked up to the sky - only one night was left till the full moon would occur. He sighed, feeling the effects of the elixir starting to kick in - his mind racing but thoughts getting duller.

Wooyoung had been feeling well rested, the elixir-tea fusion had done wonders. Nights had never been this peaceful for him and thanks to that, he had lots of energy throughout the day - enabling him to take care of his responsibilities and prepare fully for the wedding. Without the fatigue troubling him, he was able to approach the subject of marriage with a clear mind - he was ready to face it.

Not wanting to let go of the last night when he was just prince, he stayed up for a little longer, wrapping himself in his arms when the night breeze erupted goosebumps on his skin.

He prayed to Eclipse to look after him.

…

San had never imagined that the throne room could hold so many people - it was packed to the brim with aristocrats from all corners of the kingdom. Standing beside Wooyoung wearing a forced smile, they greeted the newly arrived guests.

As San scanned the room, he hoped to spot a familiar head of silver hair in the crowd. Servants circulated among the guests, offering welcome refreshments and directing them to where they needed to go - the ceremony was about to begin.

His gaze darted nervously between the guests, thoughts occupied by the note that a pigeon had delivered straight to his chamber that morning. ‘The potion is ready, see you there.’

Hope had swelled in his chest as he recognized his mother's handwriting. The promise of her presence at the palace to personally deliver the poison meant everything, especially coming from a woman who had sworn never to set foot in the palace again.

But their plan demanded sacrifices.

San’s heart steadied, however, when he spotted Aeri entering the hall. She moved with a grace that belied her years, bowing deeply in front of San and Wooyoung as she approached, offering the public face of loyalty to the crown. In truth, Aeri had long since renounced her allegiance to the royal family, her heart no longer bound to their rule. Yet her noble title gave her easy access to this momentous occasion. 

That same family crest had enabled San and Mingi to enter the tournament. Her absence for nearly three decades had helped conceal the fact that they were not her biological sons, but boys she had taken under her care long ago. Therefore, even twenty-eight-year-old San when signing up for the tournament under Aeri's family crest, did not arouse suspicion - the guard had simply nodded and added his name to the list of participants.

Wooyoung was too young to remember her days of glory when she had been entirely devoted to the royal dynasty. To him, she was just another noblewoman attending the event, blending in with the other esteemed guests. But the guards, older and more seasoned, recognized her at once. Smiles of nostalgia and respect passed between her and the men stationed near the prince, a bond forged from years of service together. Aeri returned their smiles warmly, her eyes reflecting fond memories from a time long past.

Years away from service hadn’t diminished the fact that she was still one of the most respected guards the kingdom had ever had. Everyone held her in high regard.

Catching San’s gaze, they exchanged a quick nod, a silent understanding passing between them. When the moment was right, they would need to get close so she could discreetly pass him the smuggled potion.

The trumpets and solemn intonations of ceremonial songs echoed through the throne room as the guests took their seats. San and Wooyoung stood opposite each other with the gathered crowd on one side and the Kings on the other. The betrothed pair locked eyes, searching for any glimmer of emotion in one another, but neither San nor Wooyoung let anything show. Both stood with their chins held high, prepared to accept the fate that would bind their paths together for the rest of their days.

"We are gathered here to bless the union between Prince Jung Wooyoung and his chosen partner, Choi San," Kim Chul announced loudly, as the representative of the highest council. "Let us call upon the Holy Eclipse to sanctify this bond and grant the couple the grace to endure. May their love, strengthened by Eclipse, become a symbol of devotion. Since you intend to enter into this sacred marital bond, please join your right hands and exchange your solemn vows."

Wooyoung was the first to extend his hand, which San grasped without hesitation, his gaze intensely fixed on the prince. Gentle smiles, meant primarily for the audience, adorned their faces. The grip was firm, the calluses on San’s skin pressing against Wooyoung’s softer palm. It was a small, yet tangible reminder of the different worlds they came from.

"Solemnly, in front of the High Kings Jung Jaesong and Jung Yongsook, and in the presence of all subjects, I offer this sacred vow to Choi San, asking for the blessing and unification in the presence of the Divinity Eclipse," Wooyoung began. His voice, initially uncertain, soon carried powerfully through the hall. "I swear to stand by his side as an equal spouse, to support him in hardships, share in joys, and offer comfort in times of sorrow. I promise to do everything in my power to ensure that our marriage is harmonious, happy, and enduring, as we lead the Crescent Kingdom toward happiness and prosperity together." His words sounded sincere, and in a sense, they truly were.

For Wooyoung, the kingdom's well-being had always been paramount, and he genuinely hoped that this union would lead to that goal. During the few days they had spent together, he had tried to figure out San, who seemed quiet, as though calculating his every move. This was entirely understandable, given the warrior’s spirit that lived within San - Wooyoung only hoped San's rational nature would translate into their governance.

San repeated the vow, and the tension between them, thick with secrets and promises, hung in the air. Soft sighs of admiration could be heard among the guests, enchanted by the royal wedding. As he listened to San's pledge, Wooyoung sought a sense of solace in his eyes, searching for a sign that the words spoken would become truth and that he would find in San a partner he could rely on.

"With the mutual declaration made by both parties, in the presence of witnesses, I now pronounce that the marriage of Jung Wooyoung and Jung San has been solemnly established. As a symbol of your union, please exchange rings." At this, a servant stepped forward, presenting two golden rings on a velvet cushion.

A slight tremble in Wooyoung’s hand as he slipped the ring onto San’s finger betrayed the tension coursing through him. Invisible to the gathered crowd, but perceptible to San. Taking the second ring, San smoothly placed it onto Wooyoung’s finger, providing comfort with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

Shortly afterward, the moment of coronation arrived. As planned, San stepped aside, leaving all the attention and the crowd’s gaze focused on Wooyoung. Dressed in a white suit, he waited as his fathers draped a ceremonial cloak over his shoulders, adorned with the traditional family colors. As the weight of the garment settled on him, Wooyoung felt his heart race for the first time. He knelt before the gathered crowd in a gesture of humility, awaiting Jaesong to begin the ceremony.

"My son, firstborn of the Jung dynasty, the rightful time has come for you to take command of the kingdom," Jaesong declared, his voice solemn and proud. "Do you swear on your life, in the presence of all gathered here, to defend the entire kingdom," Jaesong held out the ceremonial sword, its gleaming blade resting just beneath Wooyoung's lips, "becoming its leader, protector, and stronghold?"

"I swear," Wooyoung replied firmly, kissing the sword. Jaesong stepped back, allowing Yongsook to take his place at the front - this time, the King held a golden cornucopia.

"Do you swear on your life, in the presence of all gathered here, to care for the prosperity of the kingdom, to nurture the land entrusted to you?"

"I swear." Once again, Wooyoung kissed the second symbol of authority in the ceremonial gesture. His posture was one of a man stepping into destiny, radiating the energy of a leader ready to usher in a new era of order and prosperity for the kingdom. His determination burned like a quiet fire, evident in the way he carried himself.

With his head held high and chest proudly out, Wooyoung stood as Jaesong, Yongsook, and Chul surrounded him, each holding a portion of the crown. Wooyoung took a deep breath as the unfamiliar weight of the crown finally rested upon his head. He opened his eyes, feeling a surge of power, the might coursing through his veins with the arrival of this new chapter.

"Long live the King!" The shout erupted through the hall, repeated three times.

With the coronation complete, Wooyoung stood tall, basking in the cheers and shouts of support from the gathered nobility. Then, following the script of the day, he turned to San. "Jung San, step forward so that I may honor you as King," Wooyoung intoned, taking the ceremonial sword from Jaesong once again. The entire ceremony repeated, but this time it was led entirely by the young King.

After taking both oaths, San was entrusted with the ceremonial sword. Kneeling before Wooyoung, he looked up at him - a silent ‘do not disappoint me’ was written on Wooyoung’s face, accompanied by a faint smile directed at San as he honored him with the second crown. San returned the smile, taking the sword and standing at Wooyoung's side, who held the cornucopia, as the new royal couple.

Their shoulders brushed lightly, offering Wooyoung a sense of reassurance. He wasn’t alone anymore - he was going to be fine. 

San extended his arm toward Wooyoung, who intertwined their limbs before they descended from the podium together, making their way to the center of the ballroom. The sound of applause and cheers filled the air, propelling them forward with a shared sense of purpose even though their hearts beat to different rhythms. Yet, at this moment, those rhythms seemed more alike than different. 

They stood face to face, awaiting the first notes of the waltz - a dance that had nearly driven San to madness during his lessons. Wooyoung wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him gently but firmly. Wooyoung, the more experienced dancer, had the responsibility of leading, silently praying that San would remember each step without stumbling. 

But even if San faltered, Wooyoung moved with such natural grace and fluidity that it seemed as though nothing could go wrong. His every motion exuded a charm that captivated the audience, drawing all attention to him. There was something mesmerizing about the way Wooyoung danced, something effortless and magnetic. 

And San couldn’t deny - just a little - he was enchanted too. Only a little, though.

Wooyoung guided San through the intricate steps with the confidence of someone who had mastered the dance long ago. His movements were smooth and precise, every turn and dip executed flawlessly. He held San with a perfect balance of firmness and gentleness, never once letting himself feel as though he could fall out of step. San, who had struggled with the waltz during practice, seemed to ease into the rhythm, following Wooyoung's lead as if it were second nature.

The crowd watched in awe as they spun across the polished floor, the golden light of chandeliers catching the glint of their rings and the sheen of their regal attire. Wooyoung’s touch was a constant reassurance, his subtle adjustments keeping San on track.

Wooyoung was acutely aware of the subtle changes in San’s posture and movement. The initial stiffness in San’s frame gave way to a softer, more fluid form as he began to relax into the dance. Wooyoung couldn’t help but smile at this small victory, feeling a swell of pride as they executed a particularly tricky turn with ease. He had been concerned that San’s frustration with the waltz would carry into the ceremony, but here they were - dancing together in perfect synchrony.

As they twirled, their gazes met. A silent acknowledgment passed between them - for the first time, they had become a team, as though the dance was the first test for them.

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the hall, Wooyoung led San into a graceful finishing pose, dipping him ever so slightly before pulling him upright again. The room erupted into applause, the sound filling the space once more. 

Wooyoung's hand lingered for a moment longer on San’s waist, his breath steady despite the intensity of the performance. He leaned in just enough for San to hear him over the applause. "You did well," he murmured, a trace of amusement in his voice.

San still easing his breath, glanced sideways at him, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I had a good partner," he replied.

Aromas of roasted meats, spiced fruits, and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of flowers that adorned every corner. The banquet tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from every region of the kingdom, and servants moved gracefully between the guests, offering cups of wine and plates brimming with food. From the moment the festivities began, the atmosphere had buzzed with a lively energy. Musicians played jubilant tunes on lutes, harps, and drums, their melodies infusing the evening with a rhythm that made even the most stoic guests tap their feet. 

Laughter erupted in pockets around the courtyard as noblemen and women shared stories and gossip, their faces flushed with wine and merriment. Dancers twirled and spun, the fabric of their gowns flowing like water as they exchanged partners in a dizzying display of coordination and skill. Feet moved to the beat of the music, the rhythm infectious as couples spun around the dance floor with ease. The noblemen, tipsy from the celebration, took turns leading their ladies across the floor, while others clumsily tripped over themselves, drawing good-natured laughter from their peers.

San felt bitter looking at the sight. It broke his heart to think that while everyone here was feasting and having fun like there was no tomorrow, the silver-blooded were barely making ends meet in their homes.

San and Wooyoung, being the newly crowned royal couple, were the center of attention. Although etiquette demanded they stay together, Wooyoung remained gracious as San excused himself, slipping away for a moment of reprieve. All eyes had followed them as they danced earlier in the evening, and now Wooyoung continued to mingle with their guests, shaking hands and exchanging polite words, a mask of regal calm hiding any weariness from the long day. 

San took a moment to slip into the crowd, searching for Aeri. The warm smile on her face was like a balm to his soul after everything he'd endured over the past three weeks.

"I'm so proud of you, my boy," she whispered as he invited her for a dance. "Mingi told me everything, you did so well."

A shadow of guilt flickered across San's face. "Could you apologize to him for me?" he asked softly. He regretted some of the things he'd said to Mingi - not all, but enough to feel the weight of it. Mingi meant so much to him, and the thought of having hurt him gnawed at his conscience.

"You know he doesn’t hold grudges for long. Especially not with you," Aeri reassured him with a gentle smile. San nodded, returning a small smile of his own - he would miss them both dearly.

A sudden feeling of being watched sent a shiver down his spine. As he spun with Aeri across the floor, he cast a quick glance around the room, briefly catching Wooyoung’s eyes before turning back to his mother.

“Did you bring...?” he hesitated, unsure if anyone was listening in.

"Already secured," she replied with a wink. At that moment, San felt the weight of a small vial get tucked into his robe pocket - a vial whose contents he didn’t need to ask about. He knew well why she had come and the purpose the potion was meant to serve. “Seonghwa said that should be enough,” she added quietly. She glanced briefly in the direction of Wooyoung, who was still watching them from across the hall. “And as for him… Do you really think you can do this?”

San followed her gaze, catching Wooyoung’s eyes who were watching him with curiosity. He turned back to Aeri, his jaw tightening. "I’ll do what needs to be done," he said firmly.

Aeri sighed, her smile bittersweet. "You have a good heart, my boy. That’s why this is so hard for you. But sometimes... sometimes we have to put aside what we want for the greater good. Remember why we’re doing this."

"I haven’t forgotten," San replied softly, his eyes lowering for a moment. 

Mother squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back to her. "You’ve always been brave, San. Stronger than you think.”

He met her gaze, her steady resolve giving him a flicker of strength. "I know. And... thank you, for giving me a chance" he whispered, his voice barely audible as they continued to sway in time with the music.

Aeri gave him a small, encouraging smile. "You don’t need to thank me. Just do what you’ve always done - survive, protect those you love, and finish what we started."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they glided across the dance floor, careful not to stay in one place for too long.

“Sometimes less is more,” she said mysteriously, her tone light yet laced with meaning. “Just a drop, no need for more. Mix with water, magic pour. Tiny sip, a secret true. One small drop will see you through.” She sang the rhyme softly as she twirled away from San with a carefree laugh. He chuckled, watching her move with such ease.

The hardest part of their plan was behind them now, and he could see the relief radiating from her just as he felt it within himself. A glimmer of hope shone brightly at the end of their path, and they were so close to their goal.

By the time the moon reached its zenith, the celebration had reached its peak. The dance floor was packed, nobles and commoners alike swaying to the music. The royal couple had withdrawn to Wooyoung's chamber to complete the celebration with the missing element - the blood ritual.

San watched Wooyoung walk slowly toward the window, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. "I've been thinking about how we could approach the ritual... to make you feel safer," he whispered softly, his back to San, holding the dagger in his hands. "You looked terrified when I first mentioned it. I asked for extra bandages."

"Uh, thank you." San stepped closer to Wooyoung. "Could we... Could we look into each other’s eyes until it's over? I think that would help." He smiled weakly, satisfied with the excuse he had come up with.

Wooyoung returned the smile in understanding. “Of course,” he replied, his voice full of warmth. “If that would help you, then we’ll do it that way. Come here,” he gestured, his expression still kind. “The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done.” His casual tone belied the weight of the moment.

The vows they were about to exchange were unlike typical wedding vows - they were entirely their own creations. Honesty before the deity was crucial, which was why San had struggled so much to find the right words.

The followers of Eclipse had worshiped the deity long before the kingdom’s division - both silver and golden-blooded believed fervently in its power, praying for protection in their daily lives. However, after the Jung dynasty took the throne, religious practices had slowly faded with each passing decade. Subsequent kings stopped openly worshiping the deity. Only remnants of tradition remained - such as the blood pact and the autumn festival for the dead, where souls were remembered before merging with the deity and passing into eternal joy.

San had been raised with deep faith, as most silver-blooded families were. His ancestors had never turned their backs on the deity, raising their son to never offend Eclipse, to always be a loyal worshiper. Now, standing before divine power during the full moon, he couldn't lie.

“Do you want to go first?” Wooyoung asked, holding the dagger out to him. San took it, his other hand gently grasping Wooyoung’s right hand.

“Jung Wooyoung,” San took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. "I vow to stand by your side as your husband and king, with the well-being and happiness of our people in mind. I vow to give you good counsel and be your confidant in moments of weakness. So help me, blessed Eclipse." Wooyoung’s eyes were locked on his, cheeks lifted in a genuine smile, and San realized it was the first time he had seen such a sincere smile on his face.

A grimace crossed Wooyoung’s face as San pressed the blade against the palm of his hand, cutting his skin in a long but shallow line. He handed the dagger to Wooyoung, then offered his own right hand, which Wooyoung gently held, trying to calm San’s visible shaking.

"Jung San, I vow to you loyalty and to stand by your side as an equal, as your husband and King. I promise to be there whenever you need me, guiding our kingdom to happiness and order together. So help me, blessed Eclipse." Wooyoung finished, cutting San’s palm, who held his breath in tense anticipation.

Wooyoung could have sworn that as he reached out to grasp San’s hand - completing the blood pact - silver flecks swirled at the edges of his vision, coming from the bleeding wound on San’s hand. It must have been the full moon’s light, though. The moon shone unusually bright tonight, bathing them both in silver rays.

For a moment, they stood in silence, hands clasped together as if giving their vows time to settle into reality.

"Huh?" Wooyoung gasped, looking at the dagger, when he reached to put it away.

San felt the color drain from his face, and his knees threatened to give way beneath him. It was over - his secret had come to light. 

But when he looked down at the blade of the dagger, he was just as shocked as Wooyoung. "Why is the blood..."

"Red? I have no idea." Wooyoung whispered, his voice trembling with fear and uncertainty as he looked up at San. "But it would be better if this stays between us." He reached for a cloth nearby, wiping the blade.

San nodded in silent agreement.

Chapter Text

6.

When San woke up, he wasn’t surprised to find the other side of the bed empty. The palace had a way of coming to life with the very first light of dawn creeping over the horizon, signaling the start of another day of countless duties. But given that the sun had only begun its slow rise, its light still faint and shy, it was clear Wooyoung had risen long before. 

Relishing the momentary privacy, San shifted under the covers and glanced down at his hand, where the bandage wrapped tightly around it had now turned stiff with dried blood painting it. Crimson blood. He flinched slightly at the unfamiliar sight. 

Gritting his teeth, he carefully began to unravel the dressing, his fingers moving with hesitant caution. As the bandage came away, it pulled at his skin where the cloth had stuck to the dried blood. What startled him more was how quickly the cut had healed. The ceremonial slash made the night before had not been deep, but to have closed up overnight was… unsettling. An unnatural quickness that set him on edge.

The only proof that the ritual had taken place was the fresh, pink scar on his palm. Nonetheless, he breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that he wouldn’t have to go to great lengths to hide the wound and, more importantly, the color of his blood.

Yet, the nagging thought refused to leave his mind. Could his blood have really changed color? And if so, would it remain that way for the rest of his life?

San’s eyes wandered the room, searching for something sharp, something that could answer the question weighing heavily on his mind. His gaze fell upon the ceremonial dagger from the night before, lying innocuously on a nearby table. The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, its surface clean, with no traces of the previous night’s events. San hesitated but eventually reached for the weapon, deciding to take a risk. He rolled up his shirt and pressed the tip of the dagger to the skin just below his abdomen, wincing slightly at the coldness of the steel. A single drop of blood welled up and fell.

It was silver.

A wave of relief washed over him, only briefly. If his blood hadn’t changed color, then what had happened the previous night?

Before he had time to dwell on the mystery further, a voice came from beyond the chamber doors, breaking the silence of the morning. “Your Highness, a humble servant brings breakfast and arrives to assist the King with his morning attire.”

San's body jerked in response, his heart skipping a beat. He hastily wiped the tip of the dagger against the soft fabric of his nightshirt. The pale color of his clothing would help mask any small smudges of blood. "Aish." Cursing under breath he put the dagger away.

“You can come in!” he called out, hurriedly pulling his shirt back down. The door creaked open, and the servant entered with a deep bow, carefully making his way to the small table where he placed a tray laden with food.

“Thank you,” San said, his voice still a bit tight but composed enough to mask his unease.

The servant paused for a moment, bowing even lower in respect. “It is my great honor, Your Highness.”

San could barely hide his discomfort at the formality. He wasn’t used to this new dynamic, this shift in how people treated him ever since his engagement to Wooyoung had been announced. The distance that had formed between him and the palace staff now felt like an invisible barrier constantly reminding him of his new position.

As the servant turned to leave, San’s gaze fell on the second figure standing quietly at the edge of the room, holding up a set of royal robes for him to wear. He hadn’t even noticed her until that moment. “You can leave them here. I can dress myself,” he said, waving a hand toward the garments.

A flash of surprise flickered across her face. It was clear she was unsure how to respond. It was not customary for someone of his rank to dress without assistance, and the thought of leaving him to do so seemed to make her uneasy. “Your Highness… ” She began, hesitating.

“I insist,” San interjected firmly, cutting her off before she could object. “You may go now. Thank you for your help.” He offered a weak smile, giving a slight nod as he spoke.

The two servants exchanged an uneasy glance, obviously still unsure of how to react, but they knew better than to defy his wishes. Moments later, they quietly departed, leaving San alone in the chamber once more.

The days that followed fell into a repetitive rhythm, a lull in the kingdom’s usual buzz of activity. The kingdom was slowly returning to normal after the grand festivities of the royal wedding and the coronation. The first significant event looming on the horizon was the royal court, where citizens from every corner of the kingdom would have the chance to appear before the new Kings. They would come seeking aid, presenting their grievances, and offering petitions, all under the watchful eyes of the new monarchs. It was a crucial moment for San and Wooyoung - a time to show the people that their reign would be one of justice and care.

But it was also a test of their unity as rulers and their ability to handle the responsibilities of governance together.

However, the royal couple barely saw each other during the day. With no shared responsibilities yet, they each had plenty of time to attend to their own matters. San, for his part, spent most of his days wandering the palace, learning its intricacies, and observing how the vast, complicated machine of royal life functioned. He discovered layers of politics and bureaucracy that had once been hidden from him.

The servants quickly noticed his preference for solitude in the mornings. He wasn’t fond of their constant presence as he ate his breakfast. Their silent, watchful eyes made him uncomfortable as if he were always under scrutiny. He used these rare moments of peace to contemplate his true mission: finding a way to slip poison into Wooyoung’s body.

It was no easy task. Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Jongho seemed almost inseparable, always together no matter the time of day. San’s opportunity would come, but it would require patience and precision. He’d taken note of Wooyoung’s nightly routine - a cup of tea brought to him without fail before bed, placed neatly on the bedside table by Yeosang. It was part of a pattern, one that remained constant regardless of the day's events. Perhaps this cup, this small nightly ritual, was his best chance to act. 

…

Diving into a new routine, San's attention was especially drawn to the royal guard, whose sheer size and presence were striking despite the relative peace enjoyed by the kingdom. Even with no imminent threats from neighboring realms, the palace grounds were always alive with the disciplined movements of the soldiers. 

The kingdom's army seemed vast, with countless men and women patrolling not only the palace but also the streets of the capital and the kingdom's borders, offering an ever-present layer of protection. San couldn’t help but marvel at the organization.

One morning, Yunho invited San to observe the training of the newest recruits. The young men and women on the field moved in synchronized sequences, their instructor's voice barking commands that echoed across the training ground. Yunho stood beside San, who had his arms crossed behind his back. The lieutenant leading the drill was relentless, demanding perfection from every recruit.

San's eyes moved over the line of soldiers, noticing how young they seemed - most of them barely adults. Their faces were strained with concentration, and some still had the nervous awkwardness of those not yet accustomed to the rigors of military life.

"How old are they?" San asked, his voice quiet but curious as he observed a particularly nervous-looking recruit who stumbled slightly during a sword exercise.

"The youngest is nineteen," Yunho replied, his tone tinged with a hint of pity as he nodded toward the boy who had drawn San’s attention. "He joined the guard two months ago after his family cast him out. They couldn’t afford to feed him anymore."

San turned to Yunho with a look of surprise. "I thought those situations only happened in the outer regions, with the silver-blooded families."

"That's typically the case," Yunho nodded. "Most of these soldiers are silver-blooded. This battalion was only recently formed."

San furrowed his brow, processing Yunho’s words. "King Jaesong trusted silver-blooded people to serve as guards? That seems... unexpected."

Yunho shook his head slightly. "It’s not about trust, Your Majesty. These men and women aren’t meant to be entrusted with anything significant. They’re more like... expendable forces. Cannon fodder, if you will. In the event of a conflict, they’d be the first to fight, the first to die. And they are always led by a golden-blooded officer." He gestured toward the lieutenant, whose face had turned a deep shade of red from shouting so many orders. "The palace’s inner guard and important patrols are always composed of golden-blooded soldiers - people like me and Jongho."

San hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting back to the soldiers now. It was no secret that Jaesong had harbored distrust and disdain for the silver-blooded, but to see that disdain translated into such calculated cruelty - his people reduced to little more than disposable pawns - made San's blood simmer with anger. 

He had known about the inequalities, of course, but standing here and witnessing it firsthand was something else entirely. The phrase ‘cannon fodder’ repeated in his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

The training session concluded as the lieutenant barked final orders to the recruits, instructing them to take care of their equipment and perform various menial tasks - cleaning swords, polishing armor, and scrubbing down the training area. The energy of the morning began to dissipate as the soldiers filed out, leaving the yard quiet and still.

San, sensing an opportunity, turned to Yunho with a playful grin. "How about a quick spar?" he suggested, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Without waiting for a reply, he shrugged off his outer robe, revealing the sculpted musculature of his arms and shoulders. His sleeveless tunic, with its deep neckline, exposed a glimpse of his defined chest, the fabric clinging to the contours of his body.

Yunho couldn’t seem to suppress the smirk that played at the corners of his lips. Both of them loved a good challenge, and sparring with each other was always a welcome one. Yunho reached for the training staffs, selecting two sturdy wooden poles before tossing one toward San.

San caught the staff with ease, twirling it in his hand to test its weight and balance. There was a palpable shift in the air as they squared off against one another.. Yunho, taller and broader, had the advantage of strength, but San’s agility and sharp reflexes made him a formidable opponent. 

Without further words, Yunho lunged first, swinging the staff toward San in a wide arc. San sidestepped swiftly, his movements fluid and precise as he parried the attack, their staffs clashing with a satisfying crack. The sound reverberated across the empty yard as the two men began their dance of combat, each testing the other’s skill and speed.

San grinned, his heart racing with the familiar thrill of the fight. He loved this - loved the adrenaline that surged through his veins. 

The sparring session intensified, their strikes becoming faster, more forceful, though neither man was aiming to hurt the other. San dodged a low sweep from Yunho, spinning gracefully on his heel before launching a quick jab that Yunho barely managed to deflect.

Yunho chuckled, his deep voice rumbling as they circled each other. "You’ve gotten faster, Your Majesty."

San smirked, not breaking eye contact as he adjusted his grip on the staff. "Or maybe you’re just getting slower," he teased.

Yunho’s grin widened as he swung again, this time putting more power into his strike. San met it head-on, the force of the impact vibrating up his arms, but he held his ground, pushing back against Yunho’s strength. For a moment, they were locked in place, neither willing to give an inch, their breaths coming in quick, measured bursts.

Finally, with a burst of speed, San ducked under Yunho’s staff, using his momentum to sweep Yunho’s legs out from under him. Yunho hit the ground with a grunt, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

"Come on, you weren’t supposed to go easy on me," San teased, extending a hand to Yunho, who gripped it firmly, pulling himself up. The guard gave a brief nod of thanks, brushing the dust off his training clothes, but as he looked up, his expression immediately shifted. His back straightened, and he offered a deep bow toward someone behind San.

Curious, San turned to see who had captured Yunho's attention, and his eyes landed on Wooyoung, standing several meters away, watching them with a focused intensity. There was something in Wooyoung's expression - a sparkle of curiosity and something sharper, perhaps admiration, perhaps something more. The sun caught his eyes, making them gleam, though San couldn’t tell if the glint was from the sunlight or something else entirely.

San’s skin tingled under Wooyoung’s gaze. His eyes traced a deliberate path down San’s body, lingering on his arms, where the strain of training had left the muscles tense and exposed, glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.

Deciding to break the tension, San smirked and closed the distance between them. “Came here to stare or would you like to join me?” He whispered quietly enough that only Wooyoung could hear him.

"Maybe another time," Wooyoung replied, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from San’s pecs, which were still heaving slightly from exertion. He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the mental image of San’s shirt slipping during their sparring session, revealing more of his muscled chest than it should have. The sight had distracted him for longer than he cared to admit. 

"You might want to get dressed." Wooyoung’s tone had a teasing edge as he gestured to San’s rumpled clothes discarded during the spar. "The council has called a meeting, and it would be... appropriate to show up fully clothed."

San, still catching his breath, raised an eyebrow at Wooyoung. "So suddenly?" His voice had a hint of confusion, but also a reluctant acceptance. He began buttoning up the jacket he had thrown aside earlier.

Wooyoung gave a small hum of acknowledgment, waiting patiently while San finished adjusting his attire. His eyes darted briefly over San’s form again, lingering on the way the sleeves clung to his biceps before he quickly looked away, willing the heat in his face to dissipate. 

Focus , he reminded himself again. "We’ll find out the details at the meeting. Mr. Kim didn’t tell me much - just that it’s urgent."

Together, they left the training grounds and walked side by side through the grand halls of the palace. When they reached the council chambers, the atmosphere shifted. The moment Wooyoung crossed the threshold, he felt the strange energy hanging in the air. The council members sat stiffly around the grand table, their faces marked with varying degrees of discomfort and unease. The usual murmurs that preceded a meeting were absent - instead, a heavy silence pressed down on the room.

Wooyoung’s sharp eyes immediately picked up on the source of the tension. Jaesong, the former King, was seated comfortably - far too comfortably - in the chair reserved for the reigning monarch. His posture was casual, almost as if he had forgotten that the throne no longer belonged to him.

"Your Highnesses," Kim Chul, the head of the council, stood and bowed deeply to Wooyoung and San as they entered. However, Jaesong remained seated, not even sparing a glance in their direction. His arrogance was palpable, filling the room with an air of quiet defiance.

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation passing over his usually calm features. He met his father’s eyes, waiting for some recognition, some awareness of the blatant disrespect being shown. But Jaesong simply stared back at him, as if unaware of the gravity of his actions.

Across the room, Wooyoung’s other father, Yongsook, sat among the council members, his face marked with embarrassment. The shame of his husband's behavior was clearly written in his expression, though he remained silent.

"Father..." Wooyoung’s voice was steady but firm, a warning beneath his calm exterior. He hoped his father would catch the hint, would realize the gravity of his position now that he was no longer king.

"There you are!" Jaesong exclaimed, his voice far too cheerful for the tension in the room. The false warmth in his tone only made the atmosphere colder, and Wooyoung felt the weight of every pair of eyes on him and his father. It was as though the entire council was holding its breath.

Wooyoung’s gaze hardened. He and Jaesong locked eyes, the air between them thick with unspoken words. It was a silent battle of wills, father and son standing on opposite sides of a chasm neither was willing to bridge.

"Come on," Jaesong added with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Make yourselves comfortable."

"The seat," Wooyoung said, his voice cool and controlled despite the burning irritation beneath. "It’s mine, father."

Jaesong blinked as if only now realizing his mistake. Then, with a dramatic flair, he stood up, laughing as if it were all a simple misunderstanding. "Oh, right! Of course! My apologies, old habits die hard!" His laughter echoed through the room, but it held no real warmth. "Am I right?" He cast a glance toward the council, seeking approval or perhaps amusement. No one responded.

Still chuckling to himself, Jaesong finally moved to sit beside Yongsook, taking his place among the rest of the council. Wooyoung exhaled quietly, his frustration barely contained, before taking his own seat at the head of the table, San following suit beside him.

The meeting began with Wooyoung still seething inside, but outwardly composed. "Why have we gathered here?" he asked his voice level but with a sharpness that hinted at his lingering irritation.

Kim Chul stood, bowing slightly before he spoke. "I believe it’s time to begin the search for a First Lady, Your Highness."

It had been little over a week since the wedding, but he wasn’t surprised by the suggestion. The council had been pushing for this ever since, urging him to fulfill his royal duties. Producing an heir was a necessity, a task he could not avoid. The sooner he found a suitable match, the better it would be for the kingdom's future.

Wooyoung nodded curtly. "I agree. We should prioritize-"

"Prioritize beauty!" Jaesong cut in, lounging in his chair as though he still held all the power. His voice was full of casual arrogance. "The heir of the Jung family cannot be born from an ugly mother!"

The words echoed through the chamber, and silence fell like a heavy curtain. Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Jaesong, stunned by his lack of decorum. Wooyoung felt his hands curl into fists beneath the table, his knuckles whitening as his blood boiled. The humiliation, the anger - he could barely contain it.

"Father," Wooyoung began, his voice low but firm, "I encourage you to control yourself. I remind you, you are no longer king." His tone grew colder, more authoritative. "I will not tolerate such comments. Consider this your first and last warning."

Jaesong, oblivious to the rising tension, scoffed. "Is that how you speak to your father? I’m only trying to ensure you don’t end up with an ugly wh-"

"Enough!" Wooyoung’s hand slammed against the table as he stood, his patience finally snapping. "You have no right to speak to the King that way," he said, his voice filled with the authority of his station. His shoulders heaved with the effort to control his breathing, his eyes locked on his father’s in an unflinching stare. "Leave. Now. I won’t hear any more of your nonsense."

"But-"

"I said, leave," Wooyoung growled, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. His gaze was hard as steel, piercing through Jaesong’s defiance.

Jaesong muttered something under his breath but began to rise from his seat. As he passed by, Wooyoung reached out, grabbing his wrist in a firm grip. "And remember this," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Do not ever again speak about my subjects without respect. You should be ashamed of yourself."

For a moment, Jaesong’s face twisted with anger and humiliation, but he pulled his arm free, lifting his chin as if to regain some shred of dignity. He stormed out of the room, the door closing behind him with a final, echoing thud.

Wooyoung collapsed back into his chair, exhaling a long, weary breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to regain his composure before addressing the council once more. "Mr. Kim," he said, his voice quieter but still carrying authority, "assemble a team to begin the search for a suitable candidate. Inform me when you’ve found someone."

Kim Chul nodded, bowing once more. "Yes, Your Highness."

With that, the meeting came to an abrupt end.

…

Wooyoung’s sincere desire was to ensure the happiness of his subjects. When he was a young prince, just beginning to understand the world of politics, his admiration was directed entirely at King Jaesong. At the time, his father was his role model - an ideal monarch who seemed to prioritize the well-being of his people. However, as Wooyoung grew older, he began to notice the flaws in his father’s image. And there were many.

As Wooyoung matured, the once pristine image of his father began to crumble piece by piece. What he had once admired as strength and leadership, he started to recognize as something far darker. The cracks in Jaesong’s regal facade revealed a man who ruled not with compassion, but with cruelty and selfish ambition. And the more Wooyoung saw, the more disillusioned he became.

In his early years, Wooyoung had been taught that the golden-blooded were inherently superior to the silver-blooded, a belief deeply ingrained in the social structure of the kingdom. It was a lesson that Jaesong reinforced at every opportunity. As a boy, Wooyoung accepted it without question, convinced that it was the natural order of things. His father’s decisions, no matter how harsh, seemed justified in his young eyes.

He watched Jaesong preside over court sessions, where petitioners would come seeking justice or aid, only to be sent away empty-handed - often with nothing but cruel laughter and dismissive words. The king’s indifference to the misery of his people was glaring, but Wooyoung, still a child, didn’t fully grasp the injustice of it all.

At that age, Wooyoung saw his father as a figure of awe, a ruler who commanded respect through sheer will and power. King Jaesong was unyielding, a leader who tolerated no dissent. But as Wooyoung grew older, he began to notice the fear and loathing that his father’s subjects carried in their eyes whenever they looked upon the throne. He started to recognize the whispers of discontent that echoed through the palace halls and among the common folk. Yet, what haunted Wooyoung most were the memories of a single, harrowing night that marked the beginning of his awakening.

It happened when he was just twelve years old. One night, Wooyoung woke to the eerie sight of thick, suffocating smoke curling through the sky, cloaking the kingdom in a shroud of ash and shadow. Confused and alarmed, he questioned the palace staff, but they all averted their eyes, their faces twisted with pain and fear. It wasn’t until later that he learned from his father what had happened. Jaesong had quelled a rebellion in its infancy. He told the tale with pride, speaking of his swift and decisive actions as if he had just orchestrated a great victory.

To Wooyoung’s young mind, it seemed like a necessary evil at the time. Rebels had to be punished, didn’t they? His father’s victory only solidified the image of Jaesong as a strong ruler, one who would go to any lengths to protect his kingdom. But as Wooyoung matured, the horror of that night lingered in his thoughts. He came to understand that the rebellion had not been some vicious uprising, but a desperate cry from those who had been wronged, oppressed by a king who cared little for their suffering.

The older Wooyoung became, the more he began to question his father’s rule. He could no longer ignore the cruelty that permeated Jaesong’s reign - the dismissive comments, the brutal punishments, and the way silver-blooded subjects were treated as if their life meant nothing. 

What once seemed like strength now appeared as arrogance. What he once believed to be justice now looked like tyranny.

As the years passed, Wooyoung’s discomfort grew into outright disgust. He could barely stand to be in the same room as his father, whose every word and action seemed designed to remind everyone of his superiority. The way Jaesong treated the servants with contempt, the way he dismissed the needs of the silver-blooded with a sneer - it all made Wooyoung’s stomach turn.

He began to see his father for what he truly was: a man who ruled not for the good of the people, but for his own power and pleasure. Jaesong’s iron grip on the kingdom had brought stability, but it had also suffocated the very people Wooyoung had once believed his father sought to protect.

Wooyoung’s changing views were not the result of teenage rebellion, as some might have thought, but the product of a growing sense of justice and moral clarity. His conscience, something his father seemed to lack, would not allow him to ignore the suffering around him. And with every passing year, his resolve to do things differently - when his time to rule came - grew stronger.

By the time he ascended the throne, Wooyoung’s admiration for his father had long since withered away. In its place was a determination to undo the damage Jaesong had wrought, to be a ruler who led with both strength and compassion. Wooyoung knew he could not change the past, but he vowed to forge a future where no subject would be dismissed as unworthy of their ruler’s care.

His gaze flickered to the side, landing on San, who sat beside him with a calm, regal demeanor. Wooyoung couldn’t help but compare his husband to his second father, Yongsook. The similarities between them were undeniable. There was an effortless strength in the way they carried themselves, an aura of unwavering authority that seemed to demand respect without them needing to say a word. San, like Yongsook, possessed a quiet power. His sharp jawline, the intensity of his cat-like eyes, and the way his every move seemed measured and purposeful gave him the aura of someone born to rule.

But Wooyoung also knew that the image San projected wasn’t all there was to him. Despite the hardened exterior, there was something deeper, something Wooyoung had yet to fully uncover. While most nobles hid behind layers of etiquette, afraid to show their true selves, San was different. His words, though sharp and sometimes unfiltered, came from a place of sincerity. He didn’t care for the games of court, he spoke his mind and made his feelings known.

Wooyoung tore his gaze away from San, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The royal court had been convening for hours, and they were only halfway through the long list of subjects seeking aid. While many of the cases brought before them were minor squabbles, Wooyoung refused to dismiss anyone lightly. These were their people, and no problem, no matter how small, was beneath them. San, too, had shown the same dedication, listening attentively to each petitioner. It was a small thing, but Wooyoung found it heartening. The kingdom had endured much under Jaesong’s reign, and seeing the genuine concern on San’s face gave Wooyoung hope for a better future.

Every thank you, every smile from their subjects was like a salve, healing the wounds left by Jaesong’s cruel rule. His father had taken pleasure in mocking the weak, ignoring their pleas for help unless it served his interests. Wooyoung vowed never to follow that path.

As they worked through the cases, the doors to the hall burst open, and a servant rushed in, breathless and red-faced. "Your Majesties, a farmer from the southern lands has arrived. He says it’s a matter of great urgency."

A ripple of unrest moved through the room. Some of the petitioners who had been waiting since dawn looked displeased at the idea of someone skipping ahead. But Wooyoung knew the matter of the south couldn’t wait. Reports of poor harvests had already reached him, and if this farmer had urgent news, it was likely tied to the worsening conditions on the kingdom’s borders. He had to prioritize the kingdom’s welfare over a noble couple’s petty quarrel about a divorce.

“Bring him in,” Wooyoung said, his tone decisive.

San turned toward him, one eyebrow slightly raised in surprise, but said nothing. In the chaos of coronation preparations and the overwhelming duties that followed, Wooyoung realized he hadn’t had the chance to fully brief San on the agricultural crisis brewing in the southern territories. There was so much he needed to share, yet so little time between their royal obligations. He made a mental note to catch San up on everything as soon as the day’s court had ended.

The large wooden doors creaked open, and a farmer - dressed in worn, earth-stained clothes - entered the hall, bowing low before the royal couple. His face was drawn and weary, etched with the kind of lines that only years of hardship could carve.

"What brings you here?" San offered him a gentle but authoritative smile.

"As you may have heard, things are not going well in the south. Almost a month ago, our lands were struck by a crop failure. Neither my acquaintances nor I understood what had happened, and before we knew it, our fields were drying up in an unnatural way."

Wooyoung, already aware of some of the details, leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been informed about the crop failures. The council has already begun investigations into the cause. Rest assured, this matter is being taken seriously.”

But the farmer shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. “There’s more to it, your Majesty. The land… it’s turning white.”

San’s brows furrowed in confusion. “White? How do you mean?”

“It’s like the soil has been drained of all life. It’s not just dry or barren - it looks as though it’s been bleached. At night, it glows with a strange, unnatural light. My brothers and I thought it was a disease at first but the glow… it’s something unnatural. We fear it’s spreading.”

A chill ran down Wooyoung’s spine. He exchanged a glance with San, whose face had turned from curious to deeply concerned. The crease in his husband’s brow deepened, signaling that he, too, recognized the gravity of the situation.

“Every night?” San asked his tone now sharp with urgency.

“Yes, your Majesty,” the farmer replied, his voice trembling slightly. “Especially on nights when the sky is clear. The whole field glows like something otherworldly. It’s not natural, your Majesties. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Wooyoung exhaled slowly. It wasn’t just a failing harvest they were dealing with - it sounded like something far more sinister. His mind raced, considering the possible causes, but nothing made sense. No disease he had ever heard of caused land to glow.

“I think we should send some of the royal guards,” San said, his voice calm but firm. “And scholars specializing in agriculture.”

Wooyoung nodded in agreement. “The council will organize an expedition at once. They’ll leave by sunrise tomorrow.” He turned to Kim Chul, who stood ready with a quill in hand, taking notes on the proceedings. “Ensure that the best minds are selected for this mission. We need answers, and quickly.”

Chul nodded, jotting down the necessary details. “Of course, your Majesty. I will assemble the team immediately.”

“Thank you, Your Majesties,” the farmer said, bowing deeply once more. There was relief in his voice, though his expression remained troubled. 

The day had stretched on, each passing hour bringing with it a steady stream of faces - some hopeful, others desperate, and all of them looking toward their new rulers for salvation. Wooyoung, though tired, found a small flicker of peace in knowing that they had done their best to address the needs of their people. But now, as the sunlight dimmed and the shadows in the throne room lengthened, only one more subject remained.

She was silver-blooded, as the herald had informed them, a woman of humble stature who looked as though she had carried the weight of many lifetimes upon her shoulders. She approached the throne hesitantly, her steps small and careful, as if afraid to make too much noise in the grand hall. When she finally reached the foot of the dais, she bowed so low that her forehead nearly touched the marble floor. She seemed reluctant to rise, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she remained in her deferential pose.

"Your Majesties," she began, her voice soft but clear, "on behalf of the people whose blood I share, I have come humbly to request that you hear my plea."

Wooyoung shifted in his seat. He could see the unease etched into her every movement, the way she carefully avoided meeting their gaze. His heart ached at the sight of her anxiety.

He wanted to offer her comfort, to assure her that whatever her request was, they would do their utmost to consider it. But he did not yet know the severity of the issue she brought before them.

“We humbly request the construction of a temple for the Deity Eclipse,” the woman continued, her voice trembling slightly as she made her plea. “We suffer greatly after the loss of the previous sanctuary and deeply regret that there is no place in the kingdom to worship. We are lost without it.”

Wooyoung’s chest tightened. The temple of Eclipse had once been a grand place of worship, a sanctuary for those who had honored the Deity Eclipse for generations. But Jaesong, in his arrogance and cruelty, had defiled that sacred space. He had ordered its conversion into a brothel - a move that had been celebrated by the golden-blooded but had caused outrage among the silver-blooded citizens. Wooyoung had never agreed with the decision, but at the time, he was powerless to stop it.

Despite his deep desire to right the wrongs of his father, Wooyoung hesitated. He knew the gravity of the woman’s request and the complications that came with it. 

Building a temple would come with significant costs, ones they could not currently afford. With autumn approaching and winter on the horizon, dedicating energy and resources to construction during this period was far from ideal. Especially with the looming crop failure hanging over their heads. The news had yet to spread throughout the kingdom, but Wooyoung knew that once it did, panic would follow.

“I’m not sure it’s possible,” Wooyoung said honestly, his voice tinged with regret.

They needed to reserve their funds for crisis situations - emergencies that might require purchasing resources from neighboring kingdoms. A temple was not a priority when the specter of famine, due to the lack of winter provisions, was threatening them.

San, who had remained quiet until then, turned his sharp gaze toward his husband, his brows furrowing slightly. “And why do you think that Your Majesty?” he asked, his tone calm but curious. He rested his chin on his hand, his body leaning slightly toward Wooyoung as he waited for an explanation.

Wooyoung sighed. “It’s not an easy decision. We would need to discuss this with the council first,” he replied, hoping to avoid delving too deeply into the matter in front of the woman. The last thing he wanted was for rumors to spread about the kingdom’s internal struggles.

San, however, seemed unperturbed by the political delicacies at play. He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. “Is that what you think, Your Majesty?” he asked, his lips curving into a small, teasing smile that was meant only for Wooyoung. “Personally, I’m all for beginning the construction of a temple. Our people deserve a place to worship.”

Wooyoung felt a flare of frustration rise within him. He knew San was only trying to push him into making a decision on the spot, but this was not a matter to be taken lightly. There were too many factors at play - too many risks.

“We’ll discuss this matter in detail later,” Wooyoung said, his voice calm but firm. “I don’t think making a decision here and now is wise.”

San tilted his head, his expression one of mock contemplation. “But I insist,” he said softly, his tone still playful yet carrying an underlying seriousness. “This matter is urgent - our subjects long for a place to worship their deity. Why should we deny them that?”

Wooyoung clenched his fists at his sides, trying to keep his composure. Sharing a kingdom and power was no easy task - especially when still getting to know the other person. No one had promised that being King would be a bed of roses, but faced with their two strong personalities clashing, Wooyoung had no intention of backing down.

He couldn’t reveal the full extent of the kingdom’s current financial struggles in front of the woman. The news had not yet spread to the general population, but Wooyoung knew that once it did, panic would ensue.

"I think that’s enough for today," Wooyoung said firmly, his voice carrying a note of finality. Though his words were directed at the subject before them, his gaze remained locked on San, their eyes clashing in a silent battle of wills.

San’s expression darkened, his playful demeanor falling away to reveal the sharpness beneath. His cat-like eyes narrowed slightly, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he regarded Wooyoung with a look that was equal parts frustration and challenge.

"I will personally look into this matter," Wooyoung added, trying to diffuse the tension. “I’ll make sure the council hears your plea,” he assured the woman, who bowed deeply before taking her leave.

As the doors to the throne room closed behind her, the tension in the air between the two kings thickened. Yunho and Jongho remained nearby, watching cautiously but saying nothing.

San wasted no time confronting Wooyoung the moment they were alone. “Why did you dodge the subject?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

Wooyoung closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his temples as the stress of the day finally caught up to him. "I think we need to talk first. Start working together instead of arguing over who is right. We can't keep avoiding each other."

San crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze never leaving Wooyoung’s face. “You know, it wasn’t me who ran off before dawn, just to avoid facing my husband,” he shot back, his voice dripping with accusation.

Wooyoung bristled at the comment. “Oh, I’m so sorry for having duties to attend to!” he snapped, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Isn't being my husband one of your duties, Your Majesty?” San eyed him from head to toe, smirk dancing on his lips.

“Since when?”

“Since I won a fair share of the kingdom and your hand in marriage." San’s eyes narrowed further, and his voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. “Don’t forget, you’re not the only king here.”

The words cut deep, and Wooyoung felt the sting of guilt settle in his chest. He hadn’t meant to diminish San’s role - hadn’t meant to make him feel like anything less than his equal. But the pressures of ruling had weighed so heavily on him that he had begun to lose sight of the balance they needed to strike.

“I know,” Wooyoung said softly, his voice losing its sharpness. “It’s just… I’m sorry.” He reached out, gently taking San’s hand in his own. “Can we talk in private? Please?”

San hesitated for a moment, his gaze searching Wooyoung’s face for any sign of insincerity. But eventually, he sighed and gave a small nod, squeezing Wooyoung’s hand in return.

…

"Why?"  Seonghwa demanded, his feet tracing an agitated path back and forth across the room, his mind racing as he tried to process his mother's decision. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with tension.

"This is for the best, Seonghwa." Aeri said softly, but her gentle words only fueled the frustration bubbling up inside him. A sharp, incredulous scoff escaped his lips before he could stop it. He stopped pacing long enough to stare at her.

"San? Instead of me? Are you serious?" He questioned, his voice thick with disbelief. "I can understand Mingi, sure - he’s got the fire in him, he’s relentless - but San?" His words dripped with disdain. "He’s worthless! He’ll mess everything up! You should be sending me to the Tournament, not him!" Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes.

"My dear..." She stepped closer, gripping his shoulders to steady him. "San has potential. He’s improving, I’ve seen it. He’s the most capable out of the three of you and will guarantee our success."

Seonghwa couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at her words, the disbelief on his face morphing into a sarcastic smile. "Did you forget that strength and skill aren’t the only things we need? San won’t be able to handle it mentally. You and I both know he’ll crack under pressure at the first opportunity - he’s too weak."

Aeri let her hands fall to her sides. "Ever since I can remember, you’ve never accepted San. Why?"

Seonghwa's face hardened, but his voice cracked as he responded. "Because he took you away from me," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes glistening as a tear slid down his cheek. "He didn’t deserve your love, but you gave it to him anyway. And now, sending him to the Tournament instead of your own son. Did you for one second think about how I would feel?" He scoffed, seeing the remorse on her face. "Of course, you didn’t."

"Seonghwa, you don’t understand-"

"Fuck no! No, I don’t understand, and I don’t want to. Ever since you brought them into the house like stray dogs off the street, I’ve put up with the fact that my own mother loves someone more than me." Tears flowed freely down Aeri’s face as she reached out toward Seonghwa, wanting to embrace him - but he pushed her away.

"I don’t need your pity," he continued. "What I need is for you to wake up and see that you’re making a huge mistake. San isn’t ready. He’ll never overcome the mental strain of this. He’s not built for it."

Aeri’s eyes filled with a fresh wave of tears, but she lifted her chin defiantly, her voice steady despite the tremble in her lips. "I believe in him," she said softly but firmly. “He’s stronger than you give him credit for. One day, you’ll understand."

Chapter Text

7.

As San stepped into their shared chamber, the teacup in his hands wavered slightly. His breath caught at the sight of Wooyoung - his husband looked utterly breathtaking. Ever since San had laid eyes on Wooyoung during the Tournament, stepping out onto that balcony, there had been an undeniable transformation in him. 

What once was pallor, a dull lifelessness to his complexion, had been replaced with a glow, a vitality that almost took San’s breath away. His skin looked soft, refreshed, as if kissed by the sun despite the nighttime shadows, and his hair, no longer neatly swept back in royal fashion, now fell in soft waves over his forehead. He no longer looked like the regal figure burdened with the weight of the kingdom - he looked like Wooyoung, who, under the protection of these four walls, allowed himself to be vulnerable and weary from the long day.

It had been too long since San had a moment to simply look at him. There was something profoundly serene in the way Wooyoung reclined against the pile of pillows at the head of their bed. His body was relaxed, the usually taut muscles softened by exhaustion and comfort. He was dressed in a satin nightshirt of deep navy that emphasized the golden undertones of his skin. The nightshirt hung loosely on his form, the fabric slipping just enough off his shoulders to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the smooth plane of his chest.

San's fingers tightened around the edge of the saucer. His hands trembled slightly as he approached the bed, Wooyoung’s calm gaze tracking his every movement with curiosity and a soft, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Wasn’t Yeosang supposed to bring my tea?" Wooyoung teased with a light chuckle, the sound low and soothing. He watched with those deep, knowing eyes as San gently placed the teacup on the bedside table.

Clearing his throat, San tried to compose himself, forcing a casual tone into his words. "Well, I thought it would be a kind gesture, a way to apologize." He loosened the tension in his shoulders as he moved to his side of the bed, taking a seat next to Wooyoung. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier, I didn’t mean the things I’ve said. You don’t owe me anything, I’m sorry.”

His smile was forced, an awkward mask to hide the truth of his intentions. This wasn’t really about apologizing - at least, not completely. It had taken far too much effort to convince Yeosang to even let him be the one to serve Wooyoung tea tonight. Wooyoung’s ever-vigilant servant, always wary, always distrustful, hadn’t made it easy. 

San knew Wooyoung’s servant wouldn’t trust him easily - so he wasn’t surprised when Yeosang initially refused, insisting that only he should make the tea for the king. At least, Yeosang had agreed to let San deliver the brewed tea to the chamber himself - as the loving husband he was supposed to be.

But the task had come with temptation. The weight of the small vial of poison in San’s pocket had been a constant, heavy presence throughout the entire walk to their chambers. Every step he took had been a reminder of the delicate glass bottle pressing against his thigh. The opportunity had been there, waiting - the perfect moment to spike the tea with a few drops of the venomous liquid.

But tonight wasn’t the right moment - it would be foolish to act so soon after earning even a sliver of Yeosang’s trust. It would be too risky. It would draw too much suspicion if Wooyoung suddenly fell ill after San had only just begun to earn a shred of trust from Yeosang. He needed more time - more caution.

And so, he had made a choice. The vial of poison would remain unused, at least for tonight.

Wooyoung hummed appreciatively as he took a sip of the tea. “This is lovely,” he murmured softly, a small smile playing on his lips as he opened his eyes again to gaze up at San. The tension between them was palpable, the unspoken words lingering in the air between them. “How… how have you been?” Wooyoung’s voice was tentative, searching for connection, though the discomfort was still evident in his tone.

San couldn’t help but let out an amused chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine, I guess. I’m slowly getting used to life here.” His voice was calm. Allowing himself a brief moment of vulnerability, he continued, “I was wondering if there’s a collection of old books in the palace.”

“Yes, there should be some. Why do you ask?” Wooyoung asked, taking another sip of his tea. His gaze lingered on San, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“We should look into the matter of... you know, the red blood.” 

The mention of the red blood caused Wooyoung’s hand, which was in the midst of setting down the teacup, to freeze in mid-air. His eyes widened slightly as the words registered. After a brief pause, he let out a small groan of frustration. “Right. That completely slipped my mind,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a slightly sheepish expression. “We do have a collection of old books in the right wing, though. Yunho should know exactly where to find them. Do you... have any theories?”

San paused for a moment, as if contemplating something deeper, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. For a brief second, he wondered if the appearance of the red color in the blood was the result of mixing silver and gold blood - but surely they would have heard about something like that long ago.

“I honestly have no idea,” San replied finally, his voice tinged with frustration at the lack of answers. He exhaled deeply before adding, “I’ll do my best to find out.” He offered Wooyoung a small but reassuring smile.

Wooyoung smiled in return, though the weight of their shared silence hung heavy in the room. The occasional sound of servants' footsteps echoed in the halls outside their chamber, distant and muffled. Wooyoung, having finished his tea, gently set the empty cup down on the small table beside him, his fingers lingering on the delicate porcelain before he turned his gaze back to San. 

“Can I ask you something?” Wooyoung’s voice broke the silence, though there was a hesitancy in his tone as if he was afraid of crossing a line.

“Yes?” San looked at him, intrigued and cautious, unsure of what Wooyoung was about to say. Wooyoung’s eyes held a quiet intensity, and there was something deeper in his gaze now, something that seemed to reach into San’s soul, searching for the truth hidden beneath the surface.

“Why did you push so hard for the temple to be built?” Wooyoung’s question was simple, but the weight of it was heavy.

San pressed his lips into a thin line, his mind racing as he tried to form an answer that would make sense to Wooyoung without revealing too much. The question dug at something inside him, something he wasn’t willing to share. A large part of him had advocated for the temple because of the injustices and prejudices that the silver-blooded had faced for generations. He felt an unspoken responsibility to protect them, to fight for their rights and their dignity. It was, after all, the reason he had entered the Tournament in the first place - to dismantle the oppressive Jung dynasty and to create a kingdom where everyone was treated equally, regardless of their bloodline.

San sighed, running a hand through his hair, before meeting Wooyoung’s gaze with a conflicted expression. He settled on telling the truth. Well, part of it. "I grew up as a follower of Eclipse, and I’m still a devoted worshiper. I understand the pain of the people who miss the temple, I believe your father made a huge mistake getting rid of it."

Wooyoung sighed deeply, "You're right. I fear my father did a lot of things that we’ll have to face the consequences of, even now. Sometimes I wonder how much damage we’re going to have to fix." His voice trailed off, a heavy yawn escaping him despite his attempts to hold it back.

"Maybe rebuilding the temple is the first step in mending some of those wounds," San said quietly, his voice laced with sincerity. "We should sleep," San added after a moment of reflection, sensing Wooyoung’s exhaustion.

"No!" Wooyoung’s protest came quickly, his voice firm despite the obvious weariness in his eyes. Then, as if realizing how desperate he sounded, he softened his tone and lowered his gaze, his lips curving into a shy smile. "Not yet. I enjoy talking with you." He glanced up through his lashes, the soft light of the room catching the warmth in his eyes. The smile he gave San was small, yet undeniably charming, making San’s heart skip a beat. 

"The temple issue is so complicated," Wooyoung continued, shifting his position slightly to get more comfortable on the bed. His delicate hands reached up to smooth a stray lock of hair behind his ear. San watched him quietly, noticing the graceful movements of his long fingers. "It’s not that I’m against the idea of rebuilding the temple because of any religious prejudice," Wooyoung explained, his voice becoming more thoughtful. "It’s just that, economically, I’m not sure now is the right time. I worry we’re not in a position to start a massive project like that."

San nodded in understanding. "Because of the poor harvests?" He asked gently.

"Exactly." Wooyoung began to fidget with his fingers, occasionally glancing at San out of the corner of his eye. San noticed that Wooyoung’s gaze kept drifting downward, stopping at his chest, which was barely concealed by the thin, slightly translucent fabric of his shirt. Wooyoung cleared his throat awkwardly. "Actually, the farmer didn't mention everything. A few weeks ago, I received news that the livestock have started dying as well."

San's eyes widened in shock. "The same regions?"

"Yes," Wooyoung confirmed, the crease on his forehead deepening. "It’s primarily affecting the southern border and some parts of the west. If this continues, we could be facing a major crisis. We might have to start buying food from neighboring kingdoms if we can’t solve the problem ourselves." His voice trembled slightly as he admitted this, clearly worried about the future of their kingdom. "And with that looming over us, we need to be careful about our resources. Draining the treasury to build a temple is the last thing we should be doing when we might need to secure food supplies."

San nodded thoughtfully, appreciating Wooyoung’s concerns. He wasn’t just thinking about the present but about the long-term health of the kingdom. San found himself admiring that quality in him.

"You’re right," San finally said, his voice soft and full of understanding. Another yawn slipped from Wooyoung’s lips, this one impossible to hide. He tried to turn his head away, covering his mouth with his hand, but it didn’t escape San’s notice. "It’s definitely time for sleep," San said with a gentle chuckle.

"Y-" Wooyoung attempted to respond, but another yawn interrupted him mid-sentence. He smiled sheepishly, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Yes," he agreed with a nod, "we’ll finish this conversation during the council meeting tomorrow."

San watched as Wooyoung slowly shifted, pulling back the covers of the bed with a slow, deliberate motion. He slipped into bed beside Wooyoung, the soft fabric of the sheets cool against his skin. They lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, their bodies close but not quite touching. Slowly, the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with them. Wooyoung’s breathing evened out as he drifted closer to sleep, and San found himself relaxing as well.

…

As Wooyoung had anticipated, the council largely shared his opinion about the temple’s construction - it would be wiser to hold off until the kingdom’s economic situation improved.

The absence of Jaesong at the meeting was both a relief and a signal that the wound dealt in their last encounter had cut deep. Wooyoung knew that a man like Jaesong did not forgive humiliation easily. His absence meant that, for the time being, the council was spared his venom, but Wooyoung also knew better than to think that Jaesong would remain in the shadows for long. He would find another moment to strike.

The discussion in the chamber turned, and it was then that one of the elder councilors, Minjun, a man whose presence seemed to linger like an unpleasant shadow, spoke up. Minjun’s reputation for old-fashioned, borderline regressive thinking was well-known, and Wooyoung braced himself for what was coming.

“Besides,” Minjun’s voice cut through the air like a knife, smooth but carrying an undercurrent of disdain, “crop failures or not, we shouldn't waste our focus on such primitive matters.”

Wooyoung felt it almost immediately - the shift in San’s demeanor beside him. The slight stiffening of his posture, the way his fingers subtly curled into the arms of his chair, the cold fire that instantly ignited in his eyes. Wooyoung glanced at him and saw the icy glare San leveled at Minjun. A chill ran down Wooyoung’s spine. The air grew dense with tension as San’s voice followed, sharp and unforgiving.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘primitive matters?’” San’s voice had taken on that tone - low, dangerous, like a sword being unsheathed.

There was a brief moment of silence in the chamber, as though everyone present was holding their breath. Wooyoung could see the discomfort ripple through some of the council members.

Minjun, however, appeared unfazed. If anything, the councilor’s eyes gleamed with condescending amusement. He barely inclined his head as he responded. “The well-being of the silver-blooded,” Minjun practically spat the words, his lip curling ever so slightly. “Have we really fallen so low as to pander to the common folk and their petty desires?”

The tension in the room spiked, palpable enough to feel like a physical force pressing down on everyone present. Wooyoung could sense San’s fury mounting, like a storm on the brink of unleashing its wrath. 

“Councilor,” San’s words were ground out through clenched teeth, barely restrained, “I suggest you watch your words carefully. They are still our subjects, are they not?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Minjun replied smoothly, though his tone was thick with mockery, his gaze unwavering and dripping with arrogance. “I simply believe we have more pressing matters to attend to than worrying about the demands of the lower classes.”

Silence descended over the room once again, thick and oppressive. Wooyoung’s heart raced as he felt San’s gaze turn toward him. He could feel the weight of San’s expectations in that moment - the pressure to speak up, to align himself with his husband. But Wooyoung hesitated. His mind whirred with conflicting thoughts, years of internal struggle bubbling to the surface.

San was right. Deep down, Wooyoung knew that. But the legacy of his forebears, the laws that had governed their kingdom for generations, held him back. 

Should the silver-blooded be considered equals to the golden-blooded? 

The weight of tradition, of centuries of ruling through these ancient, divisive structures, bore down on him like a heavy chain. How could he break away from that, knowing the chaos it could unleash? The nobles, the council - they would never accept it. 

The room seemed to hold its breath as Wooyoung finally forced himself to speak, his voice sounding far more composed than he felt inside. “I believe,” he began, feeling the eyes of every council member on him, “that we do indeed have more urgent matters to address. The issue of the temple is closed for now, and I see no reason to continue discussing it.”

His words echoed in the chamber, and Wooyoung’s heart sank. He had done it again - taken the safe route, preserved the status quo, at the expense of what he truly felt was right. His stomach twisted with guilt, shame prickling at the edges of his conscience. 

He couldn’t bear to look at San, knowing the disappointment he’d find in his eyes. He had let him down. He knew he had hurt San, twisting the knife in a vulnerable spot - fully aware of how deeply San’s faith mattered to him and how important the temple was in his eyes. 

Yet Wooyoung had chosen to play it safe, to accept the reality as it was, even if it conflicted with his own values.

Lifting his eyes hesitantly to meet San’s, Wooyoung saw the disappointment written plainly on his face. The light that had danced in San’s eyes the night before had been replaced by something far darker, more dangerous. San’s mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw clenched tightly as though biting back words he desperately wanted to say but couldn’t in front of the council. He slumped back in his chair, defeated and furious, but saying nothing.

Later on, they discussed sending a patrol to the contaminated areas - consisting of several guards and two scientists who were to go on an expedition south and return with a report.

Kim Chul cleared his throat loudly. “Your Majesty,” he said, turning to Wooyoung with a diplomatic smile, “we’ve identified a suitable candidate for the position of First Lady. I believe the sooner we begin efforts toward producing an heir, the better it will be for the kingdom.”

As Wooyoung and the council finalized the remaining details and formally introduced the candidate to him, the reality of what lay ahead became more tangible with every passing moment. The entire court, council, and even their people would be watching from the shadows, hoping, perhaps praying, that the night would result in an heir on the very first attempt.

There was nothing intimate or tender about the process. The woman, chosen based on nothing more than her genetics and noble lineage, was an ideal candidate on paper, but to Wooyoung, she was a stranger. In fact, until a few hours ago, she hadn’t even existed in his world. And now, with a few words and signatures, she was expected to bear the heir for the Kingdom. 

As evening began to creep in, so did a sense of dread. Anxiety bubbled in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. His breaths grew shallow, uneven, and his heart pounded like a drumbeat that wouldn’t relent. He could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, tightening his throat, making his pulse race with an unsettling urgency. He could almost hear the whispers of the council, of the court, of the kingdom itself, waiting for news of success or failure.

Standing by the window in the dimly lit chamber, Wooyoung tried to calm his racing thoughts, but the stillness of the room only heightened his awareness of what was to come. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the landscape. 

Adrenaline surged through his veins, heightening his senses but blurring his mind. A constant, dull hum filled his ears, making it hard to think clearly. How different this moment could have been if only he were with someone he cared for, someone he loved, or at the very least, someone with whom he shared a spark of desire. 

This - this was cold, mechanical, something he had to endure, rather than something he could look forward to. A gentle knock on the door broke through his turbulent thoughts. Wooyoung’s heart jumped into his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. 

“Come in,” he called, a voice filled with the confidence of a king.

The door creaked open slowly, and Wooyoung instinctively turned away from the window. The candidate stepped into the room with measured grace. She was undeniably beautiful - her presence radiated elegance, her movements poised and deliberate, her expression carefully maintained in a mask of quiet determination. 

But despite her beauty, Wooyoung felt nothing. She was a vision of perfection, yet her entrance stirred no emotion in him. 

The silence that followed her entrance weighed heavy in the room, thick and suffocating. Wooyoung's mind scrambled for something to say, something that might alleviate the awkwardness of their situation, but nothing came. What words could possibly make this easier for either of them? He doubted that anything he could say would be enough to soften the discomfort and tension that hung between them.

She moved further into the room, her eyes meeting his briefly before lowering, as if unsure how to proceed. They both gravitated toward the bed, their steps uncertain and unpracticed, two people who had no experience in this sort of intimacy. Wooyoung hesitated before finally breaking the silence, his voice low and almost fragile.

"Are you certain about this?" he asked, his gaze shifting between her eyes and the looming bed. They were both so inexperienced, both so uncertain. Should they kiss? Should they...?

"It is an honor for me, Your Highness," she replied sincerely. There was no hesitation in her words.

Wooyoung took a step forward, gently cupping her face in his hands. He was lost - lost in his conflicted emotions, lost in his thoughts - grasping for something to guide him. He tried to let instinct take over, remembering how desire was supposed to feel. As a teenager, he had snuck away from his attendants countless times to read lewd stories, indulging in fantasies that his body responded to. But translating those fantasies into reality now seemed far more difficult than he had imagined.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips against hers, initiating a kiss. The woman remained pliant in his arms, yielding to him and allowing him to take control of the situation - a control he desperately lacked. Their uncertain kisses gradually evolved into bolder movements of their hands, but despite the growing physicality, the tension in Wooyoung’s mind never dissipated. His every motion was deliberate, choreographed, but there was no spark, no heat of desire behind it.

With slow, almost ritualistic movements, he untied the sash that held her robes in place, and her garments slipped gracefully to the floor. For a moment, he allowed his eyes to travel over her body. Her delicate hair cascaded down her shoulders, flowing like a waterfall over her chest. Her figure was soft and full, her breasts gentle and inviting, with hardened nipples that stood in contrast to her smooth skin. She reached out to touch him, her fingers grazing along his body with a tenderness that would have stirred any other man.

But not him.

Wooyoung's eyes traced the contours of her form, yet there was no flame of arousal igniting within him. He felt nothing. His body refused to respond, and with mounting embarrassment, he realized that his penis remained soft, utterly unaffected by her beauty or touch.

No matter how much he tried to slip into the necessary headspace, no matter how much he wished to detach his mind from the reality surrounding them, he couldn’t do it. Time seemed to crawl, each passing minute only increasing his frustration and desperation. Slowly, the hope for success that he had clung to began to die within him. He couldn’t force it. His body refused to respond, and the shame of his failure burned in his cheeks.

With a heavy heart and his dignity barely intact, Wooyoung finally instructed the woman to dress and leave. His voice was strained but firm as he called for Jongho, asking him to escort her to another chamber for the night. Before she left, Wooyoung asked her to keep what had transpired within the walls of his chamber to herself, promising that they would try again another evening.

Left alone, Wooyoung sank into the oppressive silence of the room. Shame and embarrassment settled over him like a heavy blanket, wrapping tightly around his chest until it was almost difficult to breathe. He waited, feeling utterly humiliated until Yeosang arrived with his nightly tea. His friend's eyes were full of unspoken sympathy, a quiet understanding that made Wooyoung feel even smaller, even more wretched.

Taking the cup, Wooyoung downed the bitter liquid in silence, grateful for the numbing effect it would soon bring. Yet even with the promise of sleep, his mind refused to quiet. He couldn’t return to his bed - not with the possibility of facing San there, who would undoubtedly know what had happened, or worse, what hadn’t happened. 

…

San watched intently as the colorless drop of poison fell from the pipette, disappearing into the warm tea with a faint ripple. The seemingly innocuous liquid blended effortlessly into the brew. 

He had held off for five long nights, giving Wooyoung every possible chance to change, to show some sign of remorse or reconsideration. But the time for mercy had passed. There was no more room for hesitation - his mission was far too important, and Wooyoung's blind loyalty to his lineage had sealed his fate. The pungent aroma of the tea filled the room, as bitter and acrid as the memories that clouded San’s mind. 

He had given Wooyoung space to reveal his true nature.

And he did - choosing the regime of his dynasty, the supremacy of their bloodline. Just as his father would have.

With a heavy heart, San tucked the vial of poison back into his pocket, once again reminding himself of the mission - of the greater and more important goal that lay ahead. Wooyoung was just a pawn on the chessboard - a pawn that he had to take down. 

And San was determined to win this deadly game, even if it meant destroying him.

Nearly a week had passed since San first began slipping poison into Wooyoung's nightly tea. The effects were becoming more evident by the day. Wooyoung’s once vibrant and commanding presence had withered into something pale and hollow. His usual sharpness had dulled, his words coming slower, his actions lethargic. At night, San could feel him tossing fitfully on his side of the bed, his movements restless. In the mornings, Wooyoung’s eyes would be framed by dark, sunken circles, evidence of the restless nights that had robbed him of peace.

He had grown quieter too, his voice now only a whisper of what it used to be. During council meetings, he would sit in silence, his mind seemingly far away, disconnected from the conversations that swirled around him. San had noticed the way Wooyoung flinched at every small sound, how he had become afraid of his own shadow, retreating into the confines of their chamber, emerging only when he could no longer avoid it.

Late one evening, San entered their shared chamber, his eyes immediately finding Wooyoung sitting at the edge of the bed. The sight that greeted him was both alarming and tragic. Wooyoung sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the crescent moon hanging low in the sky. He appeared utterly detached from his surroundings as if he had slipped into some distant world far removed from this one. Blood trickled from his nose, staining his robes, but Wooyoung didn’t even seem to notice. He sat there as though oblivious to the golden stream running down his face.

San approached slowly, carefully, setting the cup of poisoned tea on the bedside table before kneeling in front of him. Reaching for a cloth, San gently cupped Wooyoung’s face in his hands and wiped away the blood, his movements tender and deliberate.

“What’s happening?” San asked softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. His tone was laced with a quiet sympathy, despite the dark intentions behind it. As he set the cloth aside, he lifted the teacup to Wooyoung’s lips. Wooyoung drank without hesitation, gulping the tea as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. San’s stomach twisted as he watched, knowing that with each sip, Wooyoung was unknowingly drawing closer to his demise.

Wooyoung’s eyes, once so full of fire and life, now brimmed with tears, the pain etched deeply into every line of his face. His voice trembled as he spoke, his words shaky and broken. “San…” he breathed, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I need help.” His body convulsed with sobs, his frail frame trembling violently.

San hesitated for a moment before he reached out and took Wooyoung’s hands in his own. His thumb traced soothing circles over Wooyoung’s cold skin, an attempt at comfort.

“I’m here,” San replied, his voice steady and soft, waiting for Wooyoung to rely on him. “What do you need?”

“Can you light a candle on my side of the bed?” Wooyoung’s voice was barely a whisper, but the plea carried a deep sense of desperation. The request sent an involuntary shudder through San’s body. The thought of fire - of flames licking at the air, consuming everything in their path - unleashed a torrent of dark memories. 

The echoes of screams, the smell of burning flesh, the sight of bodies engulfed in flames - they all crashed over him in a suffocating wave. His heart raced as the memories of destruction and death clawed their way to the surface of his mind.

“No,” San answered firmly, his voice sharper than he intended, cutting through the air in the room.

Wooyoung’s desperation only grew, his eyes pleading as his voice cracked with urgency. “Then ask Yeosang, please. I need light… I can’t bear this darkness any longer…”

But the memories wouldn’t release their hold on San. The screams from the past grew louder until they were all he could hear, drowning out everything else. The smell of burning wood and flesh filled his nostrils, the heat of the flames pressing against his skin. The weight of the past bore down on him, suffocating him beneath the enormity of his own memories - of the suffering and destruction that he could never escape.

“I can’t do that,” San murmured, his voice low and filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m so scared… I’m so scared…” Wooyoung muttered over and over, his voice fragile and distant, as though he were teetering on the edge of a nightmare that refused to end. His gaze was unfocused, staring past San, as though he could see something no one else could - something terrifying that kept him locked in his own mind. Each sob that tore through him felt like it came from deep within, shaking his entire body like a fragile leaf caught in the wind.

San didn’t think. He couldn’t afford to. Instinct took over as he pulled Wooyoung closer, sliding onto the bed beside him, wrapping his arms protectively around his trembling form. Wooyoung’s body was stiff and resistant, his muscles taut with tension and fear, but San refused to let go. He held him firmly, drawing him in tighter, his heart breaking with every sob that escaped Wooyoung’s lips.

“Don’t hold back,” San whispered, his voice soft, his lips brushed against Wooyoung’s hair. “I’ll be here to catch you when you fall. You don’t have to be strong right now. Just let go.”

The words felt almost too painful to say - San could feel the weight of them sinking into his chest like lead. How could he offer such comfort, knowing what he had done.

Wooyoung’s body slowly began to respond. He melted into San’s arms, his rigid muscles gradually softening as he surrendered to the embrace. His sobs, though still heavy and raw, came more steadily now as he buried his face into San’s chest, clinging to him desperately. His fingers curled into the fabric of San’s robes as though they were the only thing anchoring him to reality, the only thing keeping him from drowning completely.

San’s mind raced even as he held Wooyoung tightly. Aeri had told him the poison would work slowly, insidiously, eroding Wooyoung’s health little by little until it reached its full potency. But this… this felt like something far worse. Wooyoung’s deterioration had come on so quickly. Each day, he seemed to grow paler, weaker, more haunted.

Now San was starting to worry that something else was at play, something beyond what they had anticipated. Perhaps Seonghwa had miscalculated, and the poison wasn’t working as expected?

“The thoughts,” Wooyoung choked out between sobs, his voice barely audible. “It’s too much, San. I can’t do this anymore. The failing crops, the heir, my father’s mistakes, the council’s judging eyes, the red blood, the weight of the people’s expectations… it’s suffocating me. Every time I close my eyes, I hear their voices. I feel their breath on the back of my neck. I can’t sleep anymore. And the darkness… it’s always there, waiting to consume me. I can’t… I can’t take it anymore…”

San felt his throat tighten, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He had never seen Wooyoung like this - so utterly broken, so vulnerable. His strong, fearless husband, who had always carried the weight of the crown with such poise, was unraveling before his eyes, and San felt powerless to stop it. 

“Would you like me to tell you a story?” San asked softly, his voice trembling slightly as he searched for some way to soothe Wooyoung’s tormented mind. “My mother used to tell me this story when I was little. It always helped me when I was afraid.”

Wooyoung didn’t respond verbally, but he gave a small nod, his tear-filled eyes looking up at San with a glimmer of hope.

San drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself before he began. “Once upon a time,” he said gently, “there was a woman who walked among the woods, her footsteps light as she wandered through the trees. She listened to the birds singing in the branches above, her fingers brushing against the leaves and bushes as she passed. Wherever she touched, the plants bloomed, their buds unfurling at her gentle caress. She sighed softly to herself, looking up at the clear night sky. The stars twinkled brightly above her, and the moon shone down with a gentle, comforting light.”

San’s voice was low and soothing, each word carrying with it a sense of peace and calm. He could feel Wooyoung’s breathing beginning to slow, his body relaxing further into San’s embrace.

“But one night, as she wandered deeper into the forest, the woman lost her way,” San continued. “She accidentally strayed from the path and soon found herself surrounded by thick brush and shadows. Fear began to creep into her heart, and for the first time, she felt truly alone. But just when she thought she might be lost forever, she noticed something - a soft, shimmering light. She followed it, and as she drew closer, she saw that the moonlight had caught on the dewdrops that clung to the leaves. The light reflected off them, guiding her way. And then she realized… She had never been alone. The stars had always been watching over her, and the moon had always been her guardian, showing her the way home.”

By the time San finished, Wooyoung’s breathing had evened out. The tension in his body had melted away entirely, his head resting against San’s chest, his fingers still loosely gripping the fabric of his robe. He had fallen asleep, his face peaceful and serene for the first time in days.

San looked down at him, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Wooyoung’s forehead, watching him sleep, knowing that these quiet moments of peace were fleeting. 

The poison still coursed through Wooyoung’s veins, and San’s mission was far from over.

Chapter Text

8.

The air in the palace library was thick with the stale odor of dust and decaying paper. The faint, moldy scent of old books mingled with the dampness that had seeped through the cracked and weathered window frames over time. Sunlight, weakened by the narrow slits of the windows, filtered in and illuminated the dense atmosphere. The light danced through the air, highlighting every speck of dust that floated lazily, turning the room into a golden haze of tiny, swirling particles. Each step San took stirred the flecks into a gentle frenzy, swirling in the air.

Rows upon rows of forgotten books lined the towering shelves, their spines coated with a thick blanket of dust that had accumulated over years of disuse. The titles on the spines were barely legible, some faded by time, others damaged by moisture.

Only the royal family and their direct servants had access to this place, but even they had long since abandoned its use. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustling of San’s robes as he skimmed over the books.

With a grimace, San wiped a layer of dust from another row of books, his fingers leaving streaks of clean wood behind as he searched for anything that might be of use. He moved slowly, scanning the faded titles with a growing sense of frustration. ‘ Herbal Medicine’ caught his eye, but he quickly discarded it in favor of more promising tomes. 

He was seeking something specific, something that might help him get information about red blood. Finally, one book stood out from the others - ‘The Great History of Unforgiving Lands’ . Intrigued, San slid it carefully from the shelf, the book’s considerable weight nearly catching him off guard. The leather binding was cracked and faded, he placed it gently on the floor beside a growing stack of other books that he had yet to explore.

Yunho stood just outside the door, his presence had become a comforting constant in San’s life, a shadow of protection that followed him wherever he went. It was Yunho who had guided San to this forgotten corner of the palace, navigating the labyrinthine hallways to find the secluded library.

It had been several days since Wooyoung had fallen asleep on his chest, and in the time that followed, San had realized that the two of them had almost silently agreed to avoid the topic altogether, pretending that night had never happened. It was easier, perhaps, to let it fade into the background rather than confront their situation.

But while San had convinced himself he was overthinking it, the moment still lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe it hadn’t meant as much to Wooyoung as it had to him. Or maybe San was placing too much weight on it. 

Wooyoung had returned to his usual routine, drinking the tea San brought him each night before lying down in bed. And yet, sleep did not come easily to him. Wooyoung tossed and turned most nights, unable to find peace. When he did sleep, his rest was plagued, whispers of his fears spilling from his lips even as he slumbered.

The vial of poison, carried with San at all times, was a constant weight in his pocket, a reminder of the grim task. Nearly two weeks had passed since he began slipping doses into Wooyoung’s tea. 

San started to notice the subtle signs of strain. The sleepless nights, the dark circles under his eyes that grew darker with each passing day, the way his hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was looking. And still, Wooyoung remained silent, not once again voicing any concern about his health. Perhaps, San thought, he was too afraid to face the truth.

'Politics', read the title of the last book on the shelf, but San walked past it without giving it a second glance. The six books he had gathered seemed promising enough, though they were fewer than he had hoped for. He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion that was yet to come - thousands of pages that he needed to run through stared right back at him. If these books didn’t provide the answers he sought, he would have to start over, combing through the shelves again in case he had missed something important.

The chair in the corner of the room creaked under his weight as he sat down, sending a fresh plume of dust into the air around him. San coughed as the fine particles irritated his throat, squeezing his eyes shut to keep them from watering. When the dust settled once more, he took a deep breath and set the heavy tome of ‘The Great History of Unforgiving Lands’ on his lap. 

The book was old with pages yellowed and brittle, but the illustrations inside were vibrant and alive, depicting a time long forgotten. From the detailed table of contents and the first few chapters, San could tell that the book chronicled the history of the Kingdom of Crescent before the land had fractured and its people had been split by class and bloodline. The richly illustrated pages showed scenes of a simpler time, where people worked together in harmony, their faces lit with joy as they toiled under the sun.

San turned the pages slowly, his eyes scanning the text for any mention of blood - red blood specifically. He was searching for something, anything that might give him a clue, but just as he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something important, a series of loud knocks shattered the silence, echoing through the vast, empty space of the library.

“Your Majesty, it’s urgent,” came Yunho’s muffled voice from behind the thick door, the urgency in his tone cutting through the stillness.

“Come in,” San called, his heart skipping a beat as he carefully set the book aside. He stood as Yunho entered the room, his guard’s face pale and taut with tension. The door creaked shut behind him, the heavy wood groaning as it closed.

“What happened?” San asked, his pulse quickening as he noticed the alarm in Yunho’s usually composed expression. Yunho rarely showed fear, and seeing him so rattled set San on edge.

Yunho swallowed hard before answering, his voice low and somber. “I received word about the patrol that was sent south.”

San felt a rush of relief at first, his body relaxing slightly. “That’s good, isn’t it? What did they find? Was there anything of note?” He took a step toward the door, eager to discuss the case and reports with Wooyoung.

But Yunho’s next words stopped him cold. “Your Majesty… They’re dead.”

The King froze, his breath catching in his throat. His mind struggled to process the words as they hung in the air. “What do you mean dead?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

Yunho’s dark, haunted eyes bore into his, a silent confirmation that there was no misunderstanding. "Only one of the scholars survived the journey back," Yunho began, his voice shaking slightly. "He reported that as they were making their way home, his companions started showing disturbing signs. It began subtly - skin turning an unnatural shade, almost alabaster white, as if the life was being leached out of them. Then came the vomiting and a dangerously high fever that burned through their bodies like wildfire. Some of them wasted away from dehydration while others… suffocated. They choked in their sleep on their own vomit."

San felt a wave of nausea roll through him at the description.

“What are you waiting for?” San snapped, his voice cutting through the tension. “Take me to this scholar, I need to speak to him.” His mind raced, words spilling out of him, anxiety clawing at him. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

“That is not advisable, Your Majesty. The scholar… he’s been afflicted. When he crossed back into the capital borders, he was already feverish. We’ve had him quarantined, isolated from all contact, out of fear that whatever struck him might spread further among the people.”

“They must have eaten something contaminated,” San reasoned aloud. “How could they have been so careless?”

Yunho shook his head gravely. “That’s impossible. They were well-supplied for their journey, and all their provisions came directly from the royal stores. If it were food, surely others within the palace would have fallen ill by now.”

San’s frustration mounted. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, dread curling tightly in his chest. “Then what is it?!” His voice broke, desperation thick in his tone. 

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. But whatever it is… this doesn’t bode well.”

San paused, his heart thudding in his chest like a war drum. “Where are the bodies?” San’s voice was quieter now. He glanced at Yunho, his mind racing. “Has Woo- I mean, has King Wooyoung been informed?” San asked quickly, correcting himself mid-sentence. Yunho nodded, pretending not to notice the slip.

“The bodies have been secured on a cart,” Yunho explained, “It was abandoned a few kilometers south of the castle’s gates. The scholar made it back on foot, though he was in a dire state when he arrived. King Wooyoung has already issued a strict order - no one is to go near the cart until we have a better understanding of what we're dealing with.”

San nodded. “And the horses?” 

“They’re dead too,” Yunho replied somberly, his words landing like stones in the suffocating quiet that now filled the room.

The silence that followed was thick and oppressive, the weight of the situation pressing down on them both. San’s heart pounded in his chest, an uncontrollable fear slowly taking root. 

He exchanged a glance with Yunho, and in that moment, San knew they both shared the same dark thought - whatever had touched the edges of their kingdom was a far greater danger than either of them had imagined.

…

The news of the expedition’s tragic demise swept through the kingdom like a dark shadow, heavy and oppressive, casting a pall over the lives of the people. The Kings quickly announced a ceremonial funeral to honor the dead, though it was one shrouded in fear. In the interest of public safety, the bodies were ordered to be burned, their ashes to be interred in the communal cemetery. 

Two days had passed since the scholar had staggered back into the kingdom with his ill news - two days during which the kingdom had held its breath in tentative hope. The royal physician had made daily visits to the ailing man, each time reporting subtle improvements in his condition. But that hope was shattered with brutal finality on the morning of the funeral.

The physician, as was his routine, approached the isolation chamber at dawn. His face was concealed behind a mask infused with medicinal herbs, the strong scent of sage and thyme burning in his nostrils, meant to shield him from any contagion that might still linger. 

Yet no scent, no precaution could have prepared him for the ghastly sight that awaited him. The scholar’s corpse lay still on the bed, his skin as pale as the cold, cruel, full moon. It appeared as though some unseen force had sucked every drop of water from his veins, leaving behind nothing but skin stretched over brittle bones, his face locked in a frozen expression of horror. 

The physician recoiled in terror, his hands shaking as he stumbled out of the room, barely able to find his voice as he reported the horrifying discovery to the palace staff. The funeral would now require an additional urn, one that no one had expected. The kingdom’s last hope had evaporated in the blink of an eye.

The funeral, delayed by a day due to this sudden development, was an event draped in a suffocating silence. The crisp autumn air cut through the crowd like knives, chilling them to the bone. The overcast sky hung low, thick and oppressive, as if nature itself mourned alongside the people. 

At the head of the procession was Wooyoung, his steps heavy, heart weighed down by guilt that no words could express. San walked by his side, the silent comfort of his presence doing little to ease the burden that he carried. They were both dressed in heavy black leather cloaks, their attire devoid of embellishments or any sign of royalty, as though to reflect the bleakness of the day. 

Wooyoung’s mind churned with grief and guilt, each step a heavy blow to his heart. Every breath was an effort, his chest tight with the weight of his failures. He had failed his people. How could this tragedy have happened under his reign? 

His mind had been a constant storm of doubts, anxieties, and fears, swirling together in an endless loop that robbed him of sleep. 

Not since the night he had collapsed into San’s arms had he known rest, every other night had been a battle against the darkness that threatened to consume him. The kingdom’s many troubles weighed on him, but nothing had struck him as deeply as the news of his subjects’ deaths. For the past four nights, sleep had been impossible. He lay awake, his thoughts churning, his mind caught in a ceaseless loop of despair. 

Every problem felt unsolvable, every decision felt wrong. Exhaustion had gripped him, slowing his every movement, making his body feel like a burden too heavy to bear. His mind was now dulled by fatigue, forming a coherent thought felt like trying to cut through a dense fog.

As Wooyoung led the funeral march toward the cemetery, the world around him seemed distant, as though he were watching it through thick smoke. The ground was hard beneath his feet, each step reverberating in his mind. The murmured prayers and chants of the procession floated around him, but they barely registered. 

He moved on autopilot, his body taking him where he needed to go, even as his mind drifted between flashes of memory and suffocating blackness. 

“Out of the depths I cry to you, Saint of the Saints, the greatest Eclipse. Hear my plea,” intoned the priestess, her voice solemn and steady as she led the ceremony. Her words carried across the cemetery.

Though many of the kingdom’s people no longer devoted themselves to Eclipse as fervently as in the past, the most important rituals, including funerals, were still held under Their watchful gaze. The belief was that They were to guide the souls of the dead safely to eternal rest. 

When in fear, God is near.

Around them, the trees creaked in the wind, their bare branches rattling like the bones of the dead. The dry leaves that clung to the trees swayed mournfully in the cold breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its cry a harbinger of doom. Wooyoung’s vision blurred as dark spots swam before his eyes. His head spun, dizziness sweeping over him in waves, disorienting him as he struggled to stay upright. A cold sweat broke out across his back, each drop sending an icy chill down his spine.

A strange feeling tugged at the back of his mind - a sense that someone was watching him, following his every move. He jerked his head to the side, his heart racing, but when he looked back, there was nothing but the long line of mourners behind him. 

Of course, I’m at a funeral, he thought, attempting to steady his breath. Yet, the sense of being watched lingered, unsettling him further. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long, every rustle of leaves too sharp. The air around him felt charged, crackling with an energy he couldn’t explain. His nerves were frayed, his exhaustion only making it worse.

Frustration boiled beneath his skin, emotions swirling like a storm as he tried to keep his composure. His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms as he fought to rein in the fear threatening to overwhelm him. He had to stay strong, had to keep himself together. But every step felt heavier than the last, every breath more labored.

“Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me,” the priestess, Luminae as they were called, continued her incantation. She knelt before the urns of the deceased, her voice unwavering as she prayed for Eclipse’s guidance. Draped in a long black robe that flowed around her, hooded head bowed low. A lace blindfold obscured her eyes, a symbol of her devotion to Eclipse. Though her sight was partially blurred, her heart saw more than any of the mourners around her. She was their link to the divine, the one who would guide their pleas to the deity.

Wooyoung’s eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, threatening to close. He was exhausted, his vision blurred and wavered, his thoughts slipping away into the darkness that loomed at the edges of his mind. 

The funeral ceremony seemed to pass in flashes, brief moments of clarity interspersed with long stretches of nothingness. He could barely remember the prayers, the movements, the people around him. 

His mind was clouded, filled with an impenetrable blackness that swallowed everything else. The ringing in his ears grew louder, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the priestess’s voice and the rustling leaves.

Before he realized it, the ceremony was over, and the mourners began to disperse. Wooyoung found himself seated in the back of the royal carriage as it slowly rolled away from the cemetery, the creak of the wheels and the soft clatter of hooves against the cobbled road the only sounds breaking the silence. 

The unease in his gut only deepened. He could feel it still - whatever had befallen the kingdom - lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike again. It was a silent predator, unseen and intangible but it suffocated him with every breath.

A wave of discontented murmurs rippled through the kingdom after the funeral, growing louder and more resentful as the days wore on. What had begun as quiet, tense whispers in the alleys and taverns quickly morphed into an undercurrent of open criticism against the Kings. Villagers, merchants, and even minor nobles all repeated the same scornful questions. How could they let this happen? Why had so many brave souls been sent to their deaths without any protection, without proper foresight? Had their rulers truly failed them so completely? The sense of unease was palpable, and fear coursed through the kingdom like a spreading infection.

These very accusations echoed incessantly in Wooyoung’s own mind, a relentless cascade of guilt that left him feeling hollow. Every breath he took was burdened by the weight of those lives lost on his orders. 

He found it harder and harder to leave his chamber, its walls closing in on him. Servants would quietly enter with trays of food, setting them down gently on tables or beside his bed, but Wooyoung could barely muster the strength to touch anything. He would pick at the food half-heartedly, pushing it around his plate without ever truly eating. Yeosang often had to intervene, his presence gentle but firm as he urged Wooyoung to swallow at least a few bites. His concern was evident, but no matter what he did, Wooyoung was slipping further away, becoming a shell of the man he once was.

What haunted him most was why that expedition had perished. The southern region was one of the most populated by silver-blooded people - hundreds of families lived there, farming the land. The farmers had never reported any illness regarding people's lives, only bad crops and livestock dying. So why had the guards and scholars not survived the journey?

The night was late, the sky outside his window a deep, velvety black speckled with stars. Wooyoung stood hunched by the window, his pale hand gripping the cold stone of the windowsill as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. The moon, bright and full, seemed to taunt him, its cold silver light casting long shadows across the room. It would soon reach its fullest phase, glowing ominously. The light fell over Wooyoung’s scrawny face, illuminating his sunken cheeks and accentuating the hollowness in his eyes. He looked almost ghostly, leaving behind only a fragile body teetering on the edge of collapse.

Suddenly, Wooyoung jerked his head to the side, startled by a sound. His breath quickened, and for a brief moment, fear clutched at his heart. But it was only San, stepping quietly into the room, carrying a cup of steaming tea. Wooyoung’s body sagged with relief, though the sudden movement made black spots dance before his eyes. His vision blurred, and he swayed slightly, clutching the windowsill tighter for support.

“Did you find anything?” Wooyoung asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew San had spent the entire day scouring the royal library in search of answers. The image of the red blood staining the dagger haunted Wooyoung constantly, yet another mystery that weighed on his already frail mind. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered - blood that changed color upon contact with another. What could it mean to them?

San shook his head, his expression grim but determined. He moved toward the bedside table, placing the cup of tea down carefully, the familiar routine bringing a small semblance of comfort to Wooyoung’s wrecked mind. Wooyoung wanted to step forward, to move closer to San, but the moment he tried, his legs buckled. His head spun violently, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to grip the windowsill even harder. The room swayed around him, the corners of his vision clouding with darkness.

“Are you alright?” San’s voice sounded distant, like it was coming from far away, muffled and distorted as though Wooyoung were hearing it through a thick wall of fog. “Wooyoung? What’s happening?” Wooyoung tried to respond, but his lips felt numb, his tongue heavy in his mouth. His mind screamed at him to say something, to reach out for help, but his body refused to obey. 

The ringing in his ears grew louder, a high-pitched, piercing sound that drowned out everything else. His muscles weakened, growing limp and useless, as though they had turned to water. His knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, his entire body collapsing toward the cold stone floor.

“S-San, I don’t feel-” The words barely escaped his lips before his vision went black, and he felt himself falling, the cold rush of air the only indication that he was moving. His body hit the floor hard, the impact jarring, but he barely registered the pain. His senses were slipping away, the world fading into nothingness. The last thing he heard was San’s frantic voice, filled with fear and urgency, before he felt strong arms wrapping around him, lifting him from the floor. Darkness claimed him completely, pulling him into its deep embrace.

“Fuck, why is it happening so soon?” were the last words he heard.

…

“Jongho, for fuck’s sake! Let me in!” Wooyoung stirred from his uneasy slumber, his eyelids fluttering as the desperate shouts echoed through the thick stone walls of his chamber. His mind, foggy from exhaustion, struggled to focus. He recognized Yeosang’s voice immediately - panicked, trembling with a kind of fear Wooyoung rarely heard from him. “I need to be with him!” The voice cracked.

On the other side of the door, Jongho’s tone was firm but calm. “The medic ordered him to rest. You should give him time to recover,” Jongho reasoned, his voice low but unyielding, trying to maintain control. Wooyoung barely made out their conversation, muffled by the thick wooden door. “I can’t let you in.”

There was a pause. “Jongho, love, don’t you understand?” Yeosang’s voice wavered, the desperation creeping in more clearly now. “It’s all my fault. I have to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Wooyoung’s heart clenched at the sound of Yeosang’s words. The guilt that laced his friend’s voice was a feeling he was all too familiar with, a weight that had been bearing down on him as well. He shifted in his bed, his muscles aching with the effort, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to listen more closely.

After a moment of silence, there was a quiet, reluctant creak as the door opened. “You’ve got five minutes,” Jongho whispered, his voice softer now, almost resigned. “We’ll pretend you were never here.”

Yeosang slipped into the room with quick, anxious steps, his presence filling the quiet chamber. The moment their eyes met, Yeosang crossed the room in a rush, practically throwing himself at Wooyoung’s bedside. His face was pale, drawn tight with worry, and his eyes were red-rimmed as if he had been holding back tears for hours.

“I’m so sorry, Young-ah,” Yeosang choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He dropped to his knees beside Wooyoung, clutching at his hand as though it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. His grip was desperate, his fingers trembling. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. It’s all my fault.” The words spilled from him in a frantic rush.

Wooyoung blinked, his mind still sluggish from exhaustion. His throat felt dry, and when he tried to speak, it was little more than a rasp. “Do what?” he managed to croak, his voice barely above a whisper. He coughed, his parched throat protesting the effort. “What…” Another cough interrupted him. “What happened?”

His friend immediately moved to grab the pitcher of water that sat on a small table beside the bed, his hands shaking as he poured a cup. He helped Wooyoung sit up, slipping a hand behind his back to support him. As Wooyoung sipped the water, the cool liquid soothed his dry, irritated throat, bringing a small measure of relief. His limbs felt heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains, and when he tried to sit up on his own, his muscles gave out, forcing him to collapse back against the pillows.

Yeosang’s eyes, already filled with tears, seemed to darken with guilt as he watched Wooyoung struggle. “You fainted yesterday,” Yeosang explained, his voice barely holding together. “San had carried you to the medic. You were unconscious for nearly an entire day. We couldn’t wake you up.” His voice cracked again, and the tears he had been holding back finally spilled over, streaming down his cheeks. “I was terrified, Young-ah. I thought…” His voice broke completely, and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. “It’s my fault. All because of the sleeping tea.”

Wooyoung frowned in confusion, his mind still foggy. “Sleeping tea?” he repeated, his voice hoarse. He blinked, trying to understand what Yeosang was saying. “Yeosang, this isn’t because of the tea,” he said softly. “I haven’t slept in days… I haven’t been able to rest. The tea just stopped working.”

Yeosang’s sobs quieted for a moment, but his voice still trembled as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?” There was a note of hurt in his voice now, and Wooyoung felt a pang of guilt at hearing it. “You should have said something. I could have helped.”

Wooyoung swallowed thickly, feeling the weight of his own failures pressing down on him. He hadn’t wanted to burden anyone with his sleeplessness, his endless anxiety. And now, it seemed, his silence had caused more pain than he ever intended. “Don’t raise your voice,” he whispered, his body too tired to bear even the slightest tension. His voice was pleading, fragile.

Yeosang softened immediately, his expression shifting to one of regret. His eyes, still wet with unshed tears, glistened as they softened. He reached out once again, his fingers lightly brushing against Wooyoung’s hand. His grip was tender, gentle, yet filled with an unspoken need for forgiveness. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. His head bowed in guilt, and his face streaked with dried tears. "From today onward, we’re stopping the sleeping remedy. No more."

A wave of icy fear rippled through Wooyoung at Yeosang’s words. His heart began to race, and the panic that had been quietly lurking at the back of his mind surged forward, overwhelming him. “What? No,” he stammered, his voice cracking under the strain. His hands, now trembling, clenched the sheets beneath him. “I can’t agree to that. I told you, it’s not the tea! Yeosang, you don’t understand… it’s the only thing keeping me together. My last hope.” 

His breathing grew more erratic, each inhale sharp, punctuated by short gasps. The mere idea of being deprived of the one thing that gave him even the slightest chance of rest felt like a death sentence. The routine, the familiar bitterness of the tea, had become his lifeline. Without it, the looming darkness of sleepless nights stretched out before him like an endless void, ready to swallow him whole. He could feel the panic rising, threatening to overtake him.

Yeosang’s face remained gentle but firm, his eyes filled with empathy and concern as he watched his friend unravel. “You said it yourself, Wooyoung,” he replied softly, keeping his tone steady, soothing. “You said it wasn’t working anymore. That you still couldn’t sleep.”

“Yes, but-” Wooyoung’s voice wavered, desperate to find some argument that might change Yeosang’s mind. His words felt heavy on his tongue. He needed that tea. It was the only thing standing between him and the nightmarish descent into utter exhaustion and madness.

“Wooyoung, please listen to me.” Yeosang’s voice was firmer now but laced with gentleness. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes searching Wooyoung’s. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Wooyoung’s ear, a small gesture of care. Wooyoung’s hair had grown longer recently, the soft strands now falling across his face, softening his features. “I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore. What if the tea is making things worse? We have to talk to the medic. We have to try something different.”

Wooyoung sighed, a long, exhausted sound. “They’ve examined me so many times already,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Over and over again. They’ve found nothing.” The hopelessness in his voice was unmistakable, a deep-rooted weariness that had long ago seeped into him. 

“Even so,” Yeosang said, his tone resolute. “I can’t let you continue this way. I won’t. That tea is not a solution. It could be breaking you.” His eyes softened with affection and concern. “I won’t stand by and watch it destroy you. We’ll find another way, I promise. But no more of that potion.”

Wooyoung stared at his friend for a long moment, his heart heavy with a mixture of fear and gratitude. He could see how deeply Yeosang cared for him, how much this was hurting him too. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe through the rising panic, his chest tight with anxiety. “Yeosang…” he started but Yeosang cut him off gently.

“No, Wooyoung,” Yeosang said, shaking his head. “Please. You don’t understand how much guilt I feel over this. I can’t stand the thought that I might be contributing to what’s happening to you. Don’t make me carry that burden anymore. We’ll find another way. We will.”

Wooyoung took a deep breath, his hands clutching the sheets as he fought to calm his racing heart. The fear of what the night would bring without the tea gnawed at him, but he knew Yeosang wouldn’t relent.

He trusted Yeosang, trusted that he had Wooyoung’s best interests at heart. Even if the thought of going without the tea terrified him. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll stop drinking it.” He felt the words leave his mouth, and with them, a strange sense of surrender settled over him. He wasn’t sure if it was the right decision, but for now, it was the only decision.

Yeosang’s face lit up with relief. He smiled softly, eyes shimmering. “Thank you,” he whispered, squeezing Wooyoung’s hand gently. 

Wooyoung managed a weak smile in return, though his thoughts were still swirling in a storm of uncertainty. “Can you…” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “Can you call San for me? I need him.”

…

San’s thoughts drifted as Yeosang came to fetch him. His mind was clouded, half-shrouded in guilt, and yet sharply aware of the mask he needed to wear. When Yeosang had told him that Wooyoung had asked for him, his heart skipped a beat. 

For the last twenty-four hours, he had been in a state of unbearable tension, walking through the palace like a ghost haunted by the weight of his own choices. His hands itched with unease, fingers twitching nervously around the vial he had in his pocket - the knowledge of what he had done.

He had been waiting, bracing himself for the news of Wooyoung’s death, dreading and hoping for it in equal measure. The moment Wooyoung had collapsed in the chamber, San had acted instinctively. Without a moment's hesitation, he had scooped him up in his arms and rushed him to the medics, playing his part perfectly. He couldn’t afford to slip up now, not when everything was so precariously balanced. Any hesitation would have cast suspicion on him, especially since Wooyoung had fainted right before his eyes. He had to perform the role of the doting, anxious husband flawlessly, even as his insides churned with a guilt so deep it threatened to swallow him whole.

He prayed that Wooyoung’s death would come swiftly, silently. 

It was the only mercy he could offer now. 

As he had carried Wooyoung, his body limp and frail against him, San repeated to himself that he was doing this for the greater good. This sacrifice, this darkness he had embraced, was for the kingdom, for the silver-blooded who had been oppressed for so long. He had to believe that.

Still, doubts gnawed at the edges of his conviction. Why was the poison acting so quickly? Why were its effects so drastic? Aeri had assured him that it would be a slow process, taking months without any symptoms. Yet here was Wooyoung, pale and sickly, visibly deteriorating in a matter of weeks. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Something was wrong. The meticulous plan he had constructed, the one he had clung to so desperately, seemed to be unraveling faster than he could keep up with.

Now, entering Wooyoung’s chamber, San had steeled himself for the sight that awaited him. And yet, despite his mental preparation, the wave of self-loathing that hit him was stronger than anything he had anticipated. Wooyoung lay in the bed, his figure fragile and emaciated, like a ghost of the vibrant man San had once known. 

As San approached, Wooyoung’s face lit up with a smile - small, weak, but genuine. It was that smile that broke him the most. His stomach knotted painfully, guilt wrapping tighter around his chest, making it hard to breathe.

How could Wooyoung still look at him with such affection, such trust, when San was the very reason for his suffering? The guilt surged anew, a wave of nausea threatening to rise as he forced himself to return the smile, however faintly.

“I wanted to thank you,” Wooyoung said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper as he gazed up at San with those same trusting eyes. San’s heart clenched painfully in his chest at the words.

“For what?” San asked, trying to keep his voice from betraying the feelings inside him.

“For bringing me here,” Wooyoung replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

San swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. “Oh… right. No problem,” he muttered, forcing a hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. “How are you feeling?”

Despite the utter exhaustion that hung over Wooyoung like a shroud, his eyes still held that stubborn spark of life. They flickered with something warm. “Exhausted,” Wooyoung admitted. “But I feel like that… that day of sleep helped me rest a little.”

“I was really worried. You should rest more,” San urged quietly, taking Wooyoung’s hand in his own, holding it gently. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the back of Wooyoung’s hand. It was an act of affection that felt hollow and sickening to San, but it brought a small smile to Wooyoung’s lips, and that smile - oh, that smile - made San’s heart ache all the more. “I’ll take over your duties for a few days,” San offered.

Wooyoung hummed thoughtfully, considering the offer. His gaze lingered on San’s face, searching for something - reassurance, perhaps, or just a familiar comfort. “Are you sure about that?” Wooyoung asked, his tone light but laced with hope.

“Don’t worry about me,” San insisted. “Focus on getting better. That’s all that matters right now.”

"I appreciate you, I really do." Wooyoung's voice was soft, his words barely above a whisper as his fingers gently squeezed San's hand. “Before the wedding, before I even knew who I was destined to marry, I was so scared,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to connect with the other king, that we’d only end up tripping over each other, making things worse. That we would be forced into a loveless marriage, bound only by duty.”

San watched him closely, heart pounding in his chest. It was strange hearing Wooyoung talk like this, opening up in a way he hadn’t done before. He was seeing another side of his husband, one that felt far more fragile.

“But now…” Wooyoung’s eyes flickered back to him, and there was a warmth there, a tenderness that took San by surprise. His gaze was soft, filled with an affection that stirred something deep inside San, something he hadn’t felt in years. It reminded him of the way his parents used to look at each other. “Now I feel like I can trust you. That no matter the misunderstandings or differences in opinion, we’ll always find a way to meet in the middle. You’ve always been there for me when I needed you the most, I’m truly happy to have you.” His lips curled into a small smile and San felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut.

It was like a knife being slowly driven into his heart. Wooyoung’s sincerity, his kindness, his trust - everything about him made San’s betrayal feel that much worse. His lips trembled, and for a moment, San wasn’t sure if he could hold back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“I just want what’s best for the kingdom,” San said, forcing himself to stay composed, to keep the mask on. His smile was bright, but hollow. “Having an amazing husband like you… well, that’s just a bonus.” He let out a small laugh, hoping it would cover up the uncertainty in his voice. His mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back, to tell Wooyoung everything. 

But he couldn’t. Not when he was so close to achieving their goal. Not when so much was at stake.

He changed the subject quickly, desperate to shift the conversation away from emotions that felt too raw, too dangerous. “Aren’t you hungry? I’ll call Yeosang to get you some food and your tea.”

“Oh, actually, yes, I could eat something.” Wooyoung hesitated, his fingers lightly tapping against San’s hand. His gaze grew thoughtful, as if he were debating something in his mind. San waited patiently, suspicious of what troubled Wooyoung’s mind.

“But… I think I’ll have to give up the green tea before bed,” Wooyoung said finally, his voice hesitant. He glanced up at San, watching for his reaction. “The medic told me I should stop drinking it.”

Panic shot through San like a lightning bolt, his stomach twisting into tight knots. “You won’t drink it anymore?” His voice was too sharp, and he quickly tried to mask it with a cough.

Wooyoung shook his head, completely unaware of the dread that ran through San. Fuck, fuck, fuck. San’s mind raced, trying to grasp at any solution. The tea had been his only way to slowly administer the poison, without it, his entire plan was at risk. “What a shame,” San said, his voice smooth and unbothered, despite the anxiety clawing at his insides. “I liked bringing it to you every day, that little ritual was the highlight of my day.”

His husband bit his bottom lip, trying to hold back another smile in response to San’s words, clearly touched by the sentiment. “Well… if it means that much to you…” He paused for a moment, his smile turning playful. “The medic didn’t say anything about fruit tea, so I think we don’t have to give up the routine completely.”

Relief washed over San, he exhaled quietly, allowing himself a small laugh. “Great, then! I’ll bring it to you.”

San stood up, instinctively slipping his hand into his pocket, feeling the cool glass of the small vial against his fingertips. Mission, he reminded himself again, forcing his emotions back down into the pit of his stomach. Stay focused on the mission.  

Just before leaving the room, San glanced back at Wooyoung, his eyes catching the way his husband was looking at him. Wooyoung’s cheeks were slightly flushed, his gaze dazed and warm. It was a look San had seen before - one filled with affection, and something else, something deeper that San didn’t want to give a name. San offered him a cheeky wink before closing the door behind him. 

…

The once manageable routine of his life had shattered, slipping away in fragments he struggled to piece back together. He was running on fumes, desperately trying to keep pace with the endless list of responsibilities that had fallen into his lap since Wooyoung was resting. Only the steady presence of Yeosang, who had been assigned to help him, kept him from succumbing to the chaos completely. Without his support, San was certain he would have already lost his mind.

Every day seemed to slip through his fingers faster than the last. The sun barely rose before San was already pulled in countless directions - supervising the royal guard, preparing for the approaching Feast of the Dead, attending lengthy meetings with the Council. On top of that, he was poring over the dusty tomes, trying to find any explanation for the red blood that had appeared during the ceremony.  

Nonetheless, San always ensured that no matter how chaotic his days became, he found moments to tend to his ailing husband. Every evening, without fail, he brought Wooyoung his tea, sitting by his side, holding his hand, and watching him as he slowly regained strength.

San had watched as Wooyoung relied on him not just for physical comfort but also for emotional support, and San, bound by the roles they had been thrust into, met his needs with unwavering dedication. 

What truly caught San off guard was the moment when Wooyoung began asking him to talk before sleep. What initially started as casual, harmless conversations gradually evolved into something far more complex. Each night became a delicate balancing act, especially as almost every evening seemed to end with Wooyoung peacefully drifting off to sleep in his arms. 

The sleepless nights San once spent watching Wooyoung toss and turn in frustration or pace restlessly around the room soon gave way to quieter, more intimate moments. In these moments, Wooyoung found rest, nestled in the security of San’s embrace. San held him close, each time feeling his heart race uncontrollably, trying desperately to quiet the emotions building inside him.

It was almost cruelly ironic, how easily San fell into the role of a loving husband, playing the part so convincingly that, at times, even he believed in the affection he showed. He whispered words of encouragement, fed Wooyoung when his hands shook too much to hold a spoon, and stayed with him through nights, his presence like a warm, reassuring blanket.

As a loving husband should, after all.

Their shared quarters became a haven of mundane conversations, their words drifting in the air like a comforting breeze. These moments were filled with a warmth - each shared smile, each moment of laughter, felt like a lie San was feeding himself. But when Wooyoung laughed - really laughed, letting out the most beautiful giggle San had ever heard - San’s own heart betrayed him. It twisted painfully, a pang of something unfamiliar, something he wasn’t supposed to feel. His heart, unaware of the gravity of the situation they were in, beat foolishly for something that could never be. It longed for the bond between them to be real, for the connection that was forming to be based on something other than deceit. But that was an illusion, a fleeting dream he couldn’t afford to entertain.

Watching Wooyoung in his weakened state stirred something deeply unsettling within San. Despite the mission, despite the knowledge that he was the one responsible for Wooyoung’s slow decline, San couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness toward him. It was dangerous - this growing attachment, this creeping tenderness that slipped through the cracks of his carefully constructed mask. He fought to push it down, to remind himself of his duty, but it ate away at him, bit by bit.

Inside him, a fierce battle raged between duty and emotion. His mind knew what he had to do - he had been sent here for a reason, a mission that was bigger than either of them. He was supposed to be the dagger in the dark, ensuring that Jung’s reign came to an end. The plan had been laid out meticulously, and San had vowed to see it through, for the sake of his people and for the promise he made to Aeri. 

But San wasn’t a man without a heart. 

His soul, though hardened by years of anguish, still had cracks. His spirit, like a clay pot held together by the thinnest of threads, was now struggling to contain the flood of guilt that threatened to break him. The more time he spent with Wooyoung, the more those cracks widened. The guilt seeped in, filling the spaces between his thoughts, making him question everything.

Wooyoung, despite his royal blood and all the mistakes he made, was still just a man - a man struggling to rise above the failures of his father, desperately trying to fix a kingdom that had been broken long before he had ascended the throne. He was like a wounded bird, wings damaged but still trying to soar to heights his father could never reach. He wanted to make things right, to repair the damage, but in his efforts, he stumbled, repeating old mistakes, unaware of the cost. 

Wooyoung couldn’t change who he was, just as San couldn’t escape the fate that had been thrust upon him. And despite himself, despite the mission, San’s heart ached for Wooyoung.

Watching Wooyoung from the sidelines, San couldn’t shake the feeling that the young king was becoming a mirror image of Jaesong. He witnessed the kingdom crumble, overwhelmed by problems pressing in from every direction - except this time, San was partly responsible for the mistakes being made. Half the weight of those decisions rested on his own shoulders. Now, as Wooyoung slowly recovered, all the burdens seemed to fall squarely on San.

If not for Yeosang’s guidance, San was sure he would’ve faltered completely. Yeosang had become his steady hand, offering gentle advice where San’s own knowledge was lacking. After all, Yeosang had spent years at Wooyoung’s side, quietly absorbing the inner workings of the palace. His knowledge proved invaluable, and San found himself leaning on him more and more as the days grew more frantic. With so much time spent together, the bond between them deepened, though neither of them had intended it.

One evening, while pouring over documents in the library that had temporarily become San’s office, Yeosang casually let slip a piece of information that San hadn’t expected. It came so suddenly, so nonchalantly, that San almost missed it entirely.

“You’re silver-blooded?” San blurted out, his voice tinged with shock. He stared at Yeosang, who looked as if he revealed his secret by accident, as if it had just slipped out.

Yeosang met his gaze calmly, though the air between them grew thick with tension. San struggled to process the revelation, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. It was almost unheard of for someone with silver blood to be permitted such close proximity to the royal family, let alone to serve the king directly. “How is it that you, a silver-blood, serve the king so closely?”

Yeosang didn’t flinch at the question. Instead, he remained steady, as if he had long ago accepted the complexity of his situation. “I’ve been by King Wooyoung’s side since childhood,” Yeosang began, his voice unwavering. “My parents abandoned me at the palace gates when I was just a boy. By the grace of the Holy Eclipse and her blessing, a palace maid found me and took me in, raising me as her own. She was close to the First Lady, King Wooyoung’s mother, and together they managed to secure a position for me here in the palace. I’ve been here ever since.”

San listened intently, still reeling from the idea that someone with silver blood had managed to infiltrate the heart of the palace. It was a dangerous position for Yeosang to be in, and yet, he carried himself with such ease and confidence that it was clear he had long ago come to terms with the precariousness of his role. “And Wooyoung?” San asked, the question hanging in the air like a dagger. “Does he know?”

Yeosang nodded, his expression unchanged. “Yes, he’s known from the very beginning. He never cared about the color of my blood.” Yeosang’s lips curved into a small, almost wistful smile. “He’s always treated me like a brother.”

San’s mind whirled as he processed Yeosang’s words. The situation seemed almost absurd, a mockery of everything he had been taught to believe. Here was Wooyoung, the king himself, treating a silver-blood as if he were an equal. It was a direct contradiction to the treatment of silver-blooded citizens by Jaesong. The people with silver blood were often the most oppressed in their kingdom, forced into lives of servitude and denied basic rights. And yet, Yeosang, who shared that same blood, had been granted the privilege of standing beside the King. It was a strange, twisted irony that left San feeling conflicted.

As if sensing the confusion brewing in San’s mind, Yeosang continued, his voice softening with something akin to nostalgia. “King Wooyoung has never seen me as different. To him, I’ve always been Yeosang, not some silver-blooded servant.”

San moved to the large desk that dominated the center of the room, its surface polished clean by the diligent hands of the servants. He placed his palms flat on the cool wood as if the solid structure beneath him could help ground the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. Everything Yeosang had just revealed left him feeling unsettled. A heavy tension seemed to hang in the air, a sense that forces beyond his control were shifting and converging, though he couldn’t yet grasp the full extent of it.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Majesty?” Yeosang’s voice cut through San’s thoughts, maintaining its usual respectful tone, though there was a gentleness in it now—an acknowledgment of the weight San carried on his shoulders.

San met his gaze, his mind still trying to process the flood of conflicting emotions and information swirling around inside him. Despite the storm of uncertainty within, there were more immediate matters demanding his attention. “Did you get the information I asked for?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The guards returned from their patrols not long ago.”

“And what did they report?” San asked, his voice clipped.

Yeosang took a breath before delivering the news. “The people are growing more anxious by the day. Fear is spreading like wildfire. Rumors about the poor harvest are taking hold, and now there’s talk that we might not have enough food to last through the winter. Some even whisper that we’ll face famine.”

San exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as the weight of yet another problem pressed down on him. “That’s ridiculous. We have ample reserves, and our alliances with other kingdoms ensure we’re far from facing any real crisis - at least not the one they’re imagining. But if the panic continues unchecked, it could fuel unrest, even rebellion. People don’t act rationally when they’re afraid.”

“Fear drives them, Your Majesty,” Yeosang agreed softly. “History has shown time and time again that when people are driven by fear, logic becomes a distant second to survival.”

This was a nightmare scenario. A rebellion against the Crown wasn’t just a threat to the kingdom’s stability - it could derail everything San had worked so hard to achieve. If the people rose up in rebellion, fueled by fear and desperation, there would be no room for reason or diplomacy. Worse still, they had no idea that the man now sitting on the throne - one of their own, a silver-blooded - was trying to fight for their cause from within.

Standing on this side of the conflict made San feel trapped, like prey cornered by a pack of predators closing in from all sides. If he took a hard stance against the spreading rumors, he risked becoming the very tyrant he had spent his life hating. Jaesong had ruled through fear and bloodshed, silencing dissent with a heavy hand. That wasn’t who San wanted to be. But what choice did he have? Empty reassurances wouldn’t be enough to quiet the rising storm. The people’s anger and fear had already caught fire, and once that fire spread, it was nearly impossible to contain.

San felt that fire too, deep inside. It mirrored the passion that had driven him for so long, the same determination to bring change to a kingdom that had been weighed down by generations of injustice. For thirteen long years, that desire for revolution had simmered in the hearts of the people, growing stronger with each passing year. Now it was threatening to erupt, like a tidal wave crashing down on the very system San had vowed to dismantle.

But he couldn’t allow that chaos to reign, not now. The stakes were too high, and bloodshed - whether it was golden or silver blood - was not the solution. Jaesong’s reign had been built on violence and fear, and San refused to walk that same path. He needed to find a different way, a path forward that didn’t leave behind a trail of destruction.

Yet, to chart that course, he needed Wooyoung by his side. San couldn’t make these decisions alone.

“Have you spoken with the medic?” he asked.

Yeosang nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Majesty. The healer said that King Wooyoung can slowly begin to resume his daily duties, though he must be careful not to push himself too hard.”

San turned his gaze toward the window, where the stars were scattered across the dark expanse of night. The moon was hidden behind a curtain of clouds, with only a few soft, silvery rays peeking through their pillowy mass. “That will be all for tonight, Yeosang, it’s getting late. Get some rest and thank you for your assistance today.” His voice was gentle, offering the young man a brief smile, San finally moved away from the large desk.

He made a point to acknowledge all the palace servants, to express appreciation and gratitude wherever he could. He knew that under the previous reign, they had not been shown such courtesy, and it was a small way in which he could distinguish himself from the cruelties of the past.

They stepped out of the library into the dimly lit hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone floor. While Yeosang headed off in one direction, San lingered for a moment, allowing the quiet to envelop him before taking a different path. Instead of going straight to their chambers, he stopped by the palace kitchen. Upon entering, he was greeted with warm smiles from the kitchen staff, who immediately straightened up in his presence. His attention, however, was caught by the soft giggles and whispers of the maids, their cheeks flushed as they watched him prepare tea for Wooyoung.

San couldn't ignore the knowing smiles exchanged between them, or the shy glances thrown his way. He overheard one of them whisper, “Oh, if only my husband were so thoughtful,” while another sighed dreamily. In their eyes, San was the embodiment of the perfect, caring spouse. He forced a small smile as he carefully selected the dried fruit for the tea blend - mango and strawberry, flavors he knew Wooyoung particularly enjoyed. He had noticed how his husband’s eyes lit up, how his smile grew wider every time the sweet fragrance of the fruit-infused tea filled the room.

As he walked down the dim corridors with the tea tray in hand, San made sure to check that no one else was around. Once certain of his privacy, he slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the small vial hidden there. Pausing near a windowsill, he set the tray down and took a deep breath. His heart ached with the weight of what he was about to do. The clear drop of poison, suspended at the tip of the pipette, seemed to shimmer in the faint light as it fell into the tea, disappearing instantly.

The sight of it reminded San all too much of the tears that had streaked down Wooyoung’s face on those long, sleepless nights when they talked for hours. Wooyoung had opened up to him in those moments, baring his soul, sharing the deepest corners of his heart. It was a cruel irony that gnawed at him.

Suddenly, he tensed, sensing movement at the far end of the corridor. A shadow flickered in the corner of his vision, and for a brief moment, his pulse quickened. But when he turned to look, there was nothing there. Only the gentle flicker of torchlight, casting trembling shadows on the stone walls. Strange.

Brushing off the unsettling feeling, San picked up the tray once more and continued down the hall to the chambers. Reaching the door, he knocked three times in a special rhythm, a signal they had developed over time. It was a way to let Wooyoung know who was at the door, a small part of their daily routine. When San pushed open the door, Wooyoung was already waiting with a radiant smile, his eyes lighting up as they always did when San entered the room.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come. It’s late,” Wooyoung said, his voice soft but filled with warmth. Every day, he looked a little healthier, a little stronger. His skin, which had been pale and dull from illness, was now regaining its natural glow. And his eyes, those beautiful eyes that always spoke more than words ever could, sparkled with affection every time they fell on San.

“Missed me?” San teased, unable to resist the playful exchange that had become part of their nightly conversations.

“And what if I did?” Wooyoung shot back, biting his lower lip as a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. His tone was light, but there was something deeper in the way he looked at San.

“Then I’d better make sure I never leave you waiting again,” San replied, a smile curving his lips as he moved closer to the bed. This time, instead of setting the tea on the table beside the bed as he usually did, he sat down next to Wooyoung, holding the cup out to him directly.

Wooyoung leaned in, inhaling the sweet aroma of mango and strawberry before taking the cup from San’s hands. He hummed in satisfaction, the smell alone enough to bring a smile to his face. “Is this your way of making up for being late?” he asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly.

“Did it work?” San asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Wooyoung took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the warm, fruity flavors that danced across his tongue. He looked up at San, a smile playing at his lips. “Maybe... but you’ll need more than tea to win me over.”

San chuckled, leaning in just a little closer. “I can think of a few other ways,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. He felt Wooyoung’s breath close to his face. Mango and strawberry reaching his nostrils.

Wooyoung’s eyebrow arched in response, smirk widening. “Oh? I’d love to see what you have in mind.” The air between them was thick with unspoken words, the tension pulling them closer. 

“Trust me,” San whispered, his voice low, “you won’t be disappointed.” Wooyoung took another sip, pretending to be unimpressed, though the glint in his eyes gave him away.

“Bold of you to assume,” Wooyoung replied, leaning back against the pillows, “but I’ll humor you… For now.”

“Are you always so hard to please?”

“Maybe I just enjoy watching you try.” Wooyoung soft giggle reached San and he wanted to drown in it, to stay in this solemnly crafted moment forever, but he was exhausted, his face must have shown signs of it. Smile slowly dropped as he zoned out, staring at the cup. “Everything alright?”

San met Wooyoung’s gaze, the weight of his thoughts evident in the deep sigh that escaped his lips. "The subjects..." His voice faltered as he searched for the right words, noticing how Wooyoung’s expression shifted from curiosity to growing concern.

"What about them?" Wooyoung’s voice was laced with tension, as if he already knew that whatever San was about to say wouldn’t be good.

"We need to find a way to distract them," San said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "The word about poor harvests have already started to spread. Add death with unknown cause of the troop on top of that and we don’t get a pleasant picture. Soon enough, we’ll begin to feel the full impact of the subjects’ fear and discontent."

Wooyoung’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"I’m afraid that if we don’t act quickly, this fear could turn into something far more dangerous." San paused, the next word hanging heavily between them. Wooyoung waited, his eyes urging San to continue, as if saying the word out loud would make it real. "A rebellion."

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. "But why? Has it really come to this? Some unknown disease, or whatever this plague is, and suddenly everyone is ready to rise up against us? What do they think they’ll gain from it?"

San didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. Both of them understood that this wasn’t just about the current crisis. The fear of illness and famine was simply the spark igniting long-buried frustrations. The true cause of unrest had been brewing for years - decades even - under the weight of the Jung dynasty’s rule.

"This is just the excuse they've been waiting for," San said, his voice low. "But the dissatisfaction has been there all along, growing quietly beneath the surface. They feel abandoned, unheard. And now it’s threatening to spill over."

Wooyoung’s eyes darkened with a mix of frustration and fear. "Even the golden-blooded? Are they turning against us too?"

San shook his head, uncertainty clouding his features. "I don’t have all the details yet, but it’s not too late. Nothing is set in motion that we can’t still control. We have a chance to turn this around before it escalates."

"How?" Wooyoung asked, his voice softening slightly as if grasping at the hope San offered.

"We need to calm their fears, show them that the Crown is still strong, that we are with them." San’s tone gained urgency, his mind already working through the strategy. "We can use the Feast of the Dead to bring the people together. It’s a perfect opportunity for unity. We go out among them, celebrate with them, reassure them that the kingdom is stable. They need to see us, to feel our presence."

"The Feast of the Dead..." Wooyoung’s eyes flickered with thought as he considered the plan. "It could work but I might have a better idea.” He reached out, fingers gently curling around San’s hand, grounding him in the intimacy of the moment. "I’ve had a lot of time to think," Wooyoung continued, his voice more reflective now. "Especially about what you said regarding the temple, you were absolutely right." He paused, his eyes searching San’s, looking for understanding, perhaps even validation. "My whole life, I’ve been running from facing the truth. Always hiding behind the iron-clad rules of my ancestors - because it was easier that way. Easier to just follow the path that was laid out for me rather than reflect on the reality, on the way our subjects, especially silver-blooded, had been treated."

His grip on San’s hand tightened, as if drawing strength from the contact. "It was always simpler for me to obey the old laws, to maintain the status quo. But now, with real power in my hands, I’m starting to see things differently. I can feel the injustice, the wrongs that have been allowed to fester under my ancestors’ rule. And I can’t ignore it anymore. I don’t want to ignore it. I want change. I need change." There was a fire in his eyes now, a determination that San hadn’t seen in him before.

"That’s why I’ve decided to approve the construction of the temple," Wooyoung declared, his voice resolute, as though speaking the words made the decision irrevocable. 

San blinked, momentarily stunned. "But the council-”

"I don’t care about them," Wooyoung cut in sharply, his voice firm. "This isn’t about the council anymore. This is about our people. I want to do this for them, for us ." His gaze softened again as he looked at San, his expression earnest. "I want to do this for you . Because it’s you who made me see how important this really is. You made me realize that I can’t keep running from the truth, from what’s right."

Wooyoung leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, filled with emotion. "Thanks to you, I understand now.”

Chapter Text

9.

The relentless talk of producing a royal heir persisted like a never-ending storm, and with each passing day, it seemed to grow fiercer. It was as if his survival, his gradual return to health, gave them more ammunition to push harder. There were no tangible reasons left for him to avoid this particular royal duty, and that fact loomed over him like a dark cloud.

He should have known that the council wouldn’t grant him any respite, not even after everything he had just been through. Yet, the sheer intensity of their demands still caught him off guard. It wasn’t just a matter of pressure - it felt almost cruel, the way they descended upon him so soon after he had collapsed miserably not long ago. He was only just beginning to regain his strength, to feel his body respond properly again, and already the demands were suffocating. 

But if there was one thing keeping him afloat, one reason he could wake up each day with a little more strength, it was San. Wooyoung knew, without a doubt, that the reason he was recovering so quickly was because of him. For the first time in his life, his nights were peaceful. Gone were the sleepless hours spent tossing and turning. Now, every night, he found solace in San’s presence. 

San was his anchor, a steady hand that kept him grounded, his thoughts no longer drifting into the stormy seas of fear and uncertainty. His husband had become more than just a companion - he had become the person Wooyoung had never dared to dream of, a person who cared for him in ways that were far beyond duty.

With his sweet and caring nature, San enveloped him in a tenderness more fitting for a lover chosen by fate, not by winning a Tournament. The nature of how their relationship began no longer mattered to Wooyoung, as long as he could remain in San’s strong arms. When he was there, he didn’t have to pretend to be strong, he didn’t have to worry about the burdens that surrounded him - because San was by his side. 

In San's presence, Wooyoung could let go, be vulnerable, and be honest about his fears and anxieties. For the first time, he had someone to share his burdens with, someone who was always there when he needed him. Wooyoung finally understood what it felt like to be truly cared for. 

It came as no surprise when Wooyoung realized that whatever he was feeling toward San wasn’t purely platonic.

Catching feelings wasn’t something he had planned or even anticipated, but it was undeniable. With each passing day, Wooyoung found himself sinking deeper into his feelings for San. He was no longer afraid of the bond they were forming - in fact, he welcomed it. For so long, he had relied on himself, on his own strength to get him through the darkest times, but now, he didn’t have to do that anymore. He didn’t have to be alone. 

His mind drifted back to that morning, when he woke up, cocooned in San’s warmth, his senses filled with the natural scent of his husband. It wasn’t the scent of perfume or oils he used, but the raw and real scent of his skin, something that belonged only to San. That scent, combined with the gentle rise and fall of San’s chest against his back, while they spooned to sleep, soothed Wooyoung.

Lying there, with San’s breath softly tickling his neck, Wooyoung felt something stir inside him - a flutter of hope, of happiness. He giggled quietly to himself, his heart light for the first time in what felt like forever. He was falling - falling fast and hard for San. And the strange thing was, he didn’t mind. He wanted it, wanted to lose himself in the feelings that were blossoming inside him. He just hoped San would be there to catch him when he fell completely.

His feelings, however, didn’t hold much weight in the grand scheme of things, not when it came to the future of the kingdom. That harsh reality hit him once again during his meeting with Chul, who had bluntly inquired about the state of affairs with the First Lady. It was a ridiculous question, given how frail his health had been for the past two weeks, but it wasn’t something Wooyoung could ignore.

Nevertheless, he understood the concern for the royal lineage. The near-death experience had shaken everyone, not just him. The kingdom couldn’t afford to be left without an heir, and the longstanding tradition was clear - the next ruler had to be a direct descendant of the Jung dynasty. The burden of ensuring that succession lay squarely on Wooyoung’s shoulders. 

He snapped back to reality, catching himself in the act of thinking about San even as he kissed the woman before him. The First Lady's hands were draped over his shoulders, her delicate fingers tangled in his hair as she pressed herself against him. Her naked body molded to his bare chest, skin against skin, the warmth of her breasts and the firmness of her hardened nipples brushing against him. Every touch of her sent goosebumps rippling across his skin, but they weren’t the kind of chills that made his blood rush.

The room around them was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering candles scattered about. Shadows danced along the walls, adding an intimate, almost haunting glow to their entanglement. The scent of lavender and smoldering wax hung in the air, creating an atmosphere that should have felt sensual and charged with desire. Instead, for Wooyoung, it felt distant - like watching a scene unfold from outside himself.

Her soft whimpers pierced the stillness, a sound meant to inflame his hunger, but it was almost like background noise to him. Still, he forced himself to focus. He gripped her waist tighter, pulling her even closer, and deepened the kiss to feel anything . He was determined to take control, his lips moving against hers as he gently sucked on her lower lip, trying to evoke something more. Her answering moan was breathy and needy, and for a moment, he thought he had found the spark. But it flickered out just as quickly as it came.

Kissing her more aggressively, his hands traveled to her breast, his thumb softly grazing her nipple, sending tremors through her body. Her breath hitched as their tongues timidly met, brushing against each other with an awkward hesitancy. The air between them was thick with heat, yet it lacked the urgency that should have accompanied such an encounter. She breathed heavily into his mouth, her chest heaving against him, and Wooyoung responded with shallow breaths of his own, but it all felt forced, like an act he wasn’t fully committed to.

His pants, the only piece of clothing still clinging to his body, hung loosely around his waist, while the First Lady was completely bare. The soft candlelight bathed her skin in a warm, golden glow, highlighting the curves of her figure and casting shadows that accentuated her beauty. She was stunning, every inch of her body sculpted to perfection. And yet, despite all the beauty laid out before him, Wooyoung's mind kept drifting away, slipping through his fingers like sand.

With a soft, commanding pull, he guided her toward the nearby armchair. Step by step, he backed into it, sinking into the plush fabric as he brought her down with him. She straddled him, thighs wrapping around his hips as she settled into his lap, her movements growing bolder with each passing second. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders as she ground her hips against him, her wetness pressing against the fabric of his pants, creating a delicious friction that should have driven him wild.

Her breathy sighs grew more desperate as she took the lead, her movements now more confident, her eyes glassy with lust. Her lips, swollen and red from their heated kisses, trembled as she leaned down to mouth at his neck. Her tongue traced the outline of his jugular, her hot breath searing against his skin as she worked her way up to his jaw, leaving a trail of soft kisses. Her hips moved in slow, sensual circles, the pressure of her grinding against him causing heat to pool low in his abdomen.

But no matter how hard she tried to entice him, something was still missing. The more she moved, the more his mind wandered elsewhere. He should have been consumed by the moment, lost in the heat of it all. And yet, his thoughts kept drifting back to San - the feeling of San’s strong arms around him, the warmth of his breath against his ear as he whispered sweet nothings, the way his presence alone could ground Wooyoung, making him feel safe in a way no one else ever had.

The woman’s mouth returned to his, capturing his lips in another deep kiss. Wooyoung responded, his hands gripping her waist tightly as he kissed her back with renewed force. He wanted to want her - needed to feel something, anything - but the harder he tried, the more distant he felt. His hand slid up her body, fingers brushing the curve of her breast, but even as he touched her, he couldn’t escape the sensation that it wasn’t right. His mind was miles away, and no amount of physical contact could bring him back.

She kissed him harder, her nails digging into his shoulders as she moaned into his mouth, but it did little to stir him. His body responded, but only mechanically. His length was semi-hard beneath her, more from the friction of her grinding than any real desire. He found himself analyzing his own reaction, wondering why he wasn’t feeling the intense desire that should have been there. She was perfect - everything a man should want - and yet, Wooyoung felt nothing beyond the surface level of physical arousal.

His breathing quickened, not from excitement but from frustration. Something inside him was blocking the connection, preventing him from fully surrendering to the moment. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became: it wasn’t her. It wasn’t physical. It was him.

She moved her hips against him, her body responding naturally to his touch, her lips trailing down to his collarbone. But all Wooyoung could think about was San - the one person who had made him feel alive, who had understood him in ways he hadn’t even realized he needed.

This wasn’t where he wanted to be. 

She began to pull away, her movements slow and deliberate, as if trying to prolong the moment. With a graceful shift, she dropped to her knees before him. Wooyoung should have felt something - excitement, desire, anything - but instead, all he could register was the heavy weight of embarrassment settling over him. He knew exactly what was about to happen, and yet, instead of being thrilled by the prospect, he was dreading it. The thought of her seeing him like this - half-hard and lacking any real desire - sent a flush of shame creeping up his neck. How pathetic must he seem?

As she tugged at the waistband of his pants, exposing him completely, she gazed up at him with an expression filled with hunger and lust. Her eyes burned with a need he couldn’t mirror, a desire he didn’t feel. Wooyoung felt nothing but numbness as her hand wrapped around him. She spit into her palm, slicking her hand, then began to stroke him with careful, practiced movements. He was grateful she didn’t comment on his condition, likely assuming his lack of arousal was due to stress or fatigue from recent illness. He only hoped she didn’t take it personally - this wasn’t about her.

Her lips hovered just above his length, and her hot breath tickled the sensitive skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps up his spine. His body reacted reflexively, his back arching off the armchair in a feigned response of pleasure, but inside, his mind was elsewhere, locked in a prison of conflicting thoughts. She took his silent cue, leaning in and enveloping him in the warmth of her mouth. The wet heat was undeniably pleasurable on a surface level, but it did little to ignite any deeper desire in him. For the first time, Wooyoung experienced what so many men sought, but it felt hollow, detached.

Her movements were tentative at first, she sucked at the tip of him and flicked her tongue in light, teasing circles. It was clear she was new to this, her inexperience shining through, but she was doing her best, eager to please. Her hand worked the base in slow, steady strokes while her mouth focused on the head, trying to coax him into a stronger response. Despite her earnest efforts, Wooyoung’s body wasn’t cooperating. The physical sensations were there - the slick warmth, the rhythmic suction - but none of it reached the core of his being. 

Each passing second felt like an eternity. It was as though the longer this went on, the worse the gnawing feeling in his gut became. It felt wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. 

He wasn’t just indifferent - he was repulsed by his own attempts to force himself into this. His mind, his body, his heart - they all rebelled against what was happening. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t how things were supposed to feel.

She pulled away briefly, her breathing a little heavier, her lips glistening as she looked up at him, waiting for some sign that she was doing the right thing. Wooyoung caught the faint flicker of doubt in her eyes as she glanced at him, noticing his continued lack of enthusiasm. He wasn’t any more aroused than when she’d started. If anything, his body had retreated even further from the idea of intimacy.

Wooyoung’s chest tightened with guilt. This wasn’t fair to her, or himself. He couldn’t do this - not like this. He gently reached for her face, cupping it in his hands, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were still clouded with lust, her expression filled with expectation, but he couldn’t continue.

“We should stop,” he whispered softly, his voice low and careful, almost as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment. “We can try again later. I’m just... not feeling well enough right now.”

Her brows furrowed slightly in confusion, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she pulled back completely, sitting back on her heels, watching him closely as if trying to decipher whether his words held truth. Wooyoung offered her a small, apologetic smile.

She stood up, gathering the robe that lay nearby on the floor, enveloping herself in the silk material, and Wooyoung followed her lead, awkwardly pulling his pants back up - wincing when he saw a wet spot right against his crotch. He reached over for his robe, trying to cover the spot up. The room was silent, save for the flickering of the candlelight. All that was left was an uncomfortable tension. Wooyoung’s mind raced, guilt gnawing at him from every angle. He had failed once again. Not only her but the whole kingdom as well.

As she quietly excused herself from the room, leaving Wooyoung alone in the dim light, he let out a long, frustrated sigh. Three knocks at the door ignited a spark of hope in him, but he quickly realized it wasn’t the pattern San used when knocking. Besides, San had been instructed not to visit the chamber assigned to Wooyoung for the night. This one evening, he wasn’t supposed to bring him tea, and the thought saddened Wooyoung a little.

“Can I come in?” Yeosang’s voice came from the other side of the door.

Yeosang and Jongho were the only ones with access to this wing of the palace where Wooyoung currently resided. The guard stood on the other side of the door, ensuring their safety the entire time. “Yes,” Wooyoung called out. The candle flames danced lively in the slight breeze as Yeosang opened the door. Wooyoung stood there, watching his friend, who gave him a knowing look.

“I thought you might want to talk,” Yeosang offered him a warm smile. Wooyoung hummed, collapsing heavily into the armchair.

Wooyoung let out a bitter laugh, his fingers gripping the edge of the armchair as he stared at the floor. "Talk about what? How I couldn’t even-" He stopped himself, swallowing down the frustration that was bubbling up. "It was a disaster." Yeosang crossed the room with quiet steps, settling into the armchair opposite him. 

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he leaned forward slightly. “What happened?”

Wooyoung sighed, rubbing his temples as if that would ease the confusion swirling in his mind. "She was… everything she was supposed to be. Beautiful, perfect even. But I couldn’t…" He trailed off, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him. "I couldn’t get hard. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much she tried. It was humiliating."

He looked up to meet Yeosang’s gaze, expecting pity or confusion. But instead, Yeosang’s expression was unreadable for a moment, thoughtful.

“Is it her? Do you think she’s just not the right person for you?” Yeosang asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was calm, not accusatory, just genuinely trying to understand.

“I don’t think it’s that,” Wooyoung replied slowly, his mind racing as he tried to find the right words. "It’s like... it wasn’t just about her. It felt like I had to force myself to even be interested. Like I was doing something wrong the entire time. No matter what I did, it felt… off."

Yeosang listened closely, his gaze never leaving Wooyoung’s face. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly into a small, knowing smirk that made Wooyoung furrow his brows. "What?" he asked, confused by his friend’s expression.

Yeosang shifted in his seat, as if choosing his words carefully. “Have you ever… thought about the possibility that maybe you’re not attracted to women?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and unexpected. Wooyoung blinked, caught off guard. "I’ve never thought about that," he admitted, his voice quiet. The idea had never even crossed his mind, yet hearing Yeosang say it out loud made something click inside him.

Yeosang’s gaze softened as he spoke. "Not everyone fits the mold they’re given. You’ve been under so much pressure, trying to live up to these expectations. Maybe the reason it felt so wrong is because... it just isn’t who you are. There’s no shame in it, Wooyoung."

Wooyoung opened his mouth to respond but found himself lost for words. “I... I don’t know,” Wooyoung said finally, his voice shaky. “It’s not like I ever had the choice anyway. I’ve grown to accept the reality as it’s given.” He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced.

Yeosang nodded, his expression understanding. “You’ve always been focused on what’s best for the kingdom, for the dynasty, for everyone else. But maybe it’s time to think about what’s best for you.”

His thoughts were all over the place but there was one person he couldn’t stop thinking about. San. He remembered the way he felt that morning, waking up in San’s arms, the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breath. It felt so... right.

His heart clenched as realization slowly dawned on him. “And what if my heart has already decided?” he whispered.

Yeosang’s smirk grew, his eyes twinkling knowingly. "It’s about San, isn’t it?"

Wooyoung looked up, startled. "How do you…"

“You think I haven’t noticed? I've known you my whole life, Youngie. The way you look at him… it’s different. I’ve seen the way your eyes soften when he’s around, the way you relax in his presence. You’re not the same when he’s with you.” Yeosang’s voice was gentle, but there was a firmness in his words. “But it’s a good thing.”

Could it really be that simple? Could it be that what he felt for San was more than just the loyalty and duty they shared?

“I’ve never…” Wooyoung started, but the words caught in his throat. “How could I know? What love really is? Is there even a place for it in my life?”

Yeosang stood up, walking over to Wooyoung, crouching next to him, and placed a hand on his knee. "It’s okay to take your time. You don’t have to figure everything out right now. Just... don’t be afraid to explore what you really feel."

Wooyoung nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. He was terrified, yet at the same time, there was a sense of clarity settling over him. Maybe Yeosang was right. Maybe it was time to stop living for everyone else and start figuring out who he truly was. “It’s so scary,” he admitted.

“I know, trust me. I’ve been through this before," Yeosang began, his voice soft yet steady. "But once I accepted who I was and admitted I’m gay, it was such a relief.” His words hung in the air, like a weight finally lifted, and Wooyoung watched him with a newfound curiosity. This was a side of Yeosang he hadn’t seen before. He had always known Yeosang as composed and thoughtful, but never had he imagined his friend had been carrying such a truth quietly.

“How did you realize?” There was no judgment in his question, only the desire to understand.

Yeosang hesitated for a moment, as though he was revisiting a long-guarded memory. “When my heart would race, and my hands would get uncomfortably sweaty whenever I saw Jongho. At first, I didn’t understand it, but the feelings only grew stronger. Before I knew it, I was head over heels for him. Luckily, he fell in love with me just as deeply.” A soft, almost shy smile curved Yeosang’s lips, a look Wooyoung hadn’t seen before on his friend - one that spoke of love, comfort, and contentment.

Wooyoung blinked, sitting there with his mouth slightly open, trying to process the bombshell that had just been dropped on him. He struggled to string together a coherent sentence, his mind racing as he thought of his two closest friends in an entirely new light.

“What? How? Why? I mean, you two are together ?” The words tumbled out in a rush, his usually sharp tongue betraying him. It was as if the connection between his brain and mouth had short-circuited, leaving him fumbling over simple thoughts.

Yeosang chuckled softly, his laughter light but understanding. “Yeah, for a few months now.”

“For a few months?” Wooyoung repeated, incredulous. A storm of emotions stirred within him. Of course, he was happy for them, truly. Yeosang and Jongho were two of the most important people in his life, and knowing they had found love in each other should have brought nothing but joy. And yet, there was a small, inexplicable sting – a feeling of exclusion, the realization that his closest friends had kept this from him. Why didn’t they trust him?

His gaze hardened slightly as the question formed on his lips. “Why?” His voice pierced through the comfort of the room like a sharp blade. Yeosang shifted uncomfortably, his expression growing serious as he sensed the weight behind Wooyoung’s question. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Wooyoung asked again, this time more clearly, needing to know the reason.

Yeosang sighed, glancing down at his hands for a moment before meeting Wooyoung’s gaze. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of vulnerability. “We weren’t sure if you’d accept it.”

The words hit Wooyoung like a punch to the gut. His heart sank, and a rush of disbelief filled his chest. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, his voice tinged with hurt now. “I just want you to be happy. Don’t you know that?”

Yeosang looked at him, the regret evident in his eyes. “It’s not that we didn’t think you cared,” he explained softly. “We just didn’t want to put you in a difficult position. Given everything you’re going through, we thought you had enough on your plate.”

Wooyoung shook his head, his frustration evident. “Yeosang, you and Jongho are my friends. None of that matters more to me than your happiness. You should’ve told me. I would’ve been there for you, the same way you’ve always been there for me.”

Yeosang’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and gratitude. “I know, Wooyoung. I’m sorry. We should’ve trusted you sooner.”

There was a long pause between them, the tension in the air slowly dissipating. Wooyoung leaned back in his chair, he hadn’t realized how much he needed this - this openness, this connection with his friend. 

“I just… I guess I’m upset because I feel like I’m the last to know,” Wooyoung admitted, his voice quieter now, less demanding. “You’re my closest friends. I don’t want to be left out of your lives.”

“You’re not,” Yeosang reassured him, his tone gentle. “We were just trying to protect you. But I see now that we didn’t need to. You’re stronger than we gave you credit for.” Yeosang teased but there was a sparkle of sympathy in his eyes, deep care and affection he had for Wooyoung.

Wooyoung gave a small, rueful smile, nodding slightly. “I don’t know about that. But thank you.”

“We’re all in this together, Wooyoung,” Yeosang reminded him, his eyes warm and encouraging. “You’re not alone. Not now, not ever. Jongho and I will always be by your side, no matter what happens.” He paused for a moment, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And now… I think there’s someone else who might be there for you too.”

Wooyoung’s mind immediately drifted to San, and warmth blossomed in his chest. "He’s been a great help,” Wooyoung admitted. “At first, he seemed distant, but I think that was because I kept my distance. I wasn’t sure how to approach him.” He let out a quiet sigh, reflecting on the early tension between them. “But now... now I’ve found comfort in him.”

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, eyes sparkling with interest. "You know, I was surprised when he came to me asking if he could be the one to bring you tea every night. It was such a small thing, but it clearly mattered to him. Why would he care about something like that? But looking back, I think he just wanted to find a way to be close to you.” Yeosang paused before adding with a chuckle, “And for the record, I didn’t tell him anything about your insomnia or the sleeping elixir. I didn’t trust him enough back then.”

Wooyoung laughed softly. “I’m sure he figured out my insomnia on his own. When the elixir stopped working, I was waking up at odd hours, probably disturbing him more than once. I’ve been through hell, and it wasn’t easy to hide.”

“And now? You look a lot better than you did last month,” Yeosang remarked, his eyes sweeping over Wooyoung’s figure. 

“I feel better too,” Wooyoung admitted, a shy smile playing on his lips as his thoughts once again drifted to San. “It’s all thanks to him. I’m finally sleeping well again.” He paused, then slowly began to open up, sharing details about his growing bond with San.

He spoke about their nightly tea rituals, the comfort he found in San’s quiet presence, and how much he looked forward to those moments when the palace felt too overwhelming. He described how San had become someone he could talk to, someone who listened when Wooyoung needed to share the weight of his responsibilities, especially now with the looming Feast of the Dead.

It was his first time celebrating as king. The entire ceremony, conducted by the Luminae, carried a heavy, solemn tone, befitting the ritual in honor of the dead - people taking part in the ceremony were to pay tribute to the souls that had passed. However, the somber mood of the ritual was balanced by the more festive part of the occasion. After the ceremony, the palace would open its grand halls to welcome distinguished guests, an evening of feasting and celebrating life amidst the backdrop of death. The contrast between the two was stark, but tradition dictated that both aspects - the mourning of the lost and the celebration of the living - be honored.

San had told Wooyoung earlier that he had invited some of his family to the feast, and Wooyoung couldn't help but feel a bit nervous at the thought of meeting them.

Yeosang listened attentively, his expression softening with each passing word. When Wooyoung paused, Yeosang shared his own story - how he and Jongho had come together, how their feelings had developed over time, and how much happiness they had found in each other. His eyes sparkled as he recalled their first date, his lips curling into a smile at the memory. 

Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel a pang of joy for his friend. Seeing Yeosang so happy, so content with Jongho, filled him with warmth. He felt an odd sense of peace knowing that they both had someone by their side. Someone to share the burdens, the quiet moments, the laughter. 

Finally, his life seemed to be falling into place, despite the many burdens still lurking in the back of his mind, he wasn’t facing it all alone. He knew, deep down, that this time, he had people to lean on. He wouldn’t have to go through it by himself ever again.

As the conversation began to lull and the quiet of the night settled in around them, the two friends sat in companionable silence. The dim candlelight flickered softly, the candles almost at the verge of burning out. Both of them were worn out from the long day, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that came from finally letting go of secrets and burdens that had weighed on them for too long.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Yeosang’s voice broke the silence.

Wooyoung’s mind immediately conjured an image of San, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the evening sun as they talked. He thought of San’s dimples when he smiled, of the delicate freckle dotting his smooth cheeks - the freckle Wooyoung secretly longed to kiss. His usually sharp and commanding presence was so different in the quiet of the night, when he shed his ornate robes, hair messy and his body no longer decorated with the usual jewelry. Even then, San was breathtaking. Just thinking about him made Wooyoung’s heart leap.

“Yeah…” Wooyoung whispered, his voice barely audible as the weight of his feelings settled over him. “I really do.” His heart raced with the realization.

…

The Kingdom of Crescent, once a place of relative peace and prosperity, now stood at the brink of uncertainty. The heavy grey clouds of autumn loomed ominously over the land, their weight mirrored by the daily struggles of its subjects. Each day felt more burdensome than the last, as the vibrant colors of fall dulled into the ashen tones of impending hardship. With every passing week, the hope for a better harvest in the southern regions slowly withered, like the crops themselves, ravaged by drought and misfortune. 

The news of the poor yield had long since spread throughout the kingdom, casting a shadow of dread that hung over every village, town, and farm. Wherever one went, the air was filled with uneasy whispers, quiet sobbing, and the somber conversations of those anxious about the future. The very heart of the kingdom seemed to beat slower, weighed down by the unrelenting sense of despair.

In years gone by, as the Feast of the Dead approached, the atmosphere had been vastly different. The streets, especially on the outskirts of the cities, would come alive with the scents of celebration. The comforting aroma of cinnamon wafted through the air, as bakers prepared sweet treats that would soon adorn tables brimming with food. Pumpkins, freshly harvested and spiced, filled the breeze with their warm, sweet scent, a fragrance that had come to symbolize the joy of the season. There had been a time when the Feast of the Dead was eagerly anticipated by all, a time when grief was transformed into something beautiful.

The Feast of the Dead, at first glance, may have seemed like a somber occasion - an event meant to mourn and remember those who had passed. And indeed, there was mourning, and there were tears. Yet, the festival was far more than an act of sorrow. At its core, it was a celebration of life and the acceptance of death as a natural part of existence. 

The true essence of the feast lay not in grieving over loss, nor in fearing the inevitability of death, but in finding solace in the knowledge that the dead had joined with Eclipse. Their spirits had become one with the stars that twinkled above, eternal and bright. The souls of the departed were seen as guiding lights, shining like beacons in the night sky. Whenever someone felt the ache of longing for a loved one, all they had to do was look up. The stars would greet them, and their hearts would be filled with peace and joy, knowing their beloved were not lost but rather watching over them, forever part of the cosmic tapestry.

Wherever Eclipse's blessing shone, joy followed. 

Wherever people united in Their spirit, harmony, and prosperity thrived.

It was for this reason that the Feast was a grand event, lasting from midnight until the sunset on the following day. This year, even as the threat of famine hovered over the kingdom, even as the reality of poor harvests weighed heavily on everyone’s minds, people still reached into their cellars and pantries, pulling out the finest preserves and delicacies they had saved for this sacred occasion. 

They laid out feasts, gathered together with neighbors, and filled the air with laughter and stories. The Feast was not just a time to remember the dead but also a time to celebrate life, to share memories and honor the legacy of those who had passed on by speaking their names with reverence and love. It was a reminder that though the living and the dead were separated by an invisible veil, they remained connected by the spirit of Eclipse.

The festivities began, as tradition demanded when the full moon shone bright, casting its pale light over the kingdom - marking the seventeenth day of October. At midnight, as the moon stood directly above, a ceremony would be led by the eldest Luminae, the most revered figure in the spiritual order of Eclipse - Ordi Phasium Lunae. This year, however, something was different.

Tonight, the sky held a secret.

Where the moon’s glow should have been silver, where its craters and surface typically shimmered in shades of grey - another unnatural color had taken hold of its surface.

Tonight, the moon was red.

Luminae stood tall in the center of the meadow, her gaze fixed on the moon, her expression serene despite the unsettling spectacle above. The night was unusually clear, with only a few clouds drifting lazily across the sky, none daring to obscure the moon's light. With arms outstretched, she silently began her prayer. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. The eerie glow of the red moon illuminated her skin, making her appear ghostly, as though she herself had stepped out from the world of the dead. Her black robes, flowing with the slight breeze, only heightened the ethereal quality of the scene, the golden halo crown on her head glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Most of the kingdom’s citizens had gathered here in the meadow, leaving only the children, safely asleep in their beds, and the elderly, too weak to make the journey, behind. Those unable to attend the ceremony participated from the warmth of their homes, offering quiet prayers to Eclipse. The crowd had formed a wide circle around Luminae, giving her the space she needed to perform the sacred rites. Her eyes were covered by a blindfold, a symbol of her connection to the unseen world, and her head was crowned by the distinctive silver halo that marked her as the highest spiritual authority.

Amid the crowd, the Kings stood side by side, a small guard detail separating them from the rest of the people. Their attire, though simple, radiated elegance. San wore a loose black shirt with a deep neckline, tucked into form-fitting trousers that emphasized his stature. A wide sash girthed his waist, while Wooyoung, draped in a flowing black cloak, kept close by his side. The simplicity of their clothing was contrasted by the golden crowns upon their heads, which gleamed in the strange red light of the moon.

A chill ran down Wooyoung’s spine as a thick, crimson mist began to roll in across the meadow. The mist seemed almost alive, creeping forward slowly, swallowing the ground beneath their feet.

“Let us pray that the Most Radiant Eclipse continues to bless Their worshippers with grace and favor. Forgive our sins, Most High Eclipse, and lift away our suffering and burdens,” Luminae’s voice rang out, strong and unwavering, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“We bow to you ,” the crowd responded in unison, their voices echoing into the night as they followed the ancient ritual.

“Let us pray that the Most Radiant Eclipse unites all in Their spirit, bringing us together in harmony and peace,” Luminae continued, her hands still raised toward the heavens. The crimson mist thickened, and Wooyoung’s vision began to blur. The air felt heavy, and unease coiled in his chest as he scanned the meadow. Something was wrong. His gaze darted to San, hoping for reassurance, but San remained calm, his expression serene, as though he noticed nothing unusual.

“Beseeching you ,” Wooyoung whispered, though his voice was lost amidst the chants of the crowd.

“Let us pray that the Most Radiant Eclipse gathers the souls of the departed, forgiving their earthly transgressions and granting them eternal joy in the light of your glory,” Luminae’s voice echoed once more. The moon’s crimson glow intensified, casting the crowd in an even deeper shade of red. Wooyoung, feeling a growing sense of dread, reached for San’s hand, gripping it tightly. San’s eyes briefly met his, a silent question lingering in them, but he said nothing, allowing the ceremony to continue.

And then, from the edge of the mist, a figure emerged.

The man’s eyes were bloodshot, his skin deathly pale, almost translucent. As Wooyoung watched in horror, he realized the man’s body was only partially solid, his form shifting like mist in the moonlight. Silver blood dripped from his mouth, but his body bore no visible wounds. He was not alive, he was not of this world. 

He was a specter.

The man stood there, motionless as a statue, his eyes locked onto Wooyoung in an unblinking, unnerving stare. Every detail of his form seemed more vivid now - the tattered edges of his once-grand robes fluttering in the gentle breeze, the silver rivulets of blood flowing from his mouth in an unending stream.

"San." Wooyoung’s voice barely escaped his lips, a tremor betraying his fear as he moved a fraction closer to his husband, not daring to release his grip on his hand. "Do you see that?" His words shook as he inclined his head toward the phantom figure standing in the thick mist. His heart pounded against his chest, every beat echoing in his ears.

San’s attention snapped to where Wooyoung was gesturing, his brow furrowing in confusion. He leaned in, his voice low and cautious, as if raising it too high would shatter the tenuous peace of the ceremony. "What? What are you talking about?" His eyes searched the fog, but they found nothing. A crease deepened between his brows, the first signs of uncertainty appearing on his usually composed face. "What do you mean?"

"The man," Wooyoung's voice cracked, barely able to form the words. "He’s standing right there. In the mist. He is dripping blood, and..." He trailed off, a violent shiver coursing down his spine. His hope that San might see what he did crumbled. "He’s right behind Luminae," Wooyoung insisted, his eyes wide and filled with desperation, his grip on San tightening as if to anchor himself in the reality that was quickly slipping from his grasp.

San looked again, squinting through the fog that clung to the night air like a shroud. His gaze lingered on the clearing where Luminae continued her ritual, leading the gathered crowd in solemn prayer. Beyond her, the subjects of the kingdom stood in their own quiet reverence, backs bent slightly in tribute to Eclipse. "Wooyoung… I only see Luminae and the others. There’s no man, no bloodied figure." His voice was soft but laced with concern as his eyes met Wooyoung's, his hand giving a reassuring squeeze. "Are you alright? Maybe we should leave and head back to the palace?"

But Wooyoung couldn’t pull himself away. The ghostly figure remained, as vivid as ever, his lips moving silently in sync with Luminae’s words, though no sound escaped. The silver blood dripped from his mouth with each syllable, pooling at his feet without staining the earth beneath him. Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He hoped - no, prayed - that when he opened them again, the vision would be gone.

But it wasn’t. And worse still, the specter was no longer alone.

Another figure had joined him, emerging from the mist like a shadow given form. This one, though equally ethereal, had a different presence altogether - his translucent skin stretched tight over hollowed bones, but what drew Wooyoung's horrified gaze were the veins. Pulsing beneath the ghostly surface were veins of gold, glowing faintly as if imbued with some ancient, cursed magic. They were visible to the naked eye - normally, veins were not visible on a person’s skin. The golden light traced the path of his circulatory system, branching out like cracks in the surface of his skin. His arms, from his fingertips up to his forearms, were blackened.

Wooyoung felt his breath hitch in his throat as recognition dawned on him. He had read about this - many times, in the ancient texts that chronicled the darkest moments of their kingdom’s history. He knew exactly what this was: poison that had been used only once, centuries ago, during a feast that marked the beginning of the Jung dynasty.

The pieces began to fall into place in his mind, each revelation more terrifying than the last. They were standing on sacred ground, the very meadow where that cursed feast had taken place two hundred years ago. The one that had claimed countless lives, a massacre hidden beneath the guise of a shared celebration. 

And now, those lost souls had returned.

The blood dripping from the phantom’s mouth, the blackened limbs - these were the marks of death, of those who had perished in agony all those centuries ago. Wooyoung’s chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he realized the full extent of what was happening. The dead, long forgotten by history, had come back as specters. Not to celebrate the Feast of the Dead, but to remind of the horrors they had endured, the injustice that had been done to them.

The fog seemed to thicken around him, wrapping itself around Wooyoung like a suffocating blanket. His vision blurred, the figures before him growing more distinct even as everything else faded into a misty haze. He could hear the murmur of the crowd, the soft chants of Luminae, but they sounded distant, muffled, as if they came from another world entirely.

With shaking hands, he squeezed San's hand harder this time, a silent plea for comfort, for grounding. San turned to him, concern deepening in his eyes, but he still could not see what Wooyoung saw. The ghosts were here for him, and him alone.

Wooyoung tried to stay present, refusing to bend under the chilling gaze of the specter. They’re just ghosts, they can’t hurt you, he kept repeating to himself. He stood tall, head held high, though his eyes darted away as far as possible from the terrifying visions that loomed around him. San gently stroked the back of Wooyoung’s hand with his thumb, glancing at Wooyoung from time to time, concern etched on his features, to ensure that nothing was wrong. He must have thought that Wooyoung was slipping back into poor health again - but that wasn’t the case this time.

The ceremony was slowly coming to an end, and now the celebrants were preparing to return to their homes to rest and sleep for the remainder of the night. The feast and celebrations were supposed to last throughout the whole day, the feast at the palace will be held in the afternoon. 

As they walked back to the palace, to their shared chamber, Wooyoung felt the stares on him the entire way. Moving through the long corridor of the castle, he could sense the phantom’s presence looming over him, their sorrowful eyes watching his every step. More ghosts emerged from behind some of the columns, their forms shimmering and translucent in the dim light. Some bore visible signs of poison, with pale skin and hollow eyes, while others appeared immaculately clean. Yet none of them moved from their spots - only their eyes followed Wooyoung’s every movement.

Upon shutting the door behind him and San, Wooyoung was horrified to find yet another ghost waiting for him inside the chamber. Its presence sent a shiver down his spine, amplifying the unease that had settled within him. As he quickly changed out of his ceremonial robes, he avoided looking at the specter, his gaze flitting around the room in search of anything that could ground him. He darted his eyes from the canopy above the bed to the golden decorations on the walls, finally landing on a cup that stood empty on the bedside table. The tea was long ago consumed before leaving for the ceremony.

He hurriedly made his way to the bed, which seemed to him the only safe place in the midst of the chaos surrounding him. The soft fabric of the sheets promised comfort. Shortly after, San appeared beside him and without hesitation Wooyoung nestled into San’s side, burying his face in the hollow between his collarbone and neck - he breathed in his scent, seeking comfort and solace, grounding himself in the reality of San’s warmth. San's arms wrapped around him, pulling Wooyoung close, their bodies nearly melding together in an embrace that felt like a shield against the dark world outside. One of his hands played with Wooyoung’s hair, his fingers weaving through the strands as he hummed a soothing tune, a melody that drifted through the air, lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

…

The rhythmic clinking of cutlery against fine porcelain plates echoed throughout the grand banquet hall, mingling with the steady hum of voices engaged in lively conversation. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread. Somewhere in the background, the soft, melodious strains of a string quartet drifted above the din, delicate notes weaving through the crowd.

As the wine flowed freely from crystal decanters the somber atmosphere of the day had all but evaporated, replaced with the roaring energy of celebration with the feast gaining momentum.

The tables were a sight to behold, laden with an abundance that could only have come from the vast royal stores. Plumes of steam rose from bowls of seasoned vegetables, their colors vibrant, as if the very essence of the harvest season had been captured and served. 

At the start of the evening, Wooyoung had been introduced to San’s mother, Aeri, a woman whose beauty, though softened by age, still radiated a regal grace. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, and her eyes sparkled with an intelligence that belied her years. Something about her had struck Wooyoung as familiar, as though he had seen her somewhere before, but when he mentioned it, both she and San had denied any such meeting. Despite the confusion, Wooyoung couldn’t shake the strange sense of déjà vu that lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind.

Accompanying Aeri was Seonghwa, San’s older brother. From the moment he entered the hall, his aura was almost overwhelming. He moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his black hair perfectly slicked back, revealing a face of sharp, aristocratic features. His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to slice through Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, however, paid little attention to Seonghwa or the other guests who filled the hall. To him, it was as though the entire evening was happening on a stage, with himself as the distant spectator, watching from the wings as the actors played their parts. He sat quietly at the grand table, detached from the festivities. 

Regardless of being physically surrounded by others, Wooyoung felt utterly alone. On his left, Hongjoong was deep in conversation with Seonghwa, who now appeared much more relaxed, even warm in his interaction. Their voices blended into the background hum, not even registering in Wooyoung’s distracted mind.

To his right San’s place was empty. San had excused himself earlier to speak with his mother, Aeri. Wooyoung understood why - it had been weeks since San had seen her and their reunion was long overdue. Despite the grand hall’s noise and the pressing crowd, San seemed to find a private corner, exchanging words with Aeri that no doubt carried the weight of missed time and longing.

But, in truth, he wasn’t entirely by himself. The phantoms were there, not leaving his sight. Scattered throughout the hall, they lingered silently, their forms translucent and eerie, not visible to anyone but him. The other guests moved among them without the slightest awareness, passing through the spectral figures as though they didn’t exist - after all, to them, they didn’t. Yet Wooyoung watched as their half-formed shapes blended into the crowd, their red-stained eyes trailing his every move.

He turned his attention to the window, hoping to find some solace in the fading daylight. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, radiating golden beams through the grand windows that lined the hall. The room was bathed in a soft, warm light, the golden hues reflecting off the gilded decorations, making everything shimmer with a surreal glow. 

A cold shiver ran down his spine - it was as though a deathly, freezing breeze had swept past his neck, erupting a wave of goosebumps. He froze as he felt the brush of something far more sinister than wind. 

And then the voice came. It was not spoken aloud, no one around him could hear it. But Wooyoung felt it, deep within him, seeping into his very soul. The words resonated with an intensity that gripped his heart, sending waves of dread through his body.

“Redeem the bloody stigma of your ancestors’ sins, my child, ” the voice whispered.

Wooyoung jerked his head around, his eyes wide with shock, only to find himself face to face with a ghost - one unlike any of the others. This one was nearly his mirror image, but older, much older. The ghost’s face was lined with deep wrinkles. Different from other spirits this one bore no visible marks of poisoning - no blackened limbs, no blood dripping from his mouth. At first glance, he appeared almost… normal. But as Wooyoung looked closer, he realized with a jolt that the ghost’s features were uncannily similar to his own. The nose, the shape of the lips, even the small moles beneath his eye and on his lip - they were identical.

“Do not repeat our mistakes. You must erase the line between the silver-blooded and the golden-blooded ,” his ancestor continued. 

His hands were stained with blood.

Blood that was not his own. It was a mixture of silver and gold, swirling together like a grotesque reminder of the violence that had once torn their world apart. It was the blood of the past, the legacy of betrayal and murder that Wooyoung’s ancestor had wrought on that fateful night.

Wooyoung’s heart raced as he stared at the ghostly face of the dynasty’s founder, his body trembling with fear. Slowly, the ghost began to fade, its once-solid form becoming more and more transparent as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room into twilight. The figure blurred, its edges dissolving into mist, until all that remained was a faint outline, barely distinguishable from the shadows. And just as the other ghosts in the hall began to vanish, so too did the spirit of his ancestor.

“ You’re the last hope ,” the ghost whispered, his voice barely audible as he dissolved into the ether, with the sun finally vanishing behind the horizon. 

And then, he was gone.

Wooyoung felt utterly drained - emotionally overwhelmed - by the weight of his feelings. He was so tired of constantly being afraid, whether that fear was for the people around him or for himself. He tried to make sense of what the spirit could have meant - whether it had been an actual ghost or just a projection of his own guilt. Because even though starting the construction of the temple was the first, proper step toward a better future for his people, the path ahead of him was still long and uncertain.

The emotions of the entire day had piled up, threatening to spill over, but Wooyoung decided to try and enjoy the remainder of the evening, at least for now. He would talk to San about it later - they would figure something out together, whatever the ghost meant by erasing the line between the silver-blooded and golden-blooded. Together. Later. 

“Gentlemen, bottoms up!”

Jaesong’s drunken cheers were loud enough to be heard from several meters away. Wooyoung sighed, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at the sight of his father completely abandoning any sense of decorum and restraint. Since stepping down from the throne, Jaesong had taken on a much more carefree lifestyle, no longer burdened by the responsibilities of maintaining a royal image.

The guests, however, didn’t seem to mind his antics. They were hardly in a better state of sobriety themselves. Not wanting to spoil the fun, Wooyoung rose from his seat and made his way toward the palace veranda to catch his breath and find a moment of peace. Though the sound of music and laughter filled him with joy - glad to see his people celebrating and having a good time - it had started to become overwhelming.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wooyoung noticed that both San and Yunho were absent from the hall. The only one who hadn’t left his side was Jongho, who quietly followed him onto the veranda. The cool night air painted Wooyoung’s cheeks in soft hues of gold, and the gentle rays of the moonlight fell across his face, casting everything in a silvery glow.

The moon was back to its usual color, whereas the stars above shone brighter than usual, as if welcoming back the souls who had briefly left the heavens on this special day to visit their loved ones. Wooyoung stood still for a moment, letting all his pent-up emotions settle, savoring the rare opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. And though being alone with his mind had often frightened him, this time, he felt ready to face it.

With a deep sigh, he gazed up at the face of the Eclipse, remembering the night before his wedding and coronation when he had entrusted himself to the deity. He hoped they had heard him.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” A solid presence appeared behind him, interrupting his thoughts. 

Wooyoung flinched a little, he hadn't heard anyone approaching him - fixated on the night sky. A hand rested lightly on his hip, startling him at first. He wasn’t used to public displays of affection - in fact, he wasn’t used to any display of affection. But he couldn’t deny how much he had grown fond of it, relaxing under the touch, especially when the familiar scent of San wrapped around him like a warm blanket. It soothed his troubled thoughts, tucking them away safely under the comfort of his husband’s proximity.

“It is,” Wooyoung replied softly.

San hummed in agreement, stepping closer but leaving just a small space between them - a distance that, though slight, irritated Wooyoung. He wasn’t quite ready to admit it. Not yet.

“How are you feeling?” San asked quietly.

“Better now,” Wooyoung responded truthfully. They stood in comfortable silence for a while, savoring each other’s presence as the chilly night air swept across their skin.

“Do you still see him?” San asked, his voice soft but laced with uncertainty.

“Whom?” Wooyoung asked, although he knew exactly who San meant.

“The man you told me about. Is he still there?” San’s tone was cautious.

Wooyoung hesitated for a brief moment before answering, “He is not. But I think there’s more to come.” San remained quiet, waiting for Wooyoung to elaborate. Wooyoung could almost feel the intensity of San’s gaze on his profile, though he kept his own eyes fixed on the moon. “I saw specters… many specters - corpses of people poisoned by my ancestor.” San shivered beside him.

“How…?” 

“They appeared at night, during the ceremony. They didn’t leave me until the sun set today. I think one of them was the founder of my dynasty - well, our dynasty,” he corrected himself.

“Did they approach you?”

“Only the one. He said something about redeeming the sins of my ancestors and… erasing the division between the silver-blooded and the golden-blooded.”

San listened intently, a frown of deep thought creasing his brow. “What do you think of that? Would you want that change?” he asked, careful with his words.

Wooyoung paused, unsure if he was ready to fully confront the truth, but he was tired of running from it. For the first time, he was prepared to face what he had been hiding, keeping it close to his heart because, before now, he had no one to share these thoughts with. But now, turning to look at San bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, Wooyoung knew he could finally voice his feelings. San would always listen.

“I’d like to try,” Wooyoung admitted. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the way things are right now. I want my people to be happy. All of them, equal.” He chuckled softly, feeling the weight on his heart lift - a burden that had weighed on him for so long. For the first time, he felt free.

It felt liberating - the first time he had spoken his beliefs out loud. San looked at him, his pupils wide with surprise. Wooyoung noticed San’s collar was half up, rumpled and crooked - probably raised accidentally. Turning toward him, Wooyoung reached out both hands to fix the fabric of San’s attire, smoothing it out. San, as if by instinct, placed his second hand on Wooyoung’s hips, holding him steady.

“And what does my King think about it?”

Now, they stood wrapped in each other’s arms - San’s hands resting on Wooyoung’s waist while Wooyoung’s arms encircled San’s neck, resting them at the collar. The muffled sounds of music echoed faintly from inside the palace, but the world seemed to disappear around them. 

In this moment, nothing existed but the two of them.

“I’d like to try as well,” San said, smiling, his dimples showing. Wooyoung’s heart raced, thundering wildly in his chest. “I want the best for them, too.”

All the constellations seemed to reflect in San’s eyes, glowing with silver light, and all Wooyoung could do was stand there, overwhelmed by the love that swelled inside him. He parted his lips, wanting to say something, but no words came. He was utterly lost in the moment.

San’s gaze followed the movement of Wooyoung’s lips, his eyes lingering on them before instinctively licking his own. Wooyoung didn’t know if he was the one who stepped forward, or if it was San, but suddenly, they were so close that their bodies were pressed together.

The calloused skin of San’s palm brushed against the softness of Wooyoung’s cheek, and it felt heavenly. Wooyoung leaned into the touch, holding San’s intense gaze. The heat of desire flickered between them like a flame, burning their hearts with affection and passion. Wooyoung leaned in slightly, giving San a chance to pull away if he wanted, desperately hoping he wasn’t misreading the situation. 

Wooyoung’s lips hovered just above San’s, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but he hesitated for a fraction of a second. His heart pounded so violently it felt as if it might burst from his chest, each beat filling him with a sense of anticipation so deep it almost hurt.

And then, with a surge of courage, Wooyoung leaned in, closing the distance between them.

The kiss was soft at first - tentative. Their lips brushed together gently, a cautious exploration of a new and fragile connection. Wooyoung’s eyelids fluttered shut, his breath hitching as he felt the softness of San’s lips press against his own. It was delicate and sweet. A spark ignited deep within him, spreading warmth from his chest to the very tips of his fingers. 

San responded almost instantly, pressing back against Wooyoung with need. His hand on Wooyoung’s cheek slid back, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, pulling him closer as if he couldn’t bear to let even the slightest distance remain between them. His grip on Wooyoung’s waist tightened, drawing their bodies flush together, chest to chest, until Wooyoung could feel the rushed rhythm of San’s heartbeat.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, but quickly becoming more passionate. A soft sigh escaped Wooyoung as he tilted his head, angling for better access. San’s lips were warm, and the taste of him was intoxicating. Wooyoung’s senses were overwhelmed, every nerve alight with sensation. His hands moved from San’s collar to the back of his neck, fingers sliding up to tangle in San’s hair.

San’s kisses grew more insistent, his lips parting slightly to nip gently at Wooyoung’s lower lip before soothing it with another soft kiss. A quiet groan rumbled from deep in San’s chest, sending a thrill down Wooyoung’s spine. He pulled San closer - even though it was almost impossible now - their bodies pressed so tightly together that he could feel every shift of San’s muscles beneath his robes. Wooyoung felt himself melting into San’s touch, his knees growing weak as the kiss continued to deepen.

When they finally pulled apart, it was only because they needed air. Their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the cool night air, coming in short, heavy bursts. Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered open, meeting San’s gaze. His heart skipped a beat at the sight - San’s dark eyes were wide, pupils blown with emotion, and his lips were slightly swollen from the kiss, shining under the moonlight. There was a softness there, a vulnerability in the way San looked at him.

Neither of them spoke for a long while, savoring the moment. Wooyoung could still feel the warmth of San’s lips on his, could still feel the way his fingers had tightened in his hair. Slowly, Wooyoung lifted a hand, tracing the edge of San’s jaw with his fingertips, marveling at the warmth of his skin. He leaned in again, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to San’s lips, slower this time, more intimate. 

And they stood there, under the watchful gaze of the moon observing them with their silent blessing.

…

That night, San's hand wavered over the teacup, fingers trembling as he held the vial of poison.

With an aching heart, he let the droplet fall into the mango and strawberry tea nonetheless.

…

Before Seonghwa could slip away into the solitude of his chambers after returning from the celebrations, Aeri reached out, her hand closing tightly around his wrist.

"Wait," she said, her voice low but urgent. "I need to talk to you."

Seonghwa pulled his hand back with a sharp movement, irritation flickering in his eyes. "I'm tired, mother . We’ll talk tomorrow." He turned on his heel and headed briskly down the corridor toward his room. But Aeri wasn’t one to be deterred so easily. She followed, her footsteps echoing after him. Just as he reached his door and was about to slam it shut, her voice stopped him.

"What do you know about red blood?"

The door stopped halfway, and Seonghwa froze, his hand still gripping the handle. Slowly, he turned to face her.

"Red blood?" he repeated, his voice a mix of disbelief and suspicion. "Why are you asking about that?"

"I spoke with San," she began, her words careful. "It seems there was more to their wedding day than we anticipated. Apparently, San had to perform some kind of blood ritual with Wooyoung during the ceremony."

Seonghwa's brows furrowed in confusion. "The blood ritual? You mean..." His voice trailed off as the realization hit him. "Did it come out that San has silver blood? Does Wooyoung know?"

Aeri shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "No, I don’t think so. If Wooyoung knew, San’s head would likely be decorating the palace gates by now."

Seonghwa leaned against the doorframe, exhaling sharply as he ran a hand through his hair. "But why the hell are we talking about red blood? What does that have to do with any of this?"

"That’s the thing. The blood on the dagger - after the ritual - was red."

Seonghwa's eyes widened, his posture stiffening. "Red? Are you sure? That’s impossible."

"San didn’t give me many details, but he was certain. He and Wooyoung both saw it, and neither of them understands what it could mean." 

" Fuck, fuck, fuck... " Seonghwa began pacing again, his hands gripping his hair in frustration. His movements were frantic. "This is bad. This is really, really bad."

"Seonghwa," Aeri demanded, her voice sharp, "what does it mean? What aren’t you telling me?"

"I don’t know for sure," he spat, his voice rising in agitation. "But whatever it is, it could ruin everything. Do you really think San won’t be affected by this? He’s going to latch onto this - convince himself that it means something more than it does. He’ll think it’s a sign, a divine connection, or some bullshit like that."

Aeri’s jaw tightened as she listened, her eyes narrowing. "San is not reckless. He’s sticking to the plan so far, isn’t he? He’s been poisoning Wooyoung, just as we agreed. You have no right to doubt him now."

Seonghwa let out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with mockery. "Poisoning him? Do you really think San’s heart is still in this? Mother, you’ve known him for years - thirteen long years - and yet you still don’t see it, do you? Faith means everything to him. You KNOW how much he values his beliefs. If he starts thinking that this red blood is indicating Eclipse’s blessing for the bond between him and Wooyoung, then it’s over for us. He won’t be able to do it. He’ll never go through with the plan."

"You’re wrong," Aeri insisted. "San wouldn’t betray us like that. He understands what’s at stake. He knows what must be done."

"Does he?" Seonghwa challenged, stepping closer to her. "Or have you blinded yourself to the truth because you don’t want to see it? Because you’re afraid that everything you’ve built is about to come crashing down around you?"

Silence fell around them.

"What do we do now?" she finally asked.

"We don’t tell him anything and if San starts doubting the plan, we’ll need to act quickly. And as for the red blood we’ll need to figure out what it means before San does. Otherwise, we could lose everything."

Chapter Text

10.

“But I fell too deeply for you

Was it really love, baby?”

San would like to convince himself that the kiss hadn’t changed anything between them - that his heart didn’t flutter at the mere recollection of it. But to say that, to believe it, would be to add yet another lie to the mounting pile weighing heavily on his conscience. 

And lying to himself about not being drawn to his husband was already hard enough. Wooyoung had always been charming, effortlessly so - San had known that from the beginning. It hadn’t mattered much back then - Wooyoung’s allure had been something distant, something he could brush off. But now, everything felt different. The pull between them had grown stronger, harder to resist.

That kiss, the one they shared nearly two weeks ago, had been magical, unforgettable. It was no longer something San could pretend away, no longer something he could label as part of the act - of his stupid play pretend charade. 

It was real, too real . 

The moment Wooyoung’s lips had touched his, something deep within San shifted - with an unspoken act of surrendering a piece of himself that he hadn’t even realized he was holding back. 

The softness of Wooyoung’s lips, the gentle way his mouth had curved into a smile mid-kiss, the heat that radiated between their bodies - it had all been too much. Too overwhelming, too consuming . 

In that moment, lost in the sweet kiss, San could imagine a future where they stood side by side, no matter what chaos surrounded them. A future where it didn’t matter if the kingdom was crumbling around them, because they would have each other. He could see it so clearly.

But that hope was dangerous. It tangled him further into a web of lies and confusion, emotions pulling him in directions he hadn’t planned for. That kiss had been like a gust of fresh air, a glimpse of a better life - a life where he didn’t have to choose between loyalty and love, where he didn’t have to carry the weight of betrayal on his shoulders. 

The same questions always lingered at the back of his mind. Was Wooyoung really the evil San had convinced himself he was? Could he really be as corrupt as Jaesong?

Every day, the more time he spent with Wooyoung, the more San realized how wrong he had been. How he had misjudged him, dismissed him right away without even giving him a chance. Wooyoung wasn’t anything like Jaesong. He wasn’t cruel or selfish. He wasn’t a tyrant. 

Wooyoung was selfless - almost painfully so. He cared deeply for his people, so much that he’d give up his own happiness for them. San now saw it in the small things, in the way Wooyoung interacted with everyone around him - always putting others first - in the way he cared about matters of their subjects. Which was clearly proven with the temple being built. The constructions had started not long ago but they were going smoothly for now and San couldn’t be happier about it. 

There was a goodness in him, a kindness that Jaesong had never cared to show. Wooyoung was unfairly weighed down by his father’s sins, cursed by the bloodline he was born into, but that didn’t mean his heart was tainted. San knew that now, deep down. And knowing it terrified him.

San was scared to face the truth that lay right in front of him. Scared to admit that he had been wrong about everything. He feared what it would mean to acknowledge that Wooyoung was not the monster he had been led to believe. It would mean admitting that all the plans, all the schemes, had been built on a lie - that what he was doing was wrong, even though he painfully wanted to make things better. 

Giving up now would mean betraying Aeri and his brothers, the ones who had taken him in, given him a home, given him purpose. They were counting on him to see their mission through, to fulfill his duty to the silver-blooded. 

He owed them everything.

But the more he silenced his heart, the more it screamed at him. His heart - his foolish, innocent heart - kept whispering the truth he didn’t want to hear. It told him that Wooyoung didn’t deserve this, that there was a different way. It told him that the poison he was supposed to give Wooyoung wasn’t the answer. But he couldn’t afford to listen. Not when Aeri’s words kept haunting him, reminding him of the greater good, of the duty he had to fulfill. The silver-blooded deserved better. And the mold Aeri had shaped him into, forcing her beliefs on him, showed him that there was only one path to revenge and equality - that was via violence. 

Yet, no matter how much San tried to push away his feelings for Wooyoung, they continued to grow. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every time they fell asleep cuddling, every quiet moment, alongside the endless talks shared between them - his feelings for Wooyoung were blossoming like wildflowers in a field. The kiss had opened a door that could never be closed again, and San knew, deep down, that the path ahead was more treacherous than he had ever imagined. There was no turning back now. 

All those gestures initially meant to serve only to gain Wooyoung’s trust, to draw him closer, had begun to source from the bottom of San’s heart - he had started to mean every touch, to long for them. He reveled in the touch of Wooyoung’s skin against his, and craved the undeniable heat between their bodies whenever they were close. What was once calculated and deliberate actions meant to get him near Wooyoung, had turned into a tangled web of his own desires that San could no longer deny. He craved Wooyoung.

It started innocently enough, or so he tried to convince himself. But as the days stretched into weeks, San could no longer ignore the way his pulse quickened when Wooyoung pulled him into an embrace, feeling him melt against his touch, San felt himself falter. Wooyoung had a way of holding him - softly, yet with a sense of security that made San’s chest tighten. Those brief, stolen moments in the quiet of their chamber left San wanting more.

Neither of them had been bold enough to revisit the intensity of that first kiss. San found himself seeking any excuse to be close to Wooyoung, brushing his knuckles across his cheek, or pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips when they bid each other goodnight. Wooyoung’s lips would curve into a soft smile, his little giggle warming San’s heart and San could only believe in the fantasy of a future where he wasn’t poisoning the man that had started to mean so much to him. 

He wanted to lose himself in it, to forget, even for a moment the guilt, the poison, and the lies. But every night, that dream shattered as he reached for the vial of poison hidden in his pocket.

Each time he poured a measured dose into Wooyoung’s tea he felt like a knife was being twisted deeper into his own heart. He wasn’t just killing Wooyoung - he was killing the part of himself that had started to love his husband. 

He was torn between duty and love.

But time was relentless - time didn’t ask or wait. 

And the vial of poison was already a quarter empty.

…

He stood silently in the corner, blending seamlessly into the shadows as if he were one of them - unseen, unheard, a mere ghost in the dimly lit room. The flickering torchlight painted warm tones on the stone walls, casting shadows across San’s face, highlighting his movements. 

But it did not reach the one who observed from the darkness. He had learned long ago how to vanish in plain sight, how to make himself invisible in the palace that had become a prison of secrets. Tension coiled in his chest as he watched San, his every nerve on edge.

Since that fateful evening, when he had first caught sight of San pouring something into Wooyoung's tea, suspicion had wrapped around him like a second skin. It wasn’t just paranoia - something was wrong. 

Why was San hiding something? And, more importantly, what was it? The stakes were high - Wooyoung’s safety was at risk and he needed to find out the truth.

His breath barely stirred the air as he remained perfectly still, watching, waiting. San moved with caution, scanning the room. For a moment, his heart hammered in his chest as San’s gaze seemed to sweep his way, but the shadows held him, cloaking him in invisibility. 

Satisfied that he was alone, San’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly. With a practiced motion, he reached into his pocket. His hand reemerged holding a small vial. The flicker of the torchlight caught the glint of glass for a brief moment. His view was obstructed as San’s cloak shifted, blocking part of the scene. 

But then, he saw enough. San’s hand tipped, and whatever liquid was in the vial was dosed into the tea. He watched as San straightened up, slipping the vial back into his pocket.

San took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and picked up the cup of tea. 

…

Tangled up in the bedsheets, San savored the calmness that had settled between them. Since he and Wooyoung had drawn closer, mornings had become his favorite part of the day. The moments before the world woke up, before duty called, were theirs alone - quiet, warm, and peaceful. 

The cold bite of November gave them the perfect excuse to linger beneath the heavy blankets, tangled up in each other. Getting out of bed had become an art of procrastination. 

This morning, like many before it, neither of them was in a hurry. The day was free, a rare gift. Wooyoung had even informed the servants last night not to bring breakfast to their chambers as they usually did. Instead, they had the luxury of deciding when to leave the comfort of their bed and head to the dining room - whenever they felt like it.

Wooyoung, lying beside San, shifted in the sheets. His body rolled toward San, turning so that they faced each other, though his eyes were still closed. Wooyoung’s hand found its way around San’s waist, pulling him closer in a lazy embrace, as he nestled his face into the warmth of San’s chest. 

“Good morning,” San murmured quietly, pressing his lips gently against the top of Wooyoung’s head. He could feel the warmth of his husband's breath against his skin, though no answer came. 

“I know you’re awake,” San teased, his fingers gently brushing the curve of Wooyoung’s hip before resting his hand there. His breathing pattern gave him out, clearly signaling that he wasn't asleep anymore.

“No, I'm not,” Wooyoung mumbled, barely audible.

Remaining tucked into San’s body, seemingly determined to ignore him, San could almost feel the ghost of Wooyoung’s smirk imprinting on his chest.

“Oh, so this is how we’re playing now?” San whispered, amusement threading his voice. His hand slowly traveled from Wooyoung’s hip to his ribs, lifting the edge of his nightshirt along the way, revealing the soft skin of his abdomen. Wooyoung’s breath hitched in response but still, his eyes remained closed, a stubborn display of resistance. San's fingers brushed the fragment of exposed skin, erupting waves of goosebumps wherever he touched.

San couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. His husband was far too stubborn for his own good.

Leaning in close, San brought his lips to Wooyoung’s ear, letting his breath ghost across the sensitive skin. Wooyoung shivered slightly, though he still made no sound.

“What a shame...” San purred softly before his fingers began to tickle Wooyoung’s exposed ribs. The reaction was immediate. Wooyoung’s entire body jerked, twisting in an attempt to escape the ticklish assault.

Laughter exploded from him, high-pitched and breathless as he squirmed beneath San’s hands. He writhed in the bed, gasping for air between bouts of laughter, unable to hold back any longer.

“S-stop!” Wooyoung managed to wheeze between laughs, trying desperately to pry San’s hands away, but to no avail. His legs kicked out beneath the blankets, sheets tangling around their bodies as he struggled to escape.

San couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. Wooyoung’s laughter was infectious, and the way his face lit up when he smiled made San’s heart soar. His cheeks were flushed with gold tint, eyes scrunched up into crescent moons. It was a sight San had come to treasure. Wooyoung’s playful, carefree spirit shone through, and San found himself completely lost in it.

“It’s not fair!” Wooyoung cried out between giggles, gasping for air as San’s fingers continued their merciless attack. “As king, I order you to stop!”

San only laughed, his own voice filled with teasing delight. “Oh, darling, we seem to have a little conflict of interest here. You just have to give up and I’ll stop.”

Still breathless with laughter, Wooyoung finally managed to squirm free, rolling onto his back in defeat. “Okay! Okay, I give up!” His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, cheeks flushed. His eyes were still crinkled with amusement, though, a smile painted his face beautifully.

San rolled over beside him, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at his husband. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Wooyoung’s forehead.

"It was a cheap victory, and you know it!" Wooyoung muttered, his voice still laced with breathless laughter. He glanced up at San, eyes filled with a soft light.

"Cheap? I would rather call it strategic."

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, though his smile only deepened. "Phew, strategic. My ass! Sleep with one eye open, I won’t let that slip easily." He slowly intertwined his fingers with San’s, drawing his husband’s hand to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss on the golden wedding band wrapped around San's finger. "Good morning to you too." 

San chuckled, "You’re really going to plot my downfall over a tickling match?" 

"Absolutely," Wooyoung replied with mock seriousness.

“You don’t really sound threatening right now,” San hummed. “Maybe you should do something about your morning hair first.”

Wooyoung gasped dramatically, playfully slapping San’s chest. “Aish! As if you look better yourself!”

“Don’t I?” San grinned, raising an eyebrow. Wooyoung’s eyes scanned him over, squinting as though trying to find some flaw to point out

His husband flustered visibly, averting his gaze and clearing his throat. “You and those damn dimples,” Wooyoung muttered, shaking his head. “You’re too cocky this early in the morning.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” San looked down at their tangled hand, thumb grazing over Wooyoung’s knuckles tenderly. “Do you have any plans for today?” 

“I’ve been thinking…”

“It’s a good start.”

"San!" With a half-scolding, half-adoring tone, Wooyoung huffed. 

San chuckled, wrapping one arm around Wooyoung and pulling him closer. “I’m sorry, continue,” he said, leaving a soft kiss on the top of Wooyoung’s head.

“As I was saying… I’ve been thinking about the fact that I’ve never visited our subjects. I’ve never been to the poor districts. You know, those on the outskirts of the capital. What kind of king am I if I don’t even know how my own people live?”

San listened, holding him tightly in reassurement.

“I want to make a change for them.” Wooyoung's tone changed from playful to thoughtful.

“I know,” San said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He could feel his heart beating - not with happiness, but reminding him of the stigma tainting his soul. Once again, cruel reality hit him in the softness of the moment - Wooyoung was nothing like his father.

“Let’s go to them. Let’s finally leave this palace and show them that I’m more than just a king waving orders from a throne. I want to give them hope, San. Hell, I want to give them happiness.” As he spoke, Wooyoung turned again, shifting in the bed until they were face to face, their eyes locked in a gaze so deep it felt like the world had stopped moving. 

San’s heart stuttered in his chest, beating in a new rhythm, one dictated by Wooyoung’s presence. Wooyoung’s vulnerability and earnest desire to be a better ruler shone so brightly in that moment that it nearly broke San.

Wooyoung’s soft, beautiful expression, so open and unguarded, seemed to shout at San without words:

I love you. I want you. I trust you.

And it tore San apart.

“I don’t want them to see my father and his flaws in me, I want them to see me , for who I really am.” San’s chest tightened at that, tears of guilt filling up his eyes. That simple plea struck San right in the heart. He hated himself for everything he was doing.   

He wanted to scream, to confess, to beg Wooyoung for forgiveness for what he had put him through. But he couldn’t. He was too far gone, lost in the lies, tangled in their fate, and torn by the love that had blossomed against all odds.

He was so lost. So goddamn lost. 

He did the first thing he could think of - cupping Wooyoung’s cheek he pulled him closer into a tender kiss. His lips were so soft and warm, a quiet gasp of surprise left Wooyoung but in an instant - he melted right into San’s touch.

San poured all of his sincerity into that kiss, as though laying his heart bare on the open palm of his hand. He wasn’t kissing Wooyoung to distract him, to keep him from seeing the lies that lingered between them. He kissed him because he needed it - because he had been thinking about Wooyoung’s lips every night since that first kiss two weeks ago.

Wooyoung’s hand slipped to rest at the curve of San’s waist, pulling him closer as he kissed him back with a fervor that matched San’s intensity. 

“I take it you like the idea?” Wooyoung giggled when they broke apart. 

“I do.” Wooyoung’s fingers delicately danced across San’s cheek, caressing him where his dimples appeared. “But maybe not today.”

“Why?” San tilted his head toward the window, where heavy clouds obscured the sky, darkening the world around them. The rain tapped rhythmically against the glass. “Oh,” Wooyoung said, as if just now snapping out of their shared love bubble, finally noticing the world outside.

“But we will go there, eventually. Maybe not today but I’d be happy to go there with you.”

Wooyoung stretched, his joints cracking a little. “So what will we be doing today?”

San pretended to think, though his mind was already set on a particular idea. “What do you say to a chance at a rematch?”

“A rematch?” Wooyoung's eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to train,” San replied with a playful glint in his eye. “I thought maybe you’d be up for a little sparring? You promised me one a while ago.”

Wooyoung’s lips curled into a grin, "I did, didn't I?"

“We’d better get ready and eat some breakfast then.” 

Wooyoung clasped San tighter, quietly muttering, “Five more minutes.” And San caved in. On top of that, he didn’t even complain when those five minutes turned into nearly another half an hour of cuddling. He could stay there forever.

…

Right after breakfast, Jongho and Yunho joined them. All four of them were already dressed in training attire - sleeveless tunics allowing for free movement. They stayed indoors, in the training hall, which had been purposely left empty for the next few hours by the Kings’ orders. For the time being, it was just their small group. The hall itself was a spacious chamber adorned with worn weapons, training dummies, and sanded floors.

The atmosphere was light-hearted - something about training allowed them to shed the formalities of royal duty and simply enjoy the thrill of competition and camaraderie. The laughter between them was frequent, blending seamlessly with the sound of clashing weapons. Wooyoung couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun, despite the exhaustion creeping in after the warm-up and a brief sparring session with Jongho. 

He felt the adrenaline coursing through his body, quickening his heartbeat and breath. His mind buzzed with a quiet hum - uninterrupted, blissful calm that gave him a moment of peace. The usual worries and stresses were drowned out by the rhythmic pounding of his heartbeat, the sound of wood meeting wood, and the occasional grunt or laugh from his friends.

He and San were currently sitting on the sidelines, watching the match between Jongho and Yunho. Wooyoung’s gaze kept drifting to the muscles of his husband sitting beside him (you really can’t blame him). Along with the physical exertion, San’s well-toned physique was even more noticeable. Every now and then, Wooyoung would catch the rise and fall of San’s chest as he took in steady breaths, relaxed watching the match before him.

Wooyoung couldn’t help but admire him, the lines of his jaw, the freckles adorning his neck, the subtle dip where his collarbone met his shoulder. His husband was sexy, and with his hair slightly tousled from training and wet from the sweat, there was a rawness to him that filled Wooyoung with want.

Wooyoung could feel the anticipation building inside him, excited yet nervous at the thought of facing San next, even though part of him was terrified. After all, San had won the Tournament, he was no easy opponent by any means.

Jongho stood victorious in the center of the hall, his wooden sword pointed at Yunho’s chest in a final, decisive strike. Yunho, breathing heavily, raised his hands in surrender, his own sword lying discarded a few feet away. 

San stood up, offering his hand to Wooyoung. “Would you like to dance?”

“You hate dancing,” Wooyoung reminded him, but he still reached for San’s hand, letting himself be pulled onto the training ground.

“You’re right.” San smiled, his dimples making a full appearance - those damn dimples again. He reached over to the weapon rack, grabbing two bō staffs and handing one to Wooyoung. “But this dance is a little more in my style. Though, I might have liked dancing the waltz with you.”

“It’s an honor, Your Highness.” Wooyoung mockingly bowed before him, taking his position opposite San. “It will be an even greater honor to defeat you.”

“I don’t falter easily.” San bowed back, his tone smug, eyes glinting with playful challenge.

They both settled into their stances, and Wooyoung didn’t hesitate before lunging forward, aiming for San’s side, but San quickly blocked the attack, the sound of wood striking wood echoing through the hall. The force of the clash reverberated through Wooyoung’s arm, but he grinned, feeling the rush of adrenaline spike again.

San moved with an agility that Wooyoung had never encountered in any opponent. The training ground was like a second home for him, and the bō staff seemed like an extension of his body. San spun his staff with ease, delivering a strike from the side and immediately following up with an overhead attack. Wooyoung barely managed to block each blow in time.

"Come on," San teased, his voice dripping with playful confidence. "Is that the best you’ve got?"

Wooyoung huffed, grinning through his exhaustion. "Not even close." But despite his words, he found himself retreating, dangerously close to the line marking the edge of the designated combat area. His breath quickened, the sensation of impending defeat creeping in.

Meanwhile, San looked as though he was just getting warmed up. His arm muscles worked with a relentless intensity, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, and his pupils were dilated, twinkling with the thrill. San was back in his element, and Wooyoung knew that despite years of practice, there was no way he could physically overpower him.

So he resorted to a little trickery.

San, though clearly holding the upper hand, was calculating each move carefully, deliberately avoiding any strikes that could seriously hurt Wooyoung. On one hand, it touched Wooyoung, but on the other, it opened up an opportunity - a chance for a sly move.

Waiting for just the right moment when San aimed his next strike, Wooyoung deliberately didn’t block it. The bō staff connected with his arm, sending a brief jolt of pain through his body, but just as he’d guessed, San hadn’t struck with full force. It was more of a light tap than a real hit.

“Ouch!” Wooyoung exclaimed dramatically, curling inward slightly, though he didn’t drop his weapon. He lowered his gaze, pretending to collect himself.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” San rushed forward, concern flashing in his eyes. “ Let me take a look.” But before he could make another move, Wooyoung seized the opportunity. Straightening up in one swift motion, he disarmed San, knocking the bō cleanly out of his hands. With another quick strike, he swept San’s legs from under him, forcing him down onto his knees.

San knelt before him, shock and disbelief etched across his handsome features. For a moment, neither of them spoke. San’s chest rose and fell with his breath as he tried to process what had just happened.

Then, slowly, recognition crept in, and his lips curled into a devilish smirk. He tilted his head back slightly, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as they locked onto Wooyoung’s. "That was a dirty play," he muttered, his voice a low rumble, but there was no anger in it - only playful admiration.

Wooyoung tossed his bō staff aside without a second thought. The wooden weapon clattered to the floor, but his attention never wavered from San, still kneeling in front of him. "I’d rather call it strategic ," Wooyoung said recalling the morning’s events, with a smirk mirroring San’s own. 

A thrill ran through his veins, a crackle of energy that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the fight. He felt a spark of excitement run through his body - perhaps it was the rush of winning - feeling the sweet taste of victory. But it was more than that. It was deeper, darker, and undeniably sinful. The way San knelt there before him sparked something in Wooyoung that was hard to ignore.

Wooyoung stepped forward, closing the gap between them, his eyes never leaving San’s. His pulse quickened, blood rushing through his veins. His gaze trailed downward, drinking in the sight of his husband, sweat-slicked and panting from their sparring. The way San’s shirt clung to his sculpted chest and abs, wet from exertion, made Wooyoung’s throat go dry. His body ached with a need he couldn’t explain, desire surging through him.

Without thinking, Wooyoung reached out, his fingers lightly brushing along San’s jawline. He gripped San’s chin, tilting his head upward, forcing him to look directly into his eyes. With a firm but controlled touch, he twisted San’s chin to the side, exposing the long, elegant line of his neck. Wooyoung marveled at the sight - San’s pulse beating rapidly beneath the freckled skin, his throat glistening with the sheen of sweat.

It was a display of dominance and the thrill of it - of having San kneeling before him, willingly submitting - was intoxicating. The heat in his abdomen was blossoming and spreading rapidly. His skin tingled, desire thrumming in his veins, his body reacting in ways he hadn’t anticipated. As Wooyoung wet his lips, the taste of salt lingered, and his mouth practically watered at the thought of tracing his tongue along the curve of San’s neck, tasting the sweat, feeling the warmth of his skin.

The heat in the pit of his stomach intensified, a throbbing sensation making its way lower, and Wooyoung could feel the tightness building in his pants, his arousal undeniable. Every inch of him burned with the need to touch, to take, to claim what was his. He tried to suppress it, to fight against the flood of lust that washed over him, but there was no denying it. San drove him absolutely crazy, especially like this.

San didn’t resist. In fact, the way he looked up at Wooyoung - his lips slightly parted, his breath coming in shallow gasps - told him everything he needed to know. San was just as consumed by this moment, by this hunger that had taken hold of them both. Entirely, lost in each other’s gravity.

Before Wooyoung could even fully register what was happening they were back in their shared chambers, the world outside the door a distant memory. San didn’t hesitate for a second. The moment the door clicked shut, Wooyoung found himself slammed against it, his back hitting the wood with a dull thud. San’s hands were firm, almost possessive, gripping his hips with a force that sent a shockwave of pleasure through him. His fingers dug into Wooyoung’s sides, anchoring him in place as their bodies collided.

The sweat from their training had made their clothes cling to their skin, damp fabric sticking uncomfortably in some places, but the friction it caused only added to the intensity of the moment. Their chests were pressed together, their breaths mingling, heat radiating from their bodies. The raw energy between them burned with urgency, and it set Wooyoung’s nerves alight. His entire body buzzed with anticipation, every inch of him straining for more - more touch, more heat, more of San.

Despite having Wooyoung pinned to the door, San didn’t rush into action. Instead, he lingered, his gaze boring into Wooyoung’s with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. The weight of San’s body pressed against him, his breath hot on Wooyoung’s skin, made every second feel excruciatingly slow. Wooyoung burned with need, begging to be unleashed.

“Am I finally going to get what I deserve?” Wooyoung asked, his voice breathless, his hands sliding up to thread through San’s damp hair. He tugged lightly, pulling San’s head closer, their faces mere inches apart, their lips almost brushing when speaking. 

San’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “And what would that be?”

Wooyoung grinned, his fingers tightening in San’s hair. “A kiss for my victory.”

San chuckled, the sound low and rough, sending a wave of heat straight to Wooyoung’s core. “You fought dirty,” he said in a lower tone as he leaned in, his lips ghosting over the skin of Wooyoung’s neck. “I’m not sure you deserve a reward.”

The tease in San’s tone and actions made Wooyoung’s body tremble. “San…” Wooyoung almost whimpered, his voice shaking, his need evident in the way his hips shifted, seeking friction. He could feel San’s arousal pressing right against his, hard and insistent, and it sent a bolt of pleasure straight through him. He was aching, throbbing with the need for release.

Without thinking, Wooyoung began to grind his hips against San’s in a slow, deliberate motion that drew a sharp intake of breath from both of them. San’s fingers tightened on his hips, gripping him harder. For a moment, San paused, his breath ragged and uneven.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Wooyoung whispered, cupping San’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over San’s cheeks. But the hazy look in San’s eyes was clear - he was just as far gone as Wooyoung, lost in the moment, drunk with the need. San didn’t need to say a word. His eyes said it all - he wanted this just as much.

“Don't stop,” San surged forward, capturing Wooyoung’s lips in a desperate kiss. The force of it made Wooyoung gasp, and he was pushed harder against the door, his back arching as San’s body pressed against his. 

San’s tongue traced the seam of Wooyoung’s lips before slipping inside, deepening the kiss with a raw intensity that made Wooyoung’s head spin. He had never felt anything like this before - definitely not with the First Lady, like he had been expected to. Maybe Yeosang had been right all along. Maybe there was nothing wrong with him, he just needed to find the right person to unleash these feelings.

“San…” Wooyoung whispered, his voice shaky, as he pulled back slightly, a string of saliva still connecting their lips. Desperately, he ground his erection against San’s, feeling a rush of satisfaction when San’s jaw clenched at the sound of his name. Wooyoung felt like a reckless teenager lost in his fantasies, shamelessly surrendering to his desire, now that he was rutting against his husband.

But when San’s lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, Wooyoung stopped caring about how desperate he was. A loud, shameless moan escaped him, so raw and pornographic that it made him blush, but he couldn’t control it. San’s lips traveled downward, biting and sucking at his skin, careful not to leave any visible marks.

However, when San’s mouth reached his collarbones, normally hidden by clothing, all restraint seemed to vanish. San didn’t hold back anymore. The pressure of his lips and teeth was relentless, leaving Wooyoung squirming, his movements becoming erratic and uncoordinated as San harshly sucked on his skin, leaving a mark that would adorn his skin for days.

San pulled away briefly, taking a moment to admire his work, watching the mark bloom in rich shades of gold and brown, where Wooyoung’s skin had been irritated and bruised. “Say my name again,” San commanded as he dove back in, this time attacking Wooyoung’s chest with the same fervor.

“S-San—ngh…” Wooyoung’s voice broke as he tried to speak, barely able to form coherent words anymore. His mind was hazy, floating in a euphoric haze, completely detached from everything around him except for the blissful sensations radiating from San’s touch. It felt heavenly, overwhelming him completely.

Wooyoung was losing all sense of control. His hips moved of their own accord, grinding harder against San, friction between their bodies building to an unbearable intensity. The way San’s length pressed against him, how their hips collided only heightened Wooyoung’s desperation.

“San… please…” he whimpered, his voice strained with need. San’s name left his lips like a prayer. Wooyoung’s hands found their way into San’s hair, gripping tightly and pulling at the strands.

Each thrust, each grind of their bodies brought him closer, and closer to the edge. His body was shaking, sweat clinging to his skin, heat pooling low in his abdomen. 

“I- I’m gonna-” Wooyoung gasped, his voice breaking as his body tensed, desire coiling tighter and tighter inside him. His movements became more erratic, uncontrollable, hips bucking desperately against San, chasing that sweet relief.

San, sensing how close Wooyoung was, leaned in, lips brushing against Wooyoung’s ear. “Let go,” he whispered, voice thick with authority, and that was all it took.

Wooyoung’s body convulsed, and with a choked cry of San’s name, he came undone. The orgasm tore through him with a force that left him breathless, a wave of overwhelming pleasure that made his entire body tremble. His vision blurred, heart racing in his chest, as the heat flooded through his veins, pleasure washing over him in relentless, shuddering waves. His hands clutched desperately at San, nails digging into his back as his hips jerked uncontrollably, riding out the overwhelming sensation.

San’s body remained pressed against his, strong and steady, as Wooyoung shattered against him. As the aftershocks rippled through his body, Wooyoung slumped against the door, breathless, chest heaving, completely spent and drunk with the intensity of pleasure. He could feel the material of his pants sticking uncomfortably with come, looking down he snapped out of the haze, realizing that San was still hard.

“How do you want me to…” Wooyoung’s voice trailed off as he tried to gather his thoughts, his body still feeling the lingering effects of his orgasm. He was eager to repay the pleasure San had given him. Wooyoung licked his lips, waiting for San to give him direction, wanting to know how he could satisfy him.

But San simply smiled, his gaze softening as he looked down at Wooyoung. “You’re still trembling,” he noted gently, his hand sliding up to brush away the sweat-dampened fringe that had fallen over Wooyoung’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung insisted. “I just need a moment, and then I can-”

“Shh,” San interrupted softly, silencing him with a soft kiss. “We don’t have to rush. We don’t have to dive in too deep right away. Let’s get changed, clean up, and rest for now.”

Wooyoung bit his lip, feeling a little embarrassed. “But you…” Wooyoung began, his voice quieter. “I mean, I want to make you feel good, too.”

San’s lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Wooyoung’s forehead. “And you did,” he murmured against his skin.

Wooyoung closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, letting the feeling of San’s lips linger on his skin. He felt like he was melting, his heart swelling with affection - feeling more vulnerable than ever.

San pulled back slightly, just enough to look into Wooyoung’s eyes. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” San whispered.

…

The unrelenting autumn rain, mocking their patience, clung stubbornly to the kingdom for several more days. San spent the days listening to the steady drumming of raindrops against the palace windows and the sight of Wooyoung pacing around, excitement etched across his face, though growing more frustrated with each passing hour. San watched him closely, noting how Wooyoung threw himself into the preparation for their visit to the poorer districts. 

It was a mission Wooyoung had taken to heart, and every detail mattered to him. He constantly inquired with the palace scholars, asking when the rain might let up so they could carry out their plans. The answer was always remained the same:

“We’re not certain, Your Majesty. It should stop within the next few days, but we can’t be sure…”

It gnawed at Wooyoung, who each evening would come to their chambers with plans still fresh on his mind. He spoke to San excitedly about the bread that would be baked, the preserves the palace cooks had prepared - each jar of jam to be distributed to the townsfolk. 

His voice would brighten as he shared details about the construction of the new temple. San listened attentively, even though he had attended the same council meetings and was fully aware of the progress. But it made Wooyoung happy, so he stayed by his side, nodding at every excited remark, sharing in his husband’s enthusiasm.

It was in moments like these that San realized how much Wooyoung had blossomed since he met him. Freed from the weight of his father’s expectations and the oppressive memories of his past, Wooyoung was flourishing. San couldn’t help but marvel at him, watching his husband’s spirit bloom like the first flowers of spring. 

Yet San felt bitter, thinking how those flowers would likely never see the summer. The poison was slow-acting, subtly, not leaving any trace. No bruises, no fatigue, not even the faintest sign of illness. It was perfect in its silence, but it was working according to plan.

Finally, in the second week of November, the rain eased. The sky cleared, revealing a crisp, cloudless sky. The trees, now bare of their leaves, stood stark against the landscape, with only the evergreens adding any color to the muted scenery. As dawn broke, Wooyoung rose with boundless energy. He practically bounced around their chambers, eager to begin the day and San found himself smiling, watching his husband’s childlike excitement with amusement. However, as soon as they stepped out into the palace hallways, Wooyoung’s demeanor changed into the cool grace and poise of a king. Yet San, walking beside him, knew that underneath that regal exterior, Wooyoung’s heart was still racing with excitement.

His suspicions were confirmed during the carriage ride into the city. Seated beside him, Wooyoung’s knee bounced with nervous energy, tapping a restless rhythm against the floor of the carriage. The two of them were surrounded by their guard, a silent yet imposing presence, while another carriage followed behind, laden with food and supplies for the people. 

Every now and then, Wooyoung would peek out from behind the curtain, the golden light of the early morning sun casting a soft glow over his features, highlighting the depth of his dark eyes. San, watching him with affection, reached out and gently took Wooyoung’s hand, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it.

“I’m really happy we’re doing this,” San said.

“Me too. I’m so nervous, though,” Wooyoung admitted with a chuckle.

“You have no reason to be. I’m sure they’ll love you.” San smiled.

It was impossible not to love you , he thought.

Ahead of their arrival, a royal messenger had ridden into the town to announce the coming of their Kings. Dressed in elaborate red robes adorned with gold, the messenger’s arrival had been marked by the sound of a trumpet, drawing the townsfolk from their homes. Hesitant and wary, the people emerged, watching from the doorways and windows as the royal carriage approached.

“People of the Kingdom of Crescent!” the messenger’s voice boomed across the streets. “By the grace of the Almighty Eclipse and their brilliant light, your merciful rulers, His Majesty King Wooyoung and His Majesty King San, approach your gates! They, chosen by the divine, descend today to visit their loyal subjects!”

San couldn’t help but stifle a small laugh at the speech - it was all a bit too grandiose for his liking, he could never get used to that. But when the carriage came to a stop and the doors opened, they stepped into the open square, the townspeople gathered cautiously, forming a hesitant crowd. There was an air of disbelief among them - royalty rarely, if ever, came to their part of the kingdom.

Wooyoung’s eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on a small boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirt. The woman looked uncertain, her gaze flicking nervously between her child and the two kings standing before her. Without hesitation, Wooyoung knelt down to the boy’s level, offering a warm smile that immediately softened the tense atmosphere.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Wooyoung said gently, holding out a small bundle of bread and jam. The boy, no older than five, hesitated before taking the offering with wide eyes, quickly retreating behind his mother’s skirt again.

“Hanjae, what do you say?” the mother prompted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Th-thank you,” the boy stammered, his small voice trembling with nerves.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the mother quickly added, bowing deeply.

Wooyoung’s smile only widened as he remained crouched before them. “My pleasure,” he replied softly, his tone warm and genuine.

Gradually, more children began to gather around Wooyoung, their initial shyness fading away. Some were bolder, tugging at the edges of his robe or giggling as they peeked out from behind their parents. Wooyoung engaged with each of them, his heart wide open, offering food and gentle words to every child who approached. 

The sight of their king laughing and playing with the children quickly drew a larger crowd. Parents, at first hesitant, soon found themselves smiling at the sight of their sovereign in the midst of their little ones. The air began to lighten with laughter.

San, meanwhile, busied himself with distributing food, his heart swelling with pride as he caught glimpses of Wooyoung through the crowd. The silver-blooded townsfolk often overlooked by the Crown looked at San with gratitude in their eyes, glistening with tears. For many of them, this was the first time they had experienced such care from their rulers. They had long since given up on the idea that those in power would ever truly see them.

From a distance, San watched his husband, his chest tightening with emotion. Wooyoung stood among the children, his face radiant, his laughter blending with theirs. It was a sight that nearly overwhelmed San with joy. His heart ached in the best possible way, filled with a love so deep it felt like it might consume him. Wooyoung, surrounded by the innocent laughter of children, looked breathtaking. His giggles, so familiar to San, echoed through the square, filling the air with warmth. And with every laugh, San’s heart beat a little faster.

After an entire day spent among the people, San felt energized, fueled with the desire to serve, to lead with purpose. Being among the people reminded him of his former purpose: to bring joy to his subjects, to uplift them from their struggles - however the sight of Wooyoung interacting with their people, how naturally he connected with them, had stirred something deeper in San. He realized with a growing unease that Wooyoung, in fact, had the power to bring them joy in a way that San himself sometimes doubted he could.

Even though they shared the same facial features - the same proud nose, the same imperceptible droop of one eyelid, the same cheeky grin - Wooyoung was nothing like his father. Wooyoung had a heart. Wooyoung’s soul was open, his compassion for their people boundless. He saw them not as mere subjects, but as individuals, each with their own hopes, dreams, and struggles. 

Wooyoung had a heart that he’d exposed so fully today, kneeling down in the dirt beside children, laughing with them, offering them food with his own hands. It wasn’t just a gesture of charity - it was an act of love, deep care. For the first time, these silver-blooded people were truly seen. Not as tools or as labor, but as equals - as humans. San had stood in awe of Wooyoung throughout the day, watching as his husband helped a baker, his fine royal robes dusted with flour, smiling as if he had been born to work among the people. He’d marveled at how Wooyoung visited the elderly in their homes, kneeling by their bedsides, speaking with them like old friends. San couldn’t help but be enchanted.

Wooyoung had a heart. 

And San was scared. He was scared because he knew he was the one entrusted with that heart - and he knew that he would be the one to destroy it. 

As night fell, the warmth and light of the day began to fade, and with it, San’s joy. The laughter of the children, the smiles of the townspeople - they all seemed so distant now. Exhaustion crept into his bones, but it was not just the physical toll of the day - it was the weight of his thoughts - voices in his head that he couldn’t silence. He hadn’t realized it at first - when the shift had occurred, when the joy had turned into something bitter. But it had happened nonetheless.

The townspeople prepared a bonfire in their honor, a gesture of gratitude for the kings who had spent the day among them, San’s heart began to pound in his chest. At first, he didn’t register what was happening - until it was too late. He stood beside Wooyoung, with Yunho and Jongho flanking them, watching as the torch was brought forward to light the pyre of sticks and logs. The flames sprang to life immediately, bright and fierce, illuminating the night with a sharp, blinding glow.

San’s eyes locked onto the fire, his breath catching in his throat. The flames danced before him, ravenous and wild, and in them, he saw something he hadn’t seen in years. His pupils dilated, his heart racing uncontrollably. The smell of the smoke filled his nostrils, and suddenly, it wasn’t just a bonfire anymore. It was the past. 

His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest tightening as the memories overwhelmed him. He could hear the crackling of the wood, the flames licking the air hungrily - his mind spiraling further into the past. He could smell the acrid scent of burning flesh. His body moved instinctively, stepping back from the fire, his feet stumbled over the uneven cobblestones, and he nearly fell, catching himself at the last moment.

He felt the eyes of the townspeople on him, their whispers carried by the wind, but their words barely registered in his mind. 

"San? San, are you alright?"

The voice came from somewhere nearby, but it felt distant. He knew the voice, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t focus on who it belonged to. His eyes remained fixed on the fire. His father’s words vibrated through his skull - ‘I’ll be back soon, little one. I just need to save your mother. Wait for us here. I promise we’ll come back together.’ 

He had lied. His father had lied. He had left San behind, alone. 

His senses were dulled, and he couldn’t breathe anymore. And he did the only thing he could think of - which was to run. His legs carried him away from the bonfire, away from the fire that had reignited his trauma. His vision blurred with tears, and he didn’t know where he was going - only that he had to get away. As far away as possible. His lungs burned with every breath, but no matter how far he ran, he couldn’t escape the past.

Behind him, Yunho had followed, never leaving San’s side since the moment he began to spiral in his own mind. Yunho’s voice called out to him, but San couldn’t hear it clearly. All he could hear was the crackling of the fire, the sound of his own ragged breathing, and the memories that flooded his mind.

San finally collapsed onto the ground, his body giving out as he sobbed uncontrollably. His vision swam with tears, his heart pounding in his chest, and all he could think about was the fire, the lies, the pain.

And then, through the haze of his mind, he felt someone near him. Soft hands cupped his face, pulling him back to the present.

“I’m here, Sannie.”

Wooyoung’s voice was soft, steady. His face appeared before San, his expression full of concern and love. San’s sobs grew more violent, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched onto Wooyoung, as though his husband were the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Wooyoung pulled off his coat, wrapping it around San’s trembling body. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, his voice tender as he tried to comfort his husband. San cried harder, unable to stop the flood of emotions that had overtaken him.

“I’m here, love. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Wooyoung didn’t ask for an explanation, didn’t pry into the reasons behind San’s breakdown. He simply knelt beside him, holding him tightly, his robes dirtied by the cold, damp ground, though he didn’t seem to care.

“You’re not alone, San.”

Wooyoung’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him into the warmth of his body, gently stroking San’s hair. San let himself fall into the embrace, burying his face against Wooyoung’s chest. He could hear the steady beat of his husband’s heart, the sound grounding him in the present.

Wooyoung’s heart - so soft, so caring. So full of love.

…

That night, San didn’t prepare the deadly mixture for Wooyoung - instead, he made his favorite tea - mango and strawberry flavored - without any poison.

That same night, the moon shone extraordinarily bright in the sky.

…

Dull, endless winter evenings passed one after another as the kingdom waited for the sun to rise fully again. It barely broke the horizon before slipping back beneath it, leaving the world in a constant state of twilight and casting an almost dreamlike pall over the land. Each day was getting shorter than the previous one, embracing their world in the darkness of the nighttime. The nobles occupied their time with preparations for the grand spring ball - meant to be a celebration of new hope and renewal. The nobles’ love for feasts was no secret, and San wasn’t surprised when he first overheard servants whispering about the plans for yet another event. 

For San, though, it was all beginning to feel like an endless loop. Another grand celebration, another set of fittings, another round of rehearsed dances in the hall. Though there were still several weeks until the celebration, the servants’ murmurs grew louder by the day as they speculated about the spectacle it would be – this year, even grander, with the new pair of kings. And while the nobles were preoccupied with dreams of lavish gowns and endless feasts, San’s thoughts were weighed down by more pressing matters. Day by day, the stores in the pantry dwindled, and the barren winter prevented them from sowing any new crops. The endless frost meant no reprieve and even the hardiest winter vegetables could not be coaxed to grow in such unyielding ground.

The kingdom lay wrapped in a soft veil of snow, the first flakes falling quietly from the sky to cover the earth in a white layer. It was as if the heavens themselves wished to cradle the land in a moment of peace. Under the hush of winter, everything seemed suspended in time - a gentle silence broken only by the occasional crunch of footsteps in the snow.

Children, blissfully unaware of the worries that plagued the adults, filled the streets and fields with laughter. They ran with boundless energy, clothed in warm coats, their voices ringing out through the crisp winter air as they flung snowballs at one another or gathered snow to build snowmen. Frost painted their cheeks in warm shades of gold, their faces radiant against the cold. Some, with skin touched by the faintest hues of silver, looked ethereal under the winter sky, as if the frost itself had kissed them. 

The kings did everything in their power to assure their people that all was under control - that there was no need to worry. The stockpiles farmers had worked so hard to gather during the harvest were carefully inventoried. If the winter lasted as expected and the spring arrived on time, bringing new life to the land, they would have just enough to sustain the kingdom. Yet, they did not have the luxury of certainty that the famine would draw back. 

The best they could do now was wait, hope, and pray that the abundance would come back with spring. But hope, like the snow beneath their feet, was fragile.

There was, however, a flicker of hope - livestock, which had been mysteriously dying throughout the autumn, had ceased to perish. The sudden halt brought a sigh of relief, even if the cause remained unknown. At least, for now, there was no pressing need to worry about the animals. As for the crops, they could only wait until the thaw to see if the ground would be fertile again.

Amidst the walls of the palace, something began to crack within San. His unwavering resolve, once as solid as ice, had begun to melt. From the moment when he for the first time had skipped adding dosage of poison to his husband’s tea, he felt a change. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift in his heart, but it was there - he sensed the weight of his burden lighten, as if chains he hadn’t known existed were loosening. He felt... free. Free from the darkness that had been slowly consuming him since the moment he had agreed to this twisted plan.

Although he couldn’t bring himself to stop entirely, San had made a subtle but deliberate decision. Instead of poisoning his husband daily, as he had been instructed, he reduced the dosage, giving it only every other day. It was a compromise that left him caught in the middle of his own moral struggle.

The nights when he served Wooyoung nothing but pure, untouched tea gnawed at his conscience. As he watched his husband sip the warm drink, San would feel a wave of guilt crash over him. He would spiral into his thoughts, plagued by the sound of Aeri’s disappointed voice echoing in his mind, as if she were standing right beside him, chastising him for his weakness. Her words echoing in his mind were relentless, battered against his resolve, reminding him of his duty and the promise he had made.

But when he did poison Wooyoung, those days were even worse. The act of adding the poison to his husband’s tea was tearing him apart. He could no longer look Wooyoung in the eye. Each time he placed the cup in front of him, San’s heart clenched with shame. The man who had once been just a tool to be used for his revenge had become so much more. Wooyoung had become the one thing San feared losing the most.

Evenings like that were the worst. Sitting beside Wooyoung, watching him drink, San’s guilt gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. He tried desperately to make up for his sin with small gestures of pure, sincere affection. He would kiss Wooyoung’s hand, whispering sweet words meant to mask the bitterness lingering in him. He would gaze into his husband’s eyes, as if searching for redemption there. San had fallen hard for Wooyoung, so hard that the betrayal made him hate himself. 

As the sluggish, cold winter stretched on, the distance between them closed with each passing day. The stolen kisses, quiet moments where their bodies pressed together in the warmth of their chambers, their limbs tangled in a comforting embrace - they were their everydayness, where only the two of them existed and when only their feelings mattered. In those moments, San’s heart beat wildly in his chest, each thump a reminder of the love blossoming there. His poor, foolish heart had become hopelessly entwined with the man he was supposed to destroy.

And San no longer wanted to be the villain in this story. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for the suffering of someone so innocent, someone so undeserving of the pain he had inflicted. Each time the poison touched the tea, San’s soul withered a little more.

So he reduced the dosage again - once every three days. Then, by January, it became once a week. As February and March rolled in, San had only slipped the toxin into Wooyoung’s drink on rare occasions, as if to convince himself that he was still following Aeri’s orders. But he knew the truth. He was losing his resolve.

The snow that had once covered the kingdom began to melt, and with it, the icy barriers San had built around his heart. These barriers had kept him cold, distant, hardened by the cruelty of his past. They had taught him to be strong, to lead with logic and never with emotion. But that wasn’t who he truly was.

The merciless warrior he had been molded into was a mask - a persona he had adopted to survive. In reality, he was just a boy. A boy who couldn’t bring himself to kill an innocent animal in the forest all those years ago. A boy that only hoped for one more night in the loving embrace of his parents. A boy whose heart ached to love, to care for others, to nurture rather than destroy.

He had longed for vengeance for so long, had craved justice for the deaths of his parents. But now he realized that it wasn’t worth the price of Wooyoung’s life. Wooyoung, who had done nothing wrong. Wooyoung, who had only brought light into San’s world. Wooyoung, who was his hope for a better future, for a happy ending. His joy. His everything.

And as the seasons slowly shifted, bringing the promise of spring, San’s heart thawed. The boy who had been taught to hide his emotions behind a shield of strength began to break free from that old, rigid self. He allowed himself to feel again. To care.

Wooyoung, with his kindness and compassion, had shown him a new way of living. A way of leading that didn’t require cruelty, but instead called for love, fairness, and equality. Starting with the smallest gestures - changing the law to allow silver-blooded citizens to access public spaces that had once been forbidden to them. It was a small step, but it was the beginning of something greater.

Because Wooyoung had a heart. And he cared deeply for everyone, regardless of their status or bloodline. And as San watched him he knew he could no longer bring himself to destroy that heart.

…

He tried his best to protect Wooyoung – he really did. But understanding San’s plan had been impossible. For the past few months, he had watched all his movements, and every new signal contradicted the previous one.

Mostly, when he watched from the shadows as San prepared tea in the evenings, he noticed nothing suspicious - San had been using a mixture of dried fruits, available in the kitchen pantry. For the vast majority of days over the last few months, he did nothing unusual - just poured hot water over the fruit and brought the tea to his husband.

He had seen a few times when San did something more suspicious - the mysterious vial once again appearing in his hands. But as the liquid dripped into the teapot, San’s tears fell along with it, staining his cheeks. He wondered what it was - what could it all mean? Why was San so inconsistent? What was his true purpose? Perhaps Wooyoung was sick and hadn’t told anyone beside San, who was designated to dose him the medicament. 

Whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t accuse the king without evidence. First, he had to figure out what San’s goal was.

Chapter Text

“Damned to the end from the start

We can't really help who we are”

When the moon is shaped in a Waxing Crescent,
Fear of the scythe that looms ever-present.
Taking, not giving, as lives drift and flow,
Collecting the toll for past sins below.

Eclipse are mighty, unforgiving, some say,
But They weren’t always that way.

When strife came to dwell between two kin,
One’s blood by the other poisoned within.
Despair rose in the brightest Eclipse,
Stirring Their wrath with a fierce, dark grip.

Where light is cast, let love endure,
Where Their power shines, the unworthy implore.
For where blood was spilled and hope undone,
There Their eternal wrath begun.

Wrath shall weigh on the innocent land,
Where the proud king stands with power in hand,
Crushing and grinding those under his reign,
For greed and betrayal bring justice and pain.

Ruin and poverty,
Hunger and blight,
Until comes the savior revealed in the light.
Not one, but two, united as one,
Mending, not breaking, as destiny's plan.

The kingdom's future, in blood is decreed,
One line of gold, and one of silver breed.
Yet when the right moment draws near,
Their veins shall bear crimson, bright and clear,
In a silent blessing from the Eclipse’s grace,
Binding them close, time cannot erase.

They are to bring peace and order’s reign,
Righting the errors they inherit with pain.

Where gold shines bright, let silver gleam,
For they are bound as one, a dream.

…

One thing remains untold,
As love can’t truly be foretold.

Chapter Text

11.

The cheerful song of a lark, basking in the renewed warmth of spring sunlight, echoed through the capital, rousing its people from the long slumber of winter. The sun, though still hesitant, was beginning to reclaim its full glory, casting a soft, golden glow over the gathered crowd and wrapping them in a warmth that was long-awaited. 

The people filled the main square of the capital, a vibrant crowd assembling for the much-anticipated opening of the temple dedicated to Eclipse. The day was stunning, with the sky a vast, cloudless blue. A chatter of excitement buzzed in the air as families, friends, and strangers alike came together to witness this sacred event. People stood in clusters encircling the new structure from every angle, eager to catch a glimpse of the temple that had been whispered about for so long.

The royal guard maintained a respectful but firm boundary between the crowd and the Kings, along with the gathered Luminae, whose ceremonial attire contrasted with the crowd - the priestess covered in a long, white coat. Everyone watched intently, eyes shining with awe and devotion. 

Parents lifted their children onto their shoulders to give them a better view, and elders in the crowd wiped away quiet tears as they gazed at the temple’s dark, grand structure, which seemed to absorb and reflect the sunlight with a mysterious allure. Laughter and quiet conversations filled the air, but all fell silent as the Luminae began to lead the ceremony. 

Many wore their winter coats, but their shivers had little to do with the lingering spring chill - rather, they quivered from the surge of emotions coursing through them. As they stood before the newly completed temple, many couldn't hold back tears that pooled in their eyes - tears born of relief and pure, unadulterated joy.

The temple itself wasn’t grand by the kingdom’s standards, nor was it laden with the ornate decorations found in other religious structures, but it carried a deep, symbolic weight. It represented the people's devotion and - most importantly - the beginning of the new union, one of the first steps to erasing the invisible dividing line between silver and golden-blooded. There, they shall be equal, they shall become one - united in the glory of Eclipse. After six months of meticulous construction, the temple had finally been completed and now stood proudly near the marketplace at the heart of the capital.

It was constructed entirely from dark wood, its surface carefully preserved with black lacquer that glistened softly under the sunlight. The roof was steep and sloped sharply upwards, crowned with intricate carvings that spiraled along the eaves and support beams, delicate touches of craftsmanship. Stained glass windows adorned the walls, capturing images of the night sky, filled with stars and various phases of the moon, painted in deep blues and silvers. The main entrance gate was monumental, its doors wide open, as though beckoning all who wished to step inside and find solace within.

Peeking through the grand entryway, San felt a rush of excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. This temple stirred memories of his childhood, of the days when he would visit a similar place of worship with his parents, holding their hands with innocent reverence as they joined the community in prayer. In those days, they prayed to the Eclipse for health and blessing, their voices mingling with others’ in unison - a collective breath, a shared heartbeat.

For a time, after his parents’ death, San had carried bitterness in his heart. He had resented the Eclipse, feeling abandoned in his darkest hours. But over time, that bitterness had softened, his pain slowly dulled by an understanding that life could be harsh and unforgiving. He came to realize that it hadn’t been the Eclipse who had taken his parents from him, but rather the cruelty of Jaesong’s actions.

Now, as he gazed upon the temple he had helped bring to life, San felt a sense of fulfillment that was both profound and humbling. Standing by his side was Wooyoung, as always. Over the past few months, they had become inseparable, something that hadn’t gone unnoticed by their subjects. Their exchanged tender embraces or the way they looked at each other was hard to miss. Yet, far from expressing any concerns, the people seemed delighted by the couple’s unity. Public displays of affection between rulers were rare in the kingdom - past kings had led with a sense of duty and alliance, but the bond between San and Wooyoung was different - warm, and unmistakably genuine, filled with mutual affection.

Their fingers were intertwined, and Wooyoung gently brushed his thumb across the back of San’s hand, a gesture that had become second nature. Now that San had almost completely stopped the poisoning, he felt lighter, almost as if he had been freed from an invisible weight. Each glance at Wooyoung filled his heart with warmth and gratitude. He was overcome with joy at how everything had unfolded, how Wooyoung had surpassed all expectations, proving to be not only a beloved husband but a wise and compassionate ruler.

“Honorable Eclipse,” came the voice of Elder Luminae, the head of the Ordi Phasium Lunae,  who had gathered here from across the kingdom to offer blessings to the newly dedicated temple. The Elder’s presence was solemn, her voice carrying strength as she addressed the crowd. “In your glorious presence, we humbly gather to express our unwavering devotion and our deepest gratitude.”

For the first time in living memory, the capital became a place of worship, a gathering site where people could come together to honor their deity. During the reign of the former Kings, the priory had been forced to disperse across the kingdom, searching for a new place to settle. Now, with the newly built temple, they could once again return to the heart of the realm.

Wooyoung’s smile widened, his gaze traveling over the joyful faces of their people, while San looked on, deeply moved by his husband’s contentment. Oh, Eclipse… how much he adored him, his heart swelled with affection. 

They had an additional reason for happiness - news had arrived that seeds of wheat, sown just over three weeks ago, had begun to sprout. This new life, rising from the earth, signified hope for their kingdom’s future, for prosperity in the days to come.

“We entrust to your care our new home, our families, and all that we possess. Bless us, shield us from evil, guard us in peril, preserve us from misfortune, and strengthen our faith. In sorrow and suffering, grant us hopeful trust,” Elder Luminae prayed solemnly, her words ringing through the gathering like a vow.

“May we always be united with you,” joined the other members of the order in reverent chorus, their voices blending together in a harmony that seemed to rise and mingle with the clouds above. The crowd continued to stand around the temple, eagerly awaiting their turn to step inside and view the intricate interior. However, this honor was first reserved for the royal couple.

“Dear gathered ones,” Wooyoung spoke, his voice resonating across the market square as he held onto San’s hand, their fingers intertwined. He stood tall and proud, his posture a showcase of the authority he wielded - a power that was not derived from fear or oppression, but rather from a burgeoning hope that had begun to bloom in the hearts of the crowd before him. His presence commanded attention, drawing the eyes of the people. “Our hearts rejoice together in the face of such a great blessing bestowed upon us. Thanks to the blessing of Eclipse, we have been able to complete the construction of our beautiful temple in such swift time.”

As he spoke, his grip on San’s hand tightened just a fraction, a silent encouragement for him to speak. “Today marks the dawn of a new era,” he continued, his voice a harmonious blend of strength and gentleness, as he addressed the citizens gathered in the square.

“It is an incredibly happy day,” San began, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces. Yet, in the midst of this joy, he felt a jolt in his chest upon catching sight of Aeri among the crowd - a flicker of disappointment darkening her features. They hadn’t seen each other in ages, communicating only through ciphered letters in which San lied about following her plan. To this day, he hadn’t admitted that the poison was almost unused, Aeri still believed San was dutifully carrying out his mission and that soon, everyone would witness the kingdom’s upheaval - the end of the Jung Dynasty.

The disappointment on her face, rising sharply as she looked at their intertwined hands, made San’s heart ache. There was no doubt that Aeri hadn’t suspected that everything San had written to her was nothing more than a tissue of lies.

Wooyoung, noticing San falling silent, squeezed his hand again, breaking the spell of awkwardness that had settled over the gathering. Concern etched across Wooyoung's face, but San dismissed it with a quick nod of his head.

“We hope this place will become a refuge for all who have been deprived of the opportunity to worship their deity. May Eclipse be with you.” With that, he concluded swiftly, a note of urgency lacing his tone.

San couldn’t shake off the weight of Aeri’s gaze, filled with disappointment and perhaps a hint of betrayal. She had placed her hopes in him, had sacrificed parts of herself for his sake, and now he felt as though he was letting her down. The burden of the vial - his constant companion - felt heavier than ever in his pocket, a cruel reminder of secrets he had kept hidden. He had never left the vial unattended, fearing that someone might discover his darkest secret.

However, over time, San came to terms with the realization that getting rid of Wooyoung was not his destiny. Quite the opposite, actually 

He drew a deep breath and shifted his gaze away from Aeri, lifting his chin defiantly - this was his new reality, and he needed to embrace it. Gratitude welled up within him for the care Aeri had shown, surrounding him with warmth and protection, but San knew he could not simply follow orders blindly anymore. His place was here, beside Wooyoung.

The monarchs strode inside the temple alone for now - with Jongho and Yunho guarding the door - arms laden with offerings. They moved with purpose, serving as examples for their subjects, paying homage to the deity on behalf of the entire kingdom. 

Stepping across the threshold, San was immediately enveloped in unfamiliar warmth that spread through him, a sensation both comforting and unsettling. It was as if he were being watched - not merely by the subjects, but by something far greater. A familiar presence, powerful yet invisible, surrounded him - it felt like Eclipse themselves were observing, their gaze penetrating yet reassuring. The air grew heavy, a sweet suffocation that filled him with a sense of belonging and dread all at once.

The rich scent of fresh wood permeated the temple’s interior. San stood in the center, taking in the sight before him. The temple, while modest in its design, was adorned with intricate carvings and symbols that celebrated the essence of Eclipse. Unlike many deities, Eclipse had no human form to worship - no statues were sculpted in their honor. It was considered blasphemous to imagine them as anything other than the ethereal presence they embodied. Instead, the temple showcased a magnificent bas-relief of a full moon, luminous and eternal, watching over the people below, a reminder of their divine guardianship.

The walls were alive with artistry, the bas-reliefs depicting various moon phases. The altar was a place where believers could come at any hour to offer their gifts and pray silently for blessings.

Glimmers of gold and silver embellishments caught the light, dancing like fireflies amidst the solemnity of the temple, but these were not mere displays of wealth or power - they were the symbols of renewed hope, of reconciled relationships, and the restoration of unity.

Together, the Kings approached the altar, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished wood, placing a beautifully woven basket filled with food, fresh flower buds, and sweet pastries atop it - a humble offering to Eclipse. Both of them knelt on the wooden kneeler, silently praying for the prosperity of the kingdom. Wooyoung reached out with his right hand, holding San’s in a comforting grasp. A sense of peace washed over San as he felt the familiar texture of Wooyoung’s wedding ring against his skin.

For a fleeting moment, the outside world faded away - it was as if they existed in their own sacred bubble, the subjects merely shadows watching from afar. In that space, it was just the two of them and the eternal presence of Eclipse, a silent witness to their connection. 

Just like on their wedding night.

Then, as if illuminated by the holy presence of Eclipse, an avalanche of realization crashed over him, burying him under its weight. Everything surrounding him was built on deception, the very foundation of their relationship constructed on lies. The truth of who he was - the silver blood flowing through his veins, a legacy he could neither escape nor deny - swirled in his mind like a tempest.

Wooyoung only knew an illusion of him -  an image of the perfect husband San had meticulously crafted. Though every one of his actions was genuine, every smallest gesture filled with raw love for Wooyoung, San still concealed the truth about himself. He couldn’t deceive himself into believing they could build a lasting, healthy relationship without honesty. If he hoped for a true happy ending, their own "happily ever after," then Wooyoung would have to know everything.

And the silver blood was only a fragment of the truth San was hiding. As if that weren’t enough, the fact that he had been poisoning Wooyoung for nearly the last five months stained his hands. San didn’t know the full extent of what the poison might have done to Wooyoung’s health - whether it accumulated in his system, contributed to organ failure, or disrupted his metabolism and bodily balance. The facts were simple, starkly clear: San had been poisoning Wooyoung, and San had been sent to the palace with a mission to kill him. Though he had almost put an end to it, the guilt remained a shadow that threatened to consume him.

So many unspoken lies lay between them, an abyss filled with unvoiced fears and secrets, yet San felt too weak to confront it. He understood that confessing would either cost him Wooyoung’s love or his life. San couldn't even fathom which was worse - he was no longer able to picture a life without his husband.

As tears of guilt threatened to spill, he struggled to maintain his composure, desperately pushing down the emotions surging within him.

“San…” Wooyoung began softly, his voice a tender whisper that broke through the turmoil in San's mind. “I-I want,” he stammered, his voice trembling slightly, “I want to confess something to you.” They stood face to face, Wooyoung noticing the glimmer of unshed tears in San’s eyes, gently cupped his face with his hands, concern flooding his expression. “Is everything alright?”

San nodded, the warmth of Wooyoung’s touch melting away some of the tension within him. “Continue, please.” His voice quivered, revealing the fragility of his heart. He tried hard to hold back his tears.

Reflexively he wrapped his arms around Wooyoung’s waist, pulling their bodies closer together, yearning for the comfort of his presence - his heart was seeking solace in the warmth that filled his soul whenever they were together.

“I wanted to build this temple for us.”

San flinched at the declaration, surprised by the boldness of Wooyoung's words, which hung heavy in the air, almost laced with blasphemy. This was meant to be a temple in honor of Eclipse, so why did Wooyoung not grasp the magnitude of that statement?

“What? Wooyoung, that’s not-”

“Let me finish. I didn’t mean for it to be built in our honor - never once did that thought cross my mind. I don’t feel that I deserve any lofty treatment. But what I wanted to say is that I wanted to build it for us. For you.” He inhaled deeply, the tremor in his breath revealing the weight of his emotions. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed tears. “As a gesture of my love for you. I know how much it means to you, and I- ”

San felt the ground beneath him crumble as if the very earth was shaking. A world built brick by brick on lies threatened to swallow him whole. 

Wooyoung loves him.

So many emotions overwhelmed his mind at that moment, every cell of his body ached to shout that he loved him too - desperately, unconditionally, and with a depth that words could never truly capture. Yet, he couldn’t. His voice was caught in his throat, shackled by guilt and remorse. His love, his darling, his Wooyoung deserved the truth - but how could he bring himself to risk hurting him any further?

His heart ached with longing, wishing he could turn back time, yearning for another path they could have walked together - one where he was free from the shadow of deceit. He regretted every drop of poison he’d slipped into Wooyoung’s tea, every moment of doubting the good intentions behind Wooyoung’s actions now haunted him. 

Now, standing before Wooyoung, seeing the depths of love reflected in his husband’s eyes - a gaze filled with a devotion so profound that it seemed to eclipse the entire world - San felt the weight of his own guilt threaten to crush him.

In Wooyoung’s gaze, he saw forgiveness and trust, unfiltered love ready to coat San. He knew in that moment that he couldn’t keep living this half-truth. He had to make things right, he had to do more than simply feel remorse. He had to take responsibility, to cleanse the stigma of his past actions, not only for his own sake but for the future they might still build together.

The enormity of what lay ahead was daunting, but San steeled himself, feeling a flicker of determination rise within him. He had betrayed Wooyoung, yes, but there was still time to earn his forgiveness - if not in words, then in actions. He would dedicate himself to proving that he was worthy of Wooyoung’s trust, of the love he saw in his husband’s eyes.

Tears spilled from San’s eyes, unbidden, as he reached up to grasp Wooyoung’s neck, pulling him into a kiss filled with raw emotion. Wooyoung, though momentarily taken aback, softened into the embrace, and soon they found their rhythm.

The way their lips moved together felt timeless, he pulled Wooyoung even closer, getting rid of any remaining space between them, his fingers threading deeper into the soft strands of his husband’s hair, twisting them around his fingers with possessive need. As he angled Wooyoung’s head, deepening the kiss. Wooyoung parted his lips willingly, surrendering entirely, their breaths mingling, filling the space with a heat only they could understand.

The kiss was slow but deliberate, each tilt and slide of their mouths charged with an intensity neither could restrain. Wooyoung’s taste flooded San’s senses, intoxicating him in a way he could never get enough of, a flavor and warmth that felt as necessary to him as air. 

Wooyoung’s lips parted further, and San took the invitation without hesitation, slipping his tongue past Wooyoung’s, savoring the way Wooyoung sighed into his mouth - a sound so soft, so vulnerable, it made San’s heart ache and swell with love.

They were lost to everything else - the temple around them, the subjects who watched, to hell with them. The world around had blurred, and all that remained was this, just the two of them.

Soft giggles escaped Wooyoung's mouth, echoing in the empty space, “Let me finish.” He placed a quick, soft peck on San’s lips. “I’m happy that fate brought us together. I couldn’t ask for a better husband, my King, and I want you to always think about my love for you wherever you visit this temple.” 

San could only cry, his hands trembling as they wandered over Wooyoung’s body - unsure if he should grasp his hands, wrap his arms around his waist, or cup his face and pepper it with delicate kisses, as he truly deserved.

“Did I say something wrong?” Wooyoung’s expression was full of worry as he studied San’s face, watching him break down completely in his arms. The world San had meticulously built over the last thirteen years had just shattered, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in the embrace of the one person he’d sworn to destroy - only to realize he’d destroyed himself in the process.

“No, I’m just-” he hiccupped, his tears falling freely. I’m so sorry, my love. Please forgive me, he wanted to say. “I’m just… so happy,” he finally whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Wooyoung’s lips. “Thank you.”

 …

He replayed the moment over and over in his mind, kneeling in front of Eclipse, the cool stone pressed uncomfortably against his knees. His thoughts spun wildly, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to come here - or what drove him to it - but there was an undeniable, physical pull urging him toward the temple. It was a need he couldn’t quite articulate, a yearning to expose himself in front of the deity. In the hope to sort through his tangled emotions. 

As he had stolen a last glance at the sleeping Wooyoung, a wave of warmth washed over him. His husband lay peacefully, curled around the pillow that San had gently tucked beside him, looking so serene in his slumber. When San had first attempted to rise, Wooyoung had stirred instinctively, reaching out for the warmth that had suddenly vanished. A slight crease formed on his forehead. But as San carefully placed his own pillow under Wooyoung’s arm, infused with his scent, the crease eased. Wooyoung relaxed, sinking back into a deeper, peaceful sleep, his face softening as he breathed evenly. San felt a bittersweet ache in his heart - he wanted to stay, to be there, but something compelled him to leave.

San left the palace gates accompanied by Yunho, whom he had accidentally woken up while passing by his room. Despite San’s insistence that he needed no escort, Yunho had steadfastly refused to let him out of sight if he were to leave the palace gates - San's robes made it clear that he intended to do so. If anything were to happen to San, Yunho would bear the responsibility, and that thought weighed heavily on both of them. San didn’t argue - he simply allowed Yunho to follow silently. 

The palace guards cast curious glances his way, their brows furrowing in surprise at the sight of their King venturing beyond the palace walls so late into the night. Yet, none dared to question him, not with the determined set of his jaw and the piercing gaze that spoke of a man on a mission, even as his eyes held an emptiness that belied the emotions brewing within. 

It was the dead of night, which fortunately meant that the temple was devoid of any visitors. The moonlight cast a silvery glow on the ancient stone, illuminating the sacred space with an ethereal beauty. Yunho waited obediently outside, a steadfast guardian at the entrance, vigilant against any potential intrusion. 

Inside, San knelt humbly before the bas-relief of the full moon, the coolness of the stone floor seeping into him as he pressed his forehead against it. He didn’t know how long he’d remained in that position - time felt meaningless here. The only marks of his despair were the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, remnants of his earlier anguish. He was already too drained to cry further, his throat parched and tight, struggling to find the words he desperately wanted to speak. Each shuddering breath felt like a reminder of his failures, each exhale a ghost of the man he once was, trembling with the weight of his guilt.

He despised himself, hated himself for what he had become. The question gnawed at him: had he come here to beg Eclipse for forgiveness, or was he merely pleading for guidance on what he should do, how he might cleanse his soul from the taint of his choices? 

In the pure, untainted presence of the deity, San came to a cruel realization about himself. He had made a choice that led him down a path stained with blood and vengeance. By choosing the path of death, San had become no different than Jaesong, the very embodiment of the hatred he had sworn to eradicate. The realization sliced through him like a dagger, leaving him gasping for breath, his heart heavy with shame. He had become the very thing he had vowed to destroy, a traitor to his own ideals.

Not a sound disturbed the silence of the temple - only the occasional hiccup of his broken sobs and the endless murmuring of his plea, “Eclipse, oh, Eclipse, please forgive me.” 

The air was frigid, imbued with the early spring chill of the night, yet within him, a spark of warmth began to blossom, a sense of the deity’s presence wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. It was both terrifying and soothing, and he felt his heart begin to open despite the weight of his sorrow. A sob wracked his chest, full of pain and regret, as he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to shut out the world. His mouth hung open, lips parted as he struggled to draw breath. Everything ached, his head throbbed from crying and the relentless strain of spiraling thoughts.

He hadn’t even noticed the figure who’d approached him, the silence of the temple broken by the soft sound of robes brushing against the stone floor. The figure sat beside him, their hand gentle and reassuring as it landed on his shoulder. Startled at the touch, his hazy vision filled with tears struggled to discern who it was. Before him sat a figure cloaked in dark robes that hid most of their form, with a wide hood pulled over their head and a blindfold wrapped around their eyes. Holy shit, was this Death come to claim him? 

The figure laughed warmly, “I am not Death, Your Majesty.” San blinked, startled, realizing he had spoken that thought aloud. “I am a servant of Eclipse, merely a humble earthly vessel for their eyes and ears. In other words, a bridge between Eclipse and the earthly realm.” In that moment, recognition washed over him, and San recognized that this was Elder Luminae, her hand resting gently on his shoulder with compassion. 

“How long have you been here?” he rasped, suddenly anxious about the words that had fallen from his lips. The vulnerability he felt was suffocating, and he worried that he had laid his soul bare before the deity. If Luminae had heard any of it, it could mean his end, the final nail in the coffin.

“Long enough to hear everything,” she replied softly. “But, San, do not treat me as an ordinary person.” Her voice was steady, laced with understanding and warmth. San felt even more vulnerable in her presence, fighting back another wave of tears that threatened to rise upon hearing his name. No ‘Your Majesty’ - here, he wasn’t King San, he was just San, lost, helpless, and in agony.

“You may confess to me anything that weighs on your soul,” Luminae continued. “With my help, you can reach into the essence of Eclipse’s blessing. I am bound by a sacred vow of secrecy that forbids me from sharing anything people confess before Eclipse. Breaking this vow would cost me my life, and we both know what a deity is capable of.” Her words were a promise, an invitation. 

San gathered the last remnants of his courage and began to speak, letting the words - that were buried deep down in him - unfold. Each confession came like an unburdening, as he recounted his life from its earliest, brightest moments to the heaviest secrets he’d hidden away. The joyous memories of his childhood returned to him, filling his eyes with tears he thought had long since dried. 

He spoke of his parents - of his mother, who, when he was around six years old, had poured her love into sewing a small cloth cat from old, worn fabric scraps. It had been a humble creation, but to San, it was everything. He’d clung to it, finding comfort in its familiar stitching, its delicate form, and he had carried it through the years. Yet, one night, as his life unraveled and flames consumed all he knew, he’d left it behind, the beloved toy now lost forever in a fire. His voice grew thick as he recalled that day, and he felt that same hollow ache of regret return, sharper than before, gnawing at the seams of his heart.

When he spoke of his father, his voice softened, remembering the warmth of his father’s embrace, the gentle roughness of his hands as they had worked together chopping wood. His father’s encouraging words lingered in his mind, phrases that gave him strength throughout his whole life. His father would sometimes tug teasingly at the young boy’s small arms, laughing at San’s youthful pride and saying, ‘You’re strong, San. When you grow up, you’ll be someone powerful.” San’s heart ached as he wondered if his parents, had they lived to see him now, would be proud of him - or if they would feel only sorrow at the path he had taken.

He spoke then of Aeri, his guardian and someone close to a mother, who had taken him in as his world shattered. Her presence had been both nurturing and unyielding. She had fed the seeds of anger within him, tending to his desire for vengeance as though it were a flame that needed stoking. She had raised him to be a weapon for victory, to bring order to a chaotic world. And he had tried, even when the weight of it nearly broke him, to uphold her expectations. But that weight, he confessed to Luminae, had been more than he could bear. It was a burden fit for legions of warriors not for a single broken soul. He was only a man, one whose pain had twisted his heart until he could no longer tell right from wrong. He had been made into a weapon by others with a thirst for retribution, and he, too compassionate by nature, had found himself swept into their fury, unable to turn away from their collective hunger for justice. He had wanted peace, he had wanted justice - yet all he had found was himself, lost and alone, wandering deeper into darkness.

San had to pause when he began to speak of his love for Wooyoung, as if to brace himself against the oncoming wave of emotions. His breathing grew shallow, quickening as he fought to avoid spiraling into hyperventilation. He could feel the cold press of a small vial in his pocket, mercilessly and continually reminding of its presence. With trembling fingers, he pulled it out, letting it rest on his open palm. The glass gleamed dully in the dim moonlight, the liquid within sloshing gently, now only filled halfway. 

“And then… I met him,” San stammered, his voice raw with a blend of anguish and fondness that was impossible to mask. “And I tried,” he continued, voice breaking, “I really tried to hate him. I wanted so badly to believe he was the tyrant everyone said he was. It would have made this… all of this so much easier.” His hand shook violently, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “If he’d been as cruel as they said… if he’d been the villain in this story… but it wasn’t him. It was me all along. I am the monster.”

He kept talking, the words now flooding from him without restraint, as if speaking them might finally relieve him of their crushing weight. He recounted every detail of their meeting, of their wedding, not forgetting to mention the mysterious appearance of crimson blood and the early days they spent together. For the first time in months, he finally could let go, spill everything he had to hide. He told Luminae about the wall of lies he had built around Wooyoung, the illusion of love he had carefully crafted. And yet, what had begun as a lie had become his reality, for he had fallen for Wooyoung with a depth he hadn’t thought possible. He had fallen so deeply in love that he began to despise himself for every action against Wooyoung. He had fallen so deeply that he wished he could rewrite their story from the beginning, free from the shadows that now haunted them both.

He shared memories of Wooyoung’s touch, the warmth of his hands, the way his husband’s eyes softened when they were together, alone, unfiltered by expectation or duty. They’d had countless evenings where it was just the two of them - no masks, no facades, simply San and Wooyoung, unguarded and real. They found joy in teasing each other, in playing and goofing around. They had become each other’s support, each other’s sanctuary, always able to rely on the other, no matter the storms that brewed outside their shared world.

Though their love had been built on a foundation of deceit, the emotions they shared were raw and unplanned. Neither of them had ever intended to fall in love, but once they had tasted it, it had been impossible to let go. They were bound together, not by circumstance but by a profound need for each other, and they both knew it.

“Wooyoung didn’t deserve this,” San murmured, his voice little more than a whisper, full of aching sincerity. “He deserves to be loved, to finally live in peace as the wonderful King he is.” He looked down at the vial in his hand one last time, his grip tightening before he hurled it against the nearest wall. The glass shattered instantly, scattering shards across the floor as the liquid splashed against the wall, seeping into its wooden crevices. “And I… I deserve to die,” he whispered, broken.

“One thing remains untold, as love cannot truly be foretold,” Luminae recited, her voice solemn as if speaking from beyond the human world. “So it was true, after all.”

“Huh?” 

“The blood, San.”

“What do you mean ‘the blood?’ Many people have silver blood, I am not special in any way.”

“But not everyone shares red blood, am I right?” 

He could just stare at her dumbfoundedly, not understanding what was happening. 

"Your bond is… unique. It was foretold nearly two centuries ago."

"What? That’s impossible. I haven’t heard of any prophecy. I… I combed through the entire library, searching for anything that mentioned red blood- I would never have missed it," he argued.

But Luminae only laughed. "My dear… The prophecy was entrusted to our order alone, and no one outside our gathering has ever had access to it. It could only be passed down from one generation to the next among us."

"What was this prophecy about?"

"Of a foolish King who ignited the wrath of Eclipse. You see, Eclipse, though benevolent, can be vengeful. Silver- and golden-blooded were never meant to be separated from each other. They were meant to live in unity and harmony, but when the first tainted drop of poison entered the veins of the silver-blooded, staining the hands of the first in the Jung Dynasty, Eclipse was enraged. They were furious that an ordinary mortal had the audacity to play god, deciding who should live and who should be elevated above others."

"Yet, Eclipse did not like to interfere in mortal matters, so they waited patiently, offering the Jung Dynasty a chance to atone for its sins," she continued. "Almost two hundred years were given to erase the stigma of their wrongdoing, but with each successive King, it only grew worse. You witnessed this firsthand - Jaesong was the embodiment of evil, greed, and defiance. The prophecy spoke of a pair of saviors, one of golden blood, the other of silver. It did not specify whether they would be commoners or, as it turned out in your case - a pair of Kings. But fate knew what it was doing. A future is destined for you, in which you will rebuild this land together, with the blessing of Eclipse, proven by the red blood." San shivered at the memory - the fresh crimson blood running down the edge of the dagger.

"That night during the ceremony, the red blood was a sign of Eclipse’s divine presence - They manifested to you personally, blessing your bond and uniting you to become a new hope for this dynasty."

"A new hope? How are we supposed to accomplish that? What does it mean?"

"They are to bring peace and order’s reign, righting the errors they inherit with pain," she recited, voice filled with a sense of ancient wisdom.

San listened, trying to make sense of everything that had just been dropped on him. “Are you telling me we were destined for each other? That we only fell in love because fate wanted it that way?” He spat out bitterly.

“Oh no, darling. Love isn’t something that can be foretold or imposed on anyone. Eclipse gave you both a blessing, a strength for the difficult times that lie ahead, but the feeling that’s grown between you is genuine.” He caught sight of her faint smile.

“But the poison- it’s impossible. It can’t be.” He whispered. “I was destined to kill him.” He repeated Aeri’s words - the ones she made him believe to be true. 

“San, you need to find yourself. Prophecy or not, you were blessed by Eclipse,” she insisted, her voice both gentle and unwavering, carrying the weight of timeless wisdom. Her eyes held a warmth that seemed to reach out to him, like a light through dense fog. “You can’t ignore that.”

“But I can’t take it anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he wiped away tears and his runny nose. “It’s too late… I’ve hurt him too deeply. I should leave… give him the chance to be happy without me. All I’ve brought him is pain.”

Her smile softened as she took in his broken expression. “But he is happy with you,” she said, each word carefully chosen, drawing upon memories she and others had witnessed - the tender moment that he and Wooyoung had displayed at the temple’s opening, a bond that even the crowd could feel. “You can’t make that decision for him, San. Love isn’t something you can decide to erase just because it’s painful. Love is painful, love isn’t easy by any means. It’s up to both of you to carry its weight together. If you walk away now… do you think you’ll free him, or just bury him in the emptiness your absence would leave?”

San looked down, feeling the truth of her words. She didn’t rush him, allowing him to feel it fully, to wrestle with the pain. His heart was so heavy it felt as though it might shatter, but beneath it, he felt the faintest pulse of hope, like the echo of a heartbeat long forgotten. He took a deep, trembling breath realizing she was right - he couldn’t decide for Wooyoung; he had to trust that whatever love they shared was enough for them both to choose their own fate.

“I won’t give you answers on what you should do next or how to fix your mistakes,” she continued. “But one thing I can tell you, San, is that your heart holds the answer. Follow it. It may not give you the easiest path, but it will never betray you.”

Slowly, she rose from her knees, chuckling when they cracked of old age, her movements calm and graceful as she brushed off her tunic. “Remember,” she said softly, “Eclipse will always be with you. You are more than a piece of prophecy, San. It may be a guiding light, yes, but it does not contain the entirety of who you are. You are capable of so much more than you realize - of love, of redemption, and of greatness, not because it was foretold, but because you choose it.”

He looked up at her, feeling a small glimmer of something he had not felt in a long time - a faith that perhaps he still held the power to shape his path. His heart, though scarred, still beat with purpose.

And then, with a final, knowing smile, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the temple, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. 

…

That morning, before the sun had even risen, San wrote his final letter to Aeri - thanking her for all the years they had spent together, for all the moments when she tried to fill the void left by the mother he had missed so dearly.

He swore to her that he understood her plan and the need for change within the kingdom. But he had come to realize that these changes didn’t require further bloodshed - especially not the sacrifice of Wooyoung, who was innocent in all of this, and even more than that, had ignited a light of hope for better times for the kingdom and its people. Despite being a member of the Jung dynasty, Wooyoung stood above his predecessors.

San ended the letter by stating that, from this moment on, he was beginning a new life - as a King, a devoted husband, and Wooyoung’s steadfast ally in sickness and health, supporting him and together providing a stable and happy future for both silver and golden-blooded alike - whether Aeri approved or not.

Now, the only thing left to do was to confess the truth to Wooyoung.

…

“Was there some kind of mistake?” Wooyoung asked Yeosang, who had come that morning with news that the King was requested for a check-up in the medic’s quarters. Standing in the doorway between his and San’s chambers and the corridor, he looked at his friend, still half-asleep.

Routine health exams were nothing unusual for Wooyoung, he typically underwent them once a month, a series of simple assessments, such as temperature checks, skin condition evaluations, eye exams. All of it was meant to ensure that the King was in perfect health. But he’d been seen just a week ago and they had reported no issues, so he was puzzled by this sudden recall from the medic.

“I was just there recently, you escorted me yourself, so what’s going on?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Yeosang looked nervously up and down the hall. “Uh, it’s… a sensitive issue. Maybe it’s better if you hear it firsthand.”

A passing servant curtsied to the King before hurrying by to avoid disturbing their conversation. Wooyoung only nodded at her, not in the mood to force a smile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, half-turning to glance at his husband sleeping peacefully in their bed. Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to sink back into the comfort of the warm blankets and San’s embrace. “Either you tell me what this is about, or you can go back and inform the medic not to waste our time.”

Yeosang leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, “It’s at the First Lady’s intervention. She’s expressed… concerns about your vitality.

Wooyoung wanted to groan and bang his head against the nearest wall, but that wouldn’t befit a King. He’d known this moment would come eventually - after all, six months was a suspiciously long time to have gone without conceiving an heir.

Especially when the issue didn’t lie with the First Lady but with himself. He’d come up with every excuse he could think of to avoid intimacy. And on the rare occasions it did happen, to say the least, it was a humiliating disaster. Wooyoung had never felt as embarrassed as he did in those moments when his penis wouldn't get hard during sexual intercourse.

The First Lady tried to mask the shadow of disappointment in her eyes every time it happened, but he could easily see it - a pain that touched her, an innocent woman, in ways neither of them could control. He hated the idea that she might feel unwanted or think something was wrong with her when, in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. She was breathtaking, to say at least. But Wooyoung simply couldn’t force his body to obey his will - she wasn’t what he desired, he didn’t dream of her perfect, delicate figure. He didn’t want to explore her curves or taste her with the same desire he felt burning within him towards his husband.

He longed for the closeness of another man’s body, to feel strong hands on his own skin - the kind that could break him with a single touch, hands that made him shiver just thinking about them.

In fact, he’d tried thinking about San during those forced encounters with the First Lady, just to get turned on and get it over with to fulfill his duty to produce an heir. But it felt wrong - he was disgusted with himself for days afterward, so eventually, he’d given up.

All he had left was the daydream of feeling San’s bare body pressed against his, tasting the salt of his husband’s skin, unraveling him with rough kisses, biting - all those things they’d yet to explore together.

The last thing he expected, though, was for the First Lady to snitch on him to the medic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered to himself. “What exactly is this exam supposed to accomplish? Should I walk in there and announce there’s no chance of an heir unless San somehow grows a womb?” He let out a bitter laugh, tinged with sarcasm. “Or maybe I should write on my forehead that women don’t turn me on, and my dick is useless for now,” frustration leaking into his words.

“They might find some solution, I don’t know!” Yeosang said with matching exasperation, and Wooyoung looked at him with slight disbelief. “Maybe some herbs for virility, or something… Don’t look at me like I’m the damn medic!”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Wooyoung said with a sigh, the anger draining out of him as he saw the strain on his friend’s face. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.” He paused, casting one last, longing glance toward the warmth of the bed he shared with San. “Just… give me a moment to get dressed, and then we can head out.”

"Your Highness, I apologize for the inconvenience, but I received a direct order from the council, which has grown concerned about the recent reports from the First Lady. This examination shouldn’t take long,” the medic said with a respectful bow.

In the corner of the room, a small table was cluttered with various glass vials containing clear liquids, each labeled differently - from salicylic spirit to distilled water, saline solution, and a few other jars filled with ointments or herbal mixtures. On a nearby tray, freshly disinfected bandages lay next to an array of intimidating medical tools, including slim glass test tubes and a syringe with an especially long, thin needle. Wooyoung swallowed hard, recognizing the setup - he had always dreaded blood extractions.

However, the medic respectfully asked Yeosang to wait outside the room, making sure that only King Wooyoung remained for the initial checkup. He began with routine assessments, carefully noting once again that everything seemed within normal parameters. Only after completing these preliminary checks did he move on to more pressing matters concerning Wooyoung’s sexual potency, palpating Wooyoung’s reproductive organs as part of a more thorough examination. The procedure was humiliating, and Wooyoung felt a level of vulnerability he had never experienced before, having been asked to disrobe from the waist down.

Observing every response from Wooyoung’s body, the medic meticulously recorded his observations, moving step-by-step through each phase of the examination. The blood test was the final step. After Wooyoung had redressed, he waited, glancing nervously around as the medic prepared the necessary equipment.

“Your Highness, please have a seat,” the medic directed, motioning to the chair by the table with the supplies. Wooyoung sat, rolling up his sleeve as the medic secured a band around his upper arm, disinfecting the crook of his elbow with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “I only need half a vial of blood,” he explained.

Wooyoung tried to calm himself, averting his gaze from the medic’s precise actions. The man gently held Wooyoung’s elbow steady, his other hand moving the needle carefully to the cubital vein, piercing it without a word. Wooyoung didn’t flinch, accustomed to the sensation, but he still found the feeling unpleasant. He could sense the uncomfortable sensation of blood being drawn, and a tingling spread to his fingertips.

The medic withdrew the needle, pressing a fresh gauze pad to the puncture site, instructing Wooyoung to keep pressure on it and bend his elbow. The medic set the capped vial of blood onto a stand, and Wooyoung’s eyes were caught by the shimmering gold hue of the contents. It almost entranced him, the glint of light reflecting off the plasma, creating the illusion of glitter swirling in the blood.

“What does a blood test have to do with my… inability to, um, perform?” Wooyoung asked curiously.

“Oh, a flower called mireun, or more precisely its extract, acts as a reagent that can indicate blood-based neurotransmitter issues. When the hormone levels are balanced, blood mixed with this plant’s extract should lose its golden color and become transparent. Science is fascinating,” the older scholar explained, sorting through the various vials, clearly in search of the specific reagent. “If Your Highness wishes, please stay to observe the test - it won’t take long.” Wooyoung remained seated.

The scholar uncorked the vial, carefully measuring out some of Wooyoung’s blood onto a flat glass dish. After setting the rest aside, he reached for the vial of mireun extract, transferring a single drop with a pipette. The effect was almost instantaneous, visibly altering the blood’s appearance.

But the result wasn’t what anyone had expected.

The blood coagulated, taking on a semi-liquid, semi-solid consistency instead of losing its color as anticipated.

“What does this mean?” Wooyoung started to feel anxious, his mind filling with alarming thoughts.

“Oh, I must have done something wrong,” the medic attempted to reassure him, though Wooyoung could hear a slight tremor of uncertainty in his voice, his words betraying a hint of stress. “The dish was likely contaminated. I’ll repeat the test.”

Using another sterile dish, the scholar repeated each step meticulously, but the result remained unchanged. The blood looked like a gelatinous mass, retaining its unusual golden hue.

“What’s going on? What does this result imply?” Wooyoung asked, his hands beginning to shake with growing apprehension.

“I need to discuss this with other scholars…”

“No, I demand answers,” Wooyoung’s tone, though frightened, was firm.

“But Your Highness, I cannot provide a definitive answer right now.”

“You are the finest scholar in this kingdom, aren’t you?” Wooyoung’s demand left the medic with little choice. The scholar lowered his head humbly. “Then speak, tell me what this means.”

“I truly need more time to conduct additional research…”

“Speak,” Wooyoung insisted, driven by rising frustration and fear.

The medic looked him in the eye, and for a brief moment, Wooyoung felt as if the world was crumbling around him as he registered the fear reflected in the man’s gaze.

“I suspect… Your Highness may have been poisoned.” A thick silence fell between them. “But it’s only speculation,” the medic quickly added. “I’ll need to conduct further tests and examine the royal food taster’s blood for any traces of the same toxin.”

“Does that mean I’m going to die?” Wooyoung looked at him in horror, feeling a wave of weakness wash over him.

“I’ll do everything in my power to prevent that, Your Highness. Not all poisons are fast-acting, nor are they all deadly. There may be something else in your blood causing this reaction,” the medic tried to offer some comfort, though his panicked stammering betrayed his own search for a rational explanation.

“Summon the best scholars you know and carry out every test necessary, as quickly as possible. Inform me the moment you find anything.” Wooyoung clutched his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees, curling into himself. “For now, please summon Yeosang.”

Yeosang embraced him tightly as they both waited for news - Wooyoung had decided not to inform San for the moment, not wanting to alarm him unnecessarily. In an attempt to distract his husband, Wooyoung asked him to oversee the guard’s training for the day with Yunho, gathering a personal report on the state of their army.

“Youngie, please take deep breaths,” Yeosang gently soothed, rubbing his back as Wooyoung struggled to contain his fears, his breaths becoming shallow and uneven.

Earlier, the anxiety had driven him to pace so nervously around the chamber that he was sure he’d worn marks into the floor. Now, exhausted, he sat on the couch, and Yeosang remained steadfast by his side, trying various ways to bring him solace. Near the door stood Jongho, waiting anxiously for the scholar to appear.

“What if I’m going to die? Sangie, I’m so scared, I’m terrified. I can’t leave the kingdom without an heir, I can’t leave San alone with all of this on his shoulders. Holy Eclipse-”

“Wooyoung, nothing’s certain yet. Deep breaths, okay?” Jongho reassured him. “Maybe no one poisoned you, the medic could have simply made a mistake. He’s an old man, after all, probably a bit absent-minded at this point,” he added, trying to lift Wooyoung’s spirit.

Yeosang, however, remained quiet for a moment, deep in thought, as though he knew something more - as if he was connecting some dots.

Sighing deeply, Yeosang began to speak, “Actually, I wanted to tell you something-”

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Jongho practically leapt to answer, equally anxious about his friend’s fate. The medic entered with a somber atmosphere that told Wooyoung all he needed to know - the man was not bringing good news.

“Your Highness, we conducted a series of tests and examined the food taster’s blood - unfortunately, I bring troubling news,” the scholar began carefully, his voice filled with regret as he looked at Wooyoung with sorrow and empathy. “We detected a toxic compound known as darium.”

“Someone’s been poisoning my food, and no one noticed?” Wooyoung asked in shock.

“The strange thing is, the taster’s blood didn’t coagulate when mixed with mireun extract. Moreover, other tests on clotting factors and protein levels led us to a single conclusion - the poison is only present in Your Highness’s blood, not the taster’s.”

“What? What does that mean? I mean, how?” Wooyoung’s thoughts spun wildly, struggling to grasp the information presented.

“The darium poison is subtle and often undetectable, without immediate symptoms. It can take weeks, even months to reach its intended effect - spending on the dosage. It works by accumulating harmful metabolites in the liver and fatty tissues. We hope it’s not too late, but the most trusted individuals should oversee every meal - from the preparation of raw ingredients to consumption. Even liquids should be limited to plain, boiled water,” the medic advised, bowing. “That is all I have to report, Your Highness.”

"So, there’s really no antidote for this? Am I just supposed to sit here, waiting for a slow and inevitable death?" Wooyoung's voice shook with a mix of disbelief and growing fear, the weight of the words settling heavily on him.

"The only known substance that could counteract the effects is cornflower extract. It acts as an antagonist and should suppress the poison’s impact, at least temporarily, giving your body time to expel it naturally," the medic replied, his tone somber but steady.

Wooyoung nodded, though his gaze remained fixed on the wall, his mind spiraling as he absorbed the news. “Thank you, you may go,” he said quietly. His voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else. 

The medic bowed respectfully and left, the door closing softly behind him. Yet the quiet that settled over the room seemed suffocating. So many questions were racing through his mind, questions without answers, questions that no one here could give him. But the one that haunted him most was a simple, piercing - why?

As he tried to process the medic’s words, he felt a painful tightness rising in his throat. A tense bundle of nerves formed in his chest, growing heavier with each passing moment as the reality of the situation closed in around him. His vision blurred, his eyes filling with unbidden tears, his breaths shallow and strained, as though the very air were slipping from his lungs along with his life. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

He wanted to live. He wasn’t ready to leave this world. There were still so many experiences left for him, so much he hadn’t seen, hadn’t felt. He longed to feel the warmth of the summer breeze on his skin again, to stand in the open air as sunlight drenched the fields around him. He yearned to see his people, smiling and content, united under his rule. He wanted to embrace life fully, with friends by his side and joy in his heart. He wanted to taste his favorite dishes, again and again, savoring each bite until he finally grew tired of them, if that could ever happen. 

Even the thought of spending another calm, uneventful autumn evening - watching the leaves fall as the world quieted down around him - felt like a precious gift he couldn’t bear to lose. To simply sit, to breathe, to exist once more, was all he desired now.

And then there was San. He needed time to savor his moments with him, to drink deeply from the well of love they had only begun to build. He longed for the chance to wake up a thousand more times with San by his side, to feel the warmth of his touch, to share sunsets and laughter, to walk through their lands together, seeing the lives they had worked so hard to protect and support. How could he ever be ready to give that up?

“Youngie… Youngie, please, breathe,” came Yeosang’s urgent, desperate voice, breaking through the haze of despair and pulling Wooyoung back to the present moment. “Breathe with me,” Yeosang said, demonstrating by taking a slow, deep breath, waiting for Wooyoung to do the same.

Wooyoung, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen just slightly, tried to mimic him. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs, holding it, grounding himself once more in the moment around him. He looked up to see Yeosang kneeling before him, his expression etched with worry as he gripped Wooyoung’s shoulders firmly, yet gently, offering support. Jongho was beside him, crouching low, gently holding Wooyoung’s hand in his own. Jongho’s hands were warm, steady, his fingers brushing softly over Wooyoung’s knuckles as he watched him with a look of pure concern and care.

“Exhale,” Yeosang instructed softly but firmly. Together, they repeated the deep breaths, over and over, until Wooyoung’s breathing evened out, the frantic beat of his heart slowing just a little. Finally, Yeosang said, “Wooyoung, you’re not dying.”

“How can you be so sure?” Wooyoung’s voice trembled, as if uttering his fear out loud would make it disappear. “What if the illness I felt months ago wasn’t from that herbal infusion, but from the poison? Maybe enough of it had built up that I was feeling the first symptoms even then.”

"The herbal infusion, you're right!" Jongho practically shouted, his face lighting up with a sudden realization as he looked from Yeosang to Wooyoung with a thoughtful intensity.

“Love, respectfully, what’s wrong with you?” Yeosang cast him a bewildered look, clearly thrown by his sudden outburst.

“Do we know exactly what that infusion was made from?” Jongho pressed, his expression hopeful, his mind racing.

"A mix of different herbs, I think," Wooyoung said, his brow furrowing as he struggled to recall the details. "There was something with lemon balm and mint, I remember that much, but it was so long ago- I’m not entirely sure."

"Lemon balm, mint…and cornflower,” Jongho said triumphantly, his voice filled with conviction, as both Wooyoung and Yeosang stared at him in silent astonishment. “Wooyoung, you couldn’t have been poisoned for very long. If the medic’s right, and cornflower truly blocks the poison’s effects, then you’ve been protecting yourself without even knowing it.”

“You’re right…” Yeosang’s voice was quiet as he, too, began to understand.

"I still don't understand how I could have been poisoned if the food tester is perfectly healthy," Wooyoung wondered aloud, his voice filled with both confusion and frustration. 

Yeosang hesitated, his lips parting slightly as if he were about to speak but then pausing. His gaze shifted to the floor, avoiding Wooyoung’s searching eyes. Gathering his resolve, he looked up, almost reluctantly, as if steeling himself for the conversation that was to follow.

"Wooyoung, there’s something I think you should know," he began slowly. "But please, before you jump down my throat, remember that these are only my suspicions. I don’t have proof, but I think you need to hear it."

He felt his patience wearing down, his mind exhausted from the endless, grating cycles of waiting and stressing. 

“Then spit it out already,” Wooyoung urged, his tone edged with irritation. The day's anxieties had worn him thin, leaving him frayed and impatient. 

"I think... I think San might have had a hand in this," Yeosang said finally, the words tumbling out. There was a seriousness in his tone that felt heavy, as though he had just dropped a bomb between them.

A disbelieving scoff slipped from Wooyoung’s lips before he could control it. “You’re kidding, right?” He felt almost amused by the absurdity of what he was hearing, a flash of bitterness cutting through his frustration.

"Wooyoung, please, just hear me out," Yeosang pleaded, reaching out, hoping to make Wooyoung see the seriousness of his words.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Wooyoung shot up abruptly, rising with a wave of anger that fueled his movement. In the heat of the moment, he pushed Yeosang’s hands away, unwilling to accept the accusation. His veins pulsed with an undeniable fury, a forceful current that clouded his better judgment. Deep down, he knew Yeosang only ever had his best interests at heart, that he’d always protected him. But this? This was too much, crossing an unforgivable line. “San, involved in something like this? And you expect me to believe that? Explain how exactly you think he’s involved.”

"I saw him," Yeosang admitted, his voice unsteady. He hesitated, his gaze flickering as if reliving the moment. "Not too long ago, I saw him acting strangely while carrying your tea."

"You’re being ridiculous," Wooyoung scoffed, disbelief layering his words with a harsh edge. "It was just tea, Yeosang. Just tea. Don’t you realize you’re crossing a line by accusing your King, my husband, of something so monstrous?” His words came out sharply, tinged with anger and bitterness. It was hard to believe, even comprehend, that someone he trusted so deeply could think so poorly of the one person he loved most.

“Maybe it was just tea, but I thought I saw him adding something to it. Wooyoung, you can’t just dismiss this out of hand-”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” Wooyoung shot back, his voice rising. “If this is all based on what you thought you saw, then spare me. This is getting pathetic. I thought you were here to support me, but attacking the love of my life makes me seriously doubt that.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened with disbelief, his brows knitting together in frustration. His expression was one of shock, almost as if he couldn't fathom how his friend could be so willfully stubborn.

“Don’t you get it, Wooyoung? I saw him put something in your tea. And isn’t it a little odd that he insisted on serving you, on bringing you the tea himself every time?” Yeosang’s words grew more desperate, his voice tinged with urgency. “That’s what servants are for, for fuck’s sake! All I’m saying is that he might be hiding something from you, and you should talk to him.”

Wooyoung felt as if he’d been struck, his mind torn between reason and the seed of doubt now planted within him. He stood frozen, a deep uncertainty settling over him, casting a shadow over the love he held so dearly. Could San really have done something like this? The mere thought felt like a betrayal, twisting the foundations of the relationship he had thought was unbreakable. San was supposed to be his, someone who loved him unconditionally. Why would he risk everything, put Wooyoung in harm’s way?

"You should think about this, Wooyoung," Jongho interjected, his voice softer yet full of resolve as he stepped forward. His hand found its place on Yeosang's back, offering support as Yeosang leaned into him. Jongho's presence seemed to bring a sense of calm to his boyfriend, who appeared just as distressed and exhausted as Wooyoung. "Your tea was never tested, right?"

Wooyoung felt a chill run through him as the realization slowly set in. The dots connected one by one in his mind, bringing with them a suffocating dread. The tea... San had always insisted on preparing it himself, and Wooyoung had assumed it was a gesture of love, a way for San to grow closer to him as they settled into their marriage. The warm familiarity of their shared ritual, the taste of mango and strawberry, had become a symbol of comfort. He could hardly believe it. Could such a loving gesture have been hiding something so sinister?

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, full of disbelief, as he tried to convince himself that it couldn’t be true - that this was all just a cruel twist of fate, a terrible misunderstanding. Yeosang and Jongho had to be wrong, he told himself. San wouldn’t do that.

"Leave me alone," he murmured, his voice strained and distant, barely above a whisper. Then, as if a spark of clarity hit him, he corrected himself. "No, wait. I have a better idea. Summon Yunho." 

Chapter Text

12.

"I expect discretion from you, Yunho. I know you’re deeply loyal to my husband, but this matter requires a temporary suspension of that allegiance. You need to stay impartial here. Can you do that?” Wooyoung’s voice was steady, though his gaze bore a hint of urgency. He was still seated on the edge of the couch.

The two were alone in the chamber. Beyond the door, his friends waited silently, prepared to step in at a moment’s notice. They had promised Wooyoung that, if necessary, they would intercept San to prevent his unannounced entrance - strictly following Wooyoung’s command.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Yunho replied, dipping his head in respect.

“Take a seat,” Wooyoung gestured toward the armchair opposite him. His tone was clipped and direct. “I’ll get straight to the point. San is under suspicion… of attempted poisoning.”

Yunho’s expression shifted, brows furrowing slightly. “Of whom?”

“Of me,” Wooyoung replied, his voice hollow, feeling drained. The emotional weight of the day had left him feeling worn and brittle, a dull ache beginning to creep into his temples as if warning of an oncoming headache the moment adrenaline would wear out. “I need to know every detail you can remember - anything that seemed out of the ordinary, any time he might have acted suspiciously around my drinks or food. Have you ever seen him adding something to my tea?”

Yunho was thoughtful, searching through his memories. “No, Your Majesty. He usually went to the kitchen alone, and each time he dismissed me from my duties.” Wooyoung exhaled heavily, feeling a surge of frustration rather than the reassurance he had hoped for.

“Was there ever anything that seemed unusual about him? Even if you think it’s small, I need to understand if he was hiding anything at all - anything that could point to a motive if this accusation turns out to be true.”

“He never seemed to hide anything,” Yunho replied slowly, clearly taking care to recall the past months. “Though… he did spend quite a bit of time locked in the library, usually telling me he wasn’t to be disturbed.”

Wooyoung had always assumed that San’s library visits were motivated by his search for information on the red blood, a pursuit Wooyoung had trusted in entirely. Now, doubt gnawed at him, and he wondered if this was a carefully woven lie - a cover for alchemical research on poisons or even methods to cause harm.

“Anything else?” he asked. “Or has he been making secret visits to town for some exotic poison meant for me?” His tone was sarcastic, almost bitter, as if speaking the words aloud might somehow prove them false. Yet he watched Yunho’s expression falter, and his own anger gave way to a deeper, colder realization. “What is it?”

“I caught him sneaking out once, but I can’t be sure he hasn’t gone out more often in the night.”

Wooyoung felt his heart drop, the unease rooting deeper within him.

“In the night? When was this?”

“Two nights ago, right after the temple’s blessing ceremony, Your Majesty. King San left quietly, in the middle of the night and I insisted on coming with him.”

Wooyoung’s mind spun, unable to comprehend how he hadn’t noticed his husband slipping out of his embrace in the dead of night. The thought gnawed at him, especially as he realized how many secrets San must be harboring. Why hadn’t he told him? Why hadn’t he suggested going together? Wooyoung doubted anything truly innocent would require sneaking around like this under the cover of darkness.

“So it’s possible it’s true,” Wooyoung muttered, scoffing as he tried to process it. “San might have been deceiving me for months, and I was completely blind to it all.”

“I didn’t expect this from him,” Yunho said honestly. “Especially given his family’s reputation.”

“What’s so special about his family?” Wooyoung asked, recalling a distant memory of San’s mother - an older woman he’d met briefly at the Feast of the Dead, enigmatic and silent.

“Didn’t you know, Your Majesty? Choi Aeri, his mother, was one of the most decorated guards of her generation. She served the Crown loyally, though she retired nearly thirty years ago.”

“And how do you know that?” Wooyoung’s voice faltered, and for a moment, he felt as if he’d stumbled into a waking nightmare. He prayed desperately to wake up, to open his eyes in San’s arms and find this day erased entirely. But fate seemed unwilling to grant him that mercy.

“I recognized her crest when San entered the tournament. The older guards would always tell stories of her bravery and loyalty, I grew up hearing about her accomplishments. By all accounts, she was a good woman, a figure of integrity who would have raised San well.”

Wooyoung let out a hollow, humorless laugh. How many more secrets did San have hidden away?

Yunho was excused from the chamber, leaving Wooyoung alone to wrestle with his thoughts. Jongho and Yeosang were no longer standing guard by the door - now Wooyoung waited in silence, bracing for San’s return to their quarters. Although he felt unprepared to confront his husband, the day’s revelations had left him craving answers, even if they would be painful to hear. He longed for more time to calm himself, to process each piece of this harrowing puzzle. But time, it seemed, was a luxury he no longer had.

The facts were clear and undeniable: San was hiding something from him. Though Wooyoung was still uncertain of what that something might be, frustration clawed at him as he ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on the door, as if willing San to walk through it that very moment.

Fate responded to his silent plea. San entered the chamber softly, holding a cup as he always did. Yet he hesitated, surprised to see Wooyoung standing by the window rather than seated on the bed, his usual spot. 

“Oh?” San murmured, his voice tinged with curiosity, though a warm smile graced his lips. He placed the cup on a nearby table, then approached his husband. “Rough day?” he asked, his arm encircling Wooyoung’s waist with the kind of tenderness that usually had Wooyoung melting in his arms right away. Leaning forward, San tried to press a comforting kiss to his forehead, but Wooyoung's hand shot up, stopping him firmly.

“‘Rough’ is a polite way to put it,” Wooyoung replied, his laugh brittle, a sharpness hidden just beneath the surface.

San’s brow furrowed as he tried to read the expression on Wooyoung’s face, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles on Wooyoung’s hip. “What happened?” he asked with genuine concern, his voice a soothing murmur. “Come on, why don’t we get cozy in bed, relax a little, maybe drink your tea…” 

Wooyoung, however, bitterly scoffed at the mention of tea. “Why are you so insistent that I drink it?”

San blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean why do you keep pushing me to drink the tea? Why is it so important?”

San’s face softened, a shadow of concern clouding his gaze. “I thought you liked it?” he answered hesitantly, a wrinkle forming on his forehead as he tried to make sense of Wooyoung’s tone. “Youngie, what’s going on? You’re starting to worry me.”

“Oh, nothing’s going on,” Wooyoung replied, his words thinly veiled with forced calmness as his irritation flared. He had intended to lead this conversation with composure, to discuss things logically - but his emotions surged, unraveling his control. “I just don’t feel like it. Maybe you should drink it for me?”

San’s face fell slightly, frustration flickering across his features as he withdrew his hand from Wooyoung’s waist. “Wooyoung, please, talk to me. What happened that made you act like that? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Wooyoung’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes narrowing as he took in San’s reaction. His face, as if his unspoken suspicions had been exposed for all to see.

“What do you mean?” San’s voice held a note of alarm as he fixed Wooyoung with a wary gaze.

“Oh, Sannie,” Wooyoung murmured, his voice laced with a false sweetness, “surely, somewhere in that mountain of lies you’re keeping, there’s something you’d like to share with your husband?” He batted his lashes in exaggerated innocence, the expression hiding something much darker.

Silence settled over them, thick and heavy, until San finally let out a sigh, averting his gaze. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Truly, I have.”

Wooyoung watched him intently, a spark of anticipation mingling with his hurt as he waited for San to unburden himself of whatever weighed on his soul.

“I have found out what the red blood means,” San finally began, and a flicker of hope and dread surged in Wooyoung’s chest. “It’s part of an ancient prophecy, one that speaks of two individuals whose shared destiny is to bring peace and equality between the silver and golden-blooded, all for the blessing of the Eclipse.”

“And you think it’s about us?” Wooyoung’s tone held a note of skepticism, as if he barely dared to believe.

“Wooyoung, I know it’s about us,” San’s voice grew firm, conviction burning in his gaze. “The red blood signifies we were blessed that night by the Eclipse Themselves. We’re meant to make things right. Together.”

Wooyoung regarded him in silence, his expression inscrutable. Could it be? Were they truly destined to be together?

“And how long have you known?” he finally asked, his voice laced with unmistakable hurt.

“Two days,” San admitted, his eyes softening as he took a step closer, “I was going to tell you, but-”

“But when San? Or maybe you were going to keep it from me as long as possible?” Wooyoung’s voice sharpened as he recoiled, looking at San with a mixture of disbelief and hurt.

“What? Youngie, no-” San reached out, attempting to hold his hands, but Wooyoung pulled back, the action causing an ache to bloom in his chest. San’s face twisted in pain, his eyes pleading.

“How much more are you hiding from me, San?” Wooyoung’s voice grew louder, his anger flaring. “First, you sneak off in the middle of the night to the temple - for goddamn whatever reasons you’re hiding. Then you conceal your heritage and truth about your mother from me, and now - maybe it’s really you who was poisoning me all along?”

San’s face fell, and he took a shaky step backward, his voice barely a whisper. “Poisoning… you? How could- Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve had the honor of learning that someone has been secretly poisoning me,” Wooyoung answered, his tone laced with icy bitterness. “And I must say, it’s rather impressive - to bypass all the security measures that surround me. Makes one wonder who could get so close.” His words were venomous, though his heart screamed at him to stop, pleading that San couldn’t be the culprit, that he had to be mistaken. But anger had taken control, pushing him beyond reason.

“Funny thing is,” Wooyoung continued, a dark smirk on his lips, “all signs point to you, my love.” He stepped forward, cupping San’s jaw roughly in his hand, forcing their faces close, their eyes locked. “Care to explain?” he hummed. “I’d love to hear what you have to say.”

San’s mouth opened, his lower lip trembling as his eyes filled with a mixture of shame and sorrow. “I… I’m so sorry-” he managed, his voice breaking as a sob tore through him. His body seemed to collapse under the weight of his words, and Wooyoung felt him going limp under his grip. Letting go, Wooyoung watched as San fell to his knees, mumbling apologies over and over, the sound filling the room as Wooyoung’s heart shattered, as if it had been wrenched from his chest and thrown against the wall.

“So, it’s true?” Wooyoung’s voice was a fragile whisper as he looked down at San, his face twisted with anger, pain, and betrayal. “All this time… you were the one poisoning me? That’s all you have to say? That you’re sorry?”

“Youngie, I-”

“Don’t you fucking dare call me that anymore!” Wooyoung’s voice cracked, a torrent of fury in each syllable. “How could you? I trusted you!” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “I loved you, and I thought… I thought you loved me too,” he whispered, bitterness tainting his words as he looked down at San, who knelt before him, a pitiful image of grief and regret.

"I-I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear-"

“Cut that bullshit. You can’t poison someone unwittingly.”

"I love you, Wooyoung. I love you so damn much," San sobbed, inching forward on his knees, reaching out desperately toward his husband, clutching the edges of Wooyoung’s shirt as though it were his last lifeline, his only anchor in a crumbling world. "Please, just let me explain, give me a chance to make this right."

"How can you lie right to my face and say that you love me? How can you think that anything would make things right after that ?”

“I-” San sobbed, “I can explain. I’ve stopped with that, I don’t want to keep on hurting you-”

“Do you think it changes anything? That your remorse is enough to make me blindly forgive you and fall again into the trap of your lies?”

San was looking at him with pain laced across his face, at a loss for words.

“Was anything between us ever real, or was that just another part of your act? You playing the perfect husband, taking over my heart and making me fall for you just so you could get rid of me in the end? Was it that San? Did you even mean anything that you've said to me, when you helped me at my lowest? When we had shared joyful moments together?"

San pleaded, his voice cracking with anguish, "Wooyoung, please believe me. I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted to hurt you. I fell for you - deeper than I ever imagined was possible," he whispered, each word trembling under the weight of his desperation. "I fell for you so hard that I can’t even picture my life without you." San’s voice quivered, his body wracked with sobs, making him look almost childlike in his distress.

"So that’s why you chose to poison me?" Wooyoung’s tone was icy and cutting.

He brushed past San, approaching the table and grabbing the teacup roughly, not caring as part of its contents splattered across the floor. He examined the cup with feigned curiosity, humming to himself, “Bet you had a lot of fun with that. I was such a dutiful husband, never suspecting a thing, easier than taking candy from a baby. Did you enjoy watching me helplessly fall in love with you?” He raised his voice, throwing the cup down so it shattered, porcelain pieces scattering across the floor, spilling the rest of its content - the sweet aroma of tea hit his nostrils. 

"They ordered me to do it. I was following orders - blindly, stupidly, like the fool I am." San’s voice cracked, thick with regret. "But I’m done with all of it, Wooyoung. I swear, nothing haunts me more than poisoning you- my Youngie, my love-"

The words struck a nerve. Wooyoung snapped, grabbing a sharp-edged shard from the floor. In a swift motion, he held the jagged porcelain to San’s neck as San continued kneeling. Wooyoung stood behind him, lifting San’s chin with one hand to press his occiput against Wooyoung’s abdomen while holding the shard to San’s throat with the other hand.

“Look at yourself now.”

In this stance, they faced the mirror, watching their shared reflection. San’s gaze remained locked onto Wooyoung’s, even as his throat bobbed with fear.

"I should kill you for this," Wooyoung hissed, his voice a mix of anger and pain as he searched San’s face, looking for any sign of remorse, of true regret. He watched, heart torn, as silent tears ran down San’s cheeks. "But I’m not sure you even deserve the mercy of death."

The truth was, Wooyoung could never kill San.

He pressed the shard just enough to break the skin, his hand steady, savoring a twisted satisfaction at making San feel even a hint of the pain he’d caused, surrendering to the urge for revenge. The shard cut into him slightly, and Wooyoung watched as a thin trail of blood trickled down San’s neck.

No... This couldn’t be...

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed as he held up the shard, studying the edge intently, hardly daring to believe what he saw. But there was no denying it. The sight made an icy chill settle in his bones, shaking him to the core. The shard bore a smear of silver blood - a glimmer barely visible - and that same silver blood trickled from the shallow cut on San’s neck.

"Get out of my sight," he commanded coldly, his words filled with barely contained fury. "Now."

"Wooyoung, please- just let me explain. Let me explain to you everything-" Wooyoung didn’t let him finish. His rage boiled over as he let the shard fall from his hand, shoving San away. San stumbled forward, barely managing to catch himself on his hands.

"Take advantage of my mercy while you still can. I should kill you here and now for everything you’ve done, for every lie, every betrayal. But I’ll give you one last chance to answer me."

Tears threatened to spill from Wooyoung’s eyes, his head throbbing painfully as emotions tore at him - rage, sorrow, betrayal - all leaving a hollow, icy void where his heart had once been, full of love and trust.

"When you held my hand, when you wrapped me in your arms as I slept, when you whispered all those sweet lies into my ear - when you… when you kissed me like I was your world - was any of it real?"

"Everything between us was real," San whispered, his voice barely audible. "I love you with my whole soul, Eclipse bear witness. But I was so entangled in a web of lies and orders that I let it lead me to hurt you, the person I cared about most. Wooyoung, everything is so complicated, just let me explain, please-"

"Get out."

"Please," San begged, his voice choked with emotion. "I’ll do anything- please forgive me-"

"Out." Wooyoung’s voice was dangerously calm, each word heavy with finality. "Don’t make me repeat myself."

As soon as the door closed behind San, Wooyoung collapsed onto the cold floor, unable to hold up the façade of strength any longer. He fell, drained, the weight of his own emotions pulling him down as though he was sinking, drowning in the anguish. His chest heaved with sobs, each breath a struggle, as his lungs felt like they were burning. 

The moment San had left his sight, Wooyoung felt an essential part of himself vanish, as if San had silently stolen away his heart, carrying it with him - without permission. 

And the realization that, despite everything, his heart ached for San made him feel like a fool. 

He wanted to run after his husband, to scream at him, to beg him to say that all of this was just a cruel joke, that nothing he’d confessed was true. Wooyoung wanted to fall to his knees before him, to look into his eyes and hear San say he loved him, that he would never, ever commit such a sin against him.

Rage burned within him, fueled by the deep betrayal he felt, knowing he shouldn’t forgive or forget easily. But even in his anger, Wooyoung couldn’t shake the ache in his chest, a yearning that refused to die. He realized that love had dug its roots too deep, entwining around his heart, and it would not let go easily.

He sat there, weeping, clutching his own arms in a desperate attempt to feel any comfort, something, anything that might offer the warmth and security San had once provided. But it was in vain. The emptiness in his embrace reminded him that he was now alone. For half a year, San had been his solace, his constant, his warmth - and yet, now, Wooyoung felt stripped of all that comfort, adrift without his anchor. 

Somewhere down the hall, he knew San was likely in a spare, empty chamber, just a short distance away. If he wanted to, he could call him back, demand the explanations he’d ignored. But Wooyoung was exhausted, his heart too bruised, and he wanted nothing more than silence. He needed a reprieve, even if only for a moment.

When he finally climbed into bed, his body was weary, but sleep evaded him. His heart ached in the emptiness next to him, the bed suddenly feeling vast and foreign without San there. Every turn, every toss, reminded him of the absence, each movement amplifying the hollow space beside him. 

Wooyoung clung to the slim hope that this was merely a nightmare, that soon he would wake to find himself wrapped safely in San’s embrace, just like every other morning. But reality, cold and unyielding, kept him awake, leaving him to face the fact that morning might never come again.

And even if it did, would San’s presence ever bring him peace again? How could it, after everything that had come to light - the lies, the secrets, the poison that had been so carefully, deliberately administered? After San had toyed with his life, deceiving him with his gentleness while concealing so much beneath it all?

For fuck’s sake, San is silver-blooded.

Yet, the worst of it wasn’t that San had a different blood color. Wooyoung didn’t even care about his husband’s blood being silver when tradition demanded golden blood for a king. That wasn’t what left him feeling hollow and betrayed. Instead, it was the pain of knowing that after all these months together, after everything they had shared, San had still hidden the truth. Wooyoung felt this wound as deeply as any cut, a sting that lingered with each reminder of what they’d had and what had been kept from him.

He felt utterly pathetic. He had bared his heart to San, trusting him fully, offering his love openly and unreservedly. Yet now, he couldn’t shake the doubts, wondering if San had ever been sincere when it came to his actions. Even though San had sworn that he loved him, Wooyoung couldn’t ignore the gnawing question - if he had truly loved him, why had he poisoned him?

Night after night, San had crept closer to taking Wooyoung’s life. And yet, he gave each dosage of poison while holding him close in his embrace, listening to Wooyoung’s stories, comforting him to sleep, pressing gentle kisses to his nape, his cheeks. Wooyoung’s stomach churned as he thought of it - how those gestures, once so intimate and cherished, now felt tainted by betrayal. The memories left him cold, wondering where the truth began and the lies ended. 

When he had let his walls down, melting into San’s arms, surrendering to his touch, and gasping against his lips, had any of it been real? Or had San been quietly mocking his innocence all along?

Deep down, Wooyoung knew that he would eventually have to confront him, would need to listen to San’s side, however painful it might be. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it tonight. He needed time - time to mend, time to process everything that had shattered within him, and, above all, time to offer Yeosang the apology he deserved. His friend had only wanted to protect him, and Wooyoung regretted snapping at him earlier.

Hell, Wooyoung didn’t even know what to do now, now that the truth had unraveled his life so completely - from the poisoning to the revelation of San’s true blood. He couldn’t ignore the implications of exposing this to the council. If he confessed, if the truth about San’s silver blood were revealed, there would be no saving him. The council would demand San’s life as punishment, and Wooyoung’s protests would mean nothing. The kingdom would be forever changed by the fallout.

If the silver-blooded subjects believed that Wooyoung only outwardly supported equality, then why wouldn’t he agree to a King with silver blood? It truly didn’t signify anything. If San were sentenced to death, if Wooyoung stood back and let San die, all the goodwill and trust he’d built would be reduced to ashes. His efforts to bridge the divide between his people would collapse.

Wooyoung buried himself in this justification, determined to believe that it was his sense of responsibility holding him back from uncovering San’s lies.

But the truth, buried deep within his heart, was that he still loved him. His heart refused to let go, even as every logical thought told him he should hate San. Even after the betrayal, he couldn’t imagine a world without San by his side. 

And that thought terrified him.

…

Wooyoung stared at his own reflection, his gaze hollow and heavy. The circles beneath his eyes were dark and pronounced, shadows cast by countless sleepless nights that had drained him of any strength he once had. Without San by his side, he once again found no peace - no matter how exhausted he was, sleep never came. It was as if the only, crucial piece missing was those warm, gentle yet strong arms holding him close as he drifted off to sleep. 

The spark in his eyes that San’s presence had brought into his life was nowhere to be found, replaced by a dull emptiness that seemed to swallow his very soul. He felt weak, a shell of himself, as if all the emotions within him had been bled dry, leaving only a lingering ache.

As Yeosang’s nimble fingers worked across his shirt, smoothing the white fabric that hung loosely over his chest, Wooyoung barely noticed. The shirt itself was plain, offering none of the regal elegance expected of a King, save for a deep neckline that was closed only by a slender strip of fabric around his collarbone. He looked down at it, recalling the finer details of his wedding attire, the memories stirring in his chest despite his best efforts to push them aside. That day felt so distant now, yet strangely close - he had felt similarly then, hollow and anxious, before San had truly entered his life. Now, standing here, Wooyoung couldn’t ignore the bitter taste of irony - that after all this time, he had returned to the same place, looking at his reflection in the same room, caught in an emotional whirlwind as if fate itself had played some cruel joke on him.

“I’m not ready to face him,” Wooyoung whispered under his breath.

The past few days had been spent dodging San wherever possible, and when avoidance wasn’t an option, Wooyoung would walk past him in the halls, refusing to even look his way. And yet, San had made no move to close the distance between them, respecting his need for space and keeping to the shadows, as though he were awaiting his own sentence. Wooyoung had to admit, he hadn’t expected San to give him that much - he thought that San would push, begging again to be heard. Maybe San knew him well enough to know that he needed time to process, to sift through the turmoil that had taken hold of his heart.

But despite everything, the inevitable loomed ahead - they would still have to appear together at tonight’s ball. The kingdom was slowly recovering, showing signs of life and prosperity once more. The farmers were reporting flourishing crops, the people were eager to celebrate the return of warmth, and a fragile hope had begun to bloom in the air, woven into the fabric of the season’s change. And the people would expect to see their Kings happily in love, as they always were.

“I really don’t understand why you’re hesitating at all,” Yeosang’s voice was laced with the kind of concern only a true friend could offer. The day after everything had fallen apart, Wooyoung had found himself pouring his heart out to Yeosang, asking for his forgiveness after snapping at his friend. He told him everything about San - that he was silver-blooded, that he really did poison him, he shared the uncertainty lingering in his heart, and the tangled web of emotions he could barely sort through.

“Yeosang, I love him,” Wooyoung confessed quietly.

“But he tried to kill you,” Yeosang replied, a hard edge of disbelief sharpening his words. “How can you just overlook that?”

“I- It’s not-” he struggled to put his thoughts together. “He has done so much to hurt me, yet he was so tender, so sweet while doing so. It’s so fucked up, I feel like a complete fool for still loving him.”

“May I be honest?” Yeosang asked.

“Please.”

“You’re indeed a fool, Wooyoung.” Wooyoung scoffed.

“It’s just that... I feel he loves me, too,” Wooyoung’s voice was soft, his gaze lifting to the ceiling, fighting back the tears building up, unwilling to let his emotions overwhelm him once more.

“Aren’t you just being desperate?” Yeosang countered, his tone nothing but caring. “Isn’t it possible you’re clinging to whatever might let you forgive him? Wooyoung, you’re a King. You have a duty, not only to yourself but to this Kingdom. You have to think - letting a traitor remain by your side could mean disaster.”

“I feel there’s more I need to know - things I need to hear from him before I can decide.” Wooyoung’s voice was shaky, but there was a stubborn resolve in his eyes.

“How can you be sure he won’t deceive you again?”

“Because… because every moment with him felt real, as though it would have lasted forever.” Wooyoung’s voice wavered with a mixture of frustration and heartbreak. “I never even dreamed of falling in love, Yeosang. I never wanted to, not before I met him. I had accepted that that love was something I would never have, that I would never have anyone by my side, with whom I could share my heart. But San changed that. And I know- I know how it sounds, how crazy I must sound for still believing in him after everything he did to me. How can I say I knew him, when he was lying to me all this time?”

He looked directly into Yeosang’s eyes, who held his gaze with a gentle empathy.

“Do you know what hurts most?” Wooyoung continued, his voice low. “If I could go back in time, if I could undo everything that led us here, I don’t think I’d do it. I wouldn’t erase my love for him. I know him, I feel like I know his soul, not the persona he crafted. The part of him that looked at me with such tenderness, that treated me like I was his world, like he couldn’t see anything beyond me. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he touched me, in the way he held me every time I felt like breaking. Every time reality grew too heavy, he was there, holding me together. He gave me a love I thought was out of reach, a love he couldn’t have faked, no matter how convincing his lies.”

Yeosang didn’t say a word - instead, he stepped forward, pulling Wooyoung’s face gently into his hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears that had escaped, his touch a balm against the pain that twisted in Wooyoung’s heart.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt because of someone who isn’t worth it,” Yeosang murmured with caution.

“It’s already too late for that, isn’t it? But he is worth it, he was my everything, Yeosang,” Wooyoung whispered, his voice cracking. “He still is...”

Because even if San’s intentions weren't pure, he still made Wooyoung feel cherished. 

“Then listen to your heart,” Yeosang replied. “Talk to him, hear his side of the story before you make any final decisions, alright?” Wooyoung nodded slowly. “Good. But for now, let’s go. The people are waiting for their King.”

…

Oh dear Eclipse…

No matter how much Wooyoung tried to hold onto his mask, to keep up a cold, steely facade meant to shield himself from the vulnerability that had overwhelmed him - he found that his own heartbeat betrayed him in that very moment. His heart leaped at the sight of San, wild and joyful, as if he had forgotten all the pain of those endless days apart. 

And as his heart surged, he felt that instinctive, maddening desire to run to him - to feel his arms around him again, to be lost in San’s warmth, as if nothing had gone wrong, that the aching, gut-wrenching betrayal had never even happened. But Wooyoung couldn’t. He couldn’t allow himself that, he couldn’t act that careless no matter how much his heart begged him to. So he forced himself to hold back, and instead, he let the mere sight of San be the balm to his frayed nerves, to his loneliness.

And today? San looked breathtaking.

The soft white, nearly cream-colored shirt clung perfectly to his torso and shoulders, sculpting the familiar lines Wooyoung had known by heart. The ornate collar concealed the healing scar, where Wooyoung’s dagger had been once pressed to his skin. Soft frills trailed down from the collar, carefully blending with the finely tailored, black vest, its center adorned with golden buttons that gleamed under the soft sunlight. San looked every bit confident, his presence emanated power, his gaze sure and steady, and yet... Wooyoung knew him better than that. He could see past the exterior to the subtle signs of fatigue, the small indicators that not everything was as composed as it appeared. 

There, under San’s eyes, faint dark shadows lingered, his features, usually so bold and refined, were slightly softened, even swollen, from restless nights that had marked his face with an almost fragile tenderness. And seeing San like this - so strong yet so heartbreakingly vulnerable - ignited in Wooyoung an overwhelming need to reach out, to touch his face, to pull him close, and to kiss away every worry.

Although Wooyoung knew he should feel anger, resentment, even disgust - none of that came. Instead, a quiet yearning stirred in him, drawing him toward his husband, whispering that maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself to trust San again. 

Something deep within seemed to believe in him, in the love they had shared. Something begged him to listen, to give San the chance to explain. It was as if some unseen force was weaving itself around them, binding them together, refusing to let them go. Wooyoung could feel it, almost physically, this intangible thread that tied their souls together, a connection so intense that it seemed to reach out and tighten each time he tried to pull away. Could this be the Eclipse’s blessing that San had once spoken of? And if it truly was the Eclipse’s blessing upon them, then maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to trust in that bond. It felt like his only hope, a fragile lifeline he desperately wanted to believe in.

San’s gaze met his with a hint of hesitation, uncertainty clouding his eyes, as if he too was unsure how to approach him. But they both knew the weight of duty before them. For the sake of the kingdom and their people, they had an image to uphold. No one could know the turmoil beneath the surface, the ache they both held close to their chests. They couldn’t show the cracks in their unity. Not when they were the heartbeat of their realm, the symbols of stability. And especially not when, so recently, they had shared their affections openly before all, locking them into a role of steadfast unity.

So, with a steadying breath, Wooyoung extended his arm toward San. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet - it was simply a gesture, a small bridge for the sake of appearances. That’s what Wooyoung told himself as he took the step, reminding himself that this was more for their kingdom than for his own heart. 

San’s expression shifted, his eyes caught somewhere between fear and hope, and he seemed to linger on Wooyoung’s face as if searching for some sign that he could still reach him. San’s lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but he hesitated, uncertain if he even had the right to do so. Despite every reason, Wooyoung couldn’t stop his pulse from fluttering when San’s hand slid naturally into place around his arm, closing the space between them. In that single touch, Wooyoung felt himself soften, the familiar warmth of San’s hand filling him with a surge of longing.

Their journey toward reconciliation would be long and tough - Wooyoung knew that. He knew he would need to hear San’s side of the story, to understand what had led them here, but that moment would have to wait until after the ball. He couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by one simple gesture, yet he didn’t deny himself the quiet relief of savoring this one moment. As they walked toward the grand banquet hall, he reveled in San’s presence by his side, a comforting warmth that, for just a little while, dulled the ache in his heart and let him pretend that, somehow, they might still find their way back to one another.

…

San excused himself quietly, slipping away from the grand ballroom just as the festivities were reaching their peak. Hours into the evening, the event was in full swing. Guests from neighboring kingdoms mingled and bonded with the nobles as they waltzed across the polished floor. The large space was alive with vibrant conversations and laughter, woven into the air by the elegant music drifting from a live ensemble. Violins and cellos harmonized beautifully, supported by the delicate notes of a piano, filling the room with a beautiful melody. 

On the upper balconies, council members, ambassadors, and other dignitaries sat with an elevated view, enjoying their prestigious seating and the carefully arranged feast laid out before them. Among the esteemed guests was a select handful of silver-blooded families - a modest but deliberate choice, a gesture meant to lead the way toward progress and inclusion.

Both Kings had anticipated that any abrupt changes toward equality would face resistance from the deeply entrenched noble circles. Many golden-blooded nobles cast disdainful, skeptical glances at the silver-blooded guests, quietly affronted by the sight of people they saw daily as laborers or commoners on the city’s streets. In their tight-knit world, the nobility was a close circle, generations acquainted through countless balls and gatherings, woven together by tradition. New faces, especially silver-blooded ones, did not go unnoticed. 

Thankfully, as San observed, not everyone harbored prejudice, a few of the golden-blooded nobles showed a cautious acceptance, their expressions reflecting a tentative curiosity rather than outright disdain. For San, it was a sliver of hope.

San leaned against the stone railing of a balcony that overlooked the gardens. This was the very spot where he had shared his first kiss with Wooyoung, and the memory was still fresh in his mind. The crisp spring air felt like a balm after the tension of the evening, soothing his nerves. Hours of forced smiles and polite nods, all while resisting the urge to let his gaze linger on Wooyoung for too long had drained him. The weight of unspoken words and the uncertainty between them hung heavily on his heart.

Wooyoung had maintained a carefully crafted exterior throughout the evening, acting as though nothing had happened between them. Occasionally, while engaged in conversation with Hongjoong or other guests, Wooyoung would let his thumb brush San’s hand, their fingers barely intertwined beneath the table, hidden from view. They sat together at a table reserved for the highest dignitaries, on a balcony with a prime view of the ballroom below, a place of honor for the Kings and their closest confidants. But the subtle brush of Wooyoung’s fingers felt distant - lacking the warmth and affection that had once bound them. The touch now served as a reminder of the emotional chasm that had grown between them.

San felt his heart ache with every passing glance, each touch leaving him with a sense of longing, a yearning for the closeness he had come to rely on. Now, that same touch left him torn, painfully aware of his own unworthiness. He believed, in the depths of his heart, that he wasn’t deserving of forgiveness or tenderness - only punishment for his betrayal. Each time Wooyoung glanced at him, with that practiced, cordial smile, San felt the weight of a cold distance between them. His husband’s gaze never truly settled on him, the warmth he longed for veiled beneath the polite mask Wooyoung wore for the assembled guests - performing an intricate dance, a charade for the benefit of those around them.

Yunho, as always, stood nearby, though he had not spoken a word to San for days. San didn’t need an explanation to understand that Yunho, too, had learned the truth. His once-friend now kept his distance, fulfilling his duty not as an ally but as a guard.

Resting his head in his hands, San closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to Eclipse. He needed the strength to return to the ballroom, to continue the evening as though his heart was not weighed down with guilt and regret. 

Just as he was gathering the resolve to go back, a strange sensation washed over him, a pull that set his senses on edge, igniting a spark of urgency. Without hesitation, San turned back toward the hall, pushing his turmoil aside. The air felt heavy, almost electrified, as he re-entered the crowded space, scanning the room for any sign of what had triggered his instinct.

But all seemed undisturbed - the guests were forming pairs for the next dance, the musicians playing a gentle, lilting tune that filled the ballroom with an almost magical calm. And then, across the room, he saw Wooyoung standing alone on the dance floor, waiting, his gaze fixed on San as if inviting him, urging him forward. In that moment, every hesitation fell away, every doubt silenced. How could he deny Wooyoung this dance?

.

However, San failed to notice the shadow slipping through the guests, disappearing behind the curtains on one of the distant balconies near an exit - unnoticed, and with eerie grace.

…

And so, the deadly dance had begun.

The gentle notes of the piano set their feet in motion, flowing through the room and into their movements as Wooyoung pulled San close, guiding him through each turn of the dance. His hand settled firmly on San’s hip, while his other intertwined with San’s own - recreating the very moment from their first dance during the wedding. Once more, they found themselves facing each other - neither entirely certain of the path that lay before them - Wooyoung led them with steady assurance, and San, unwaveringly, followed his lead. However, this time an unspoken weight hung between them, a heavy mix of memories, shared experiences, and the enduring bond they had formed - a bond rooted in love that ran deep.

Wooyoung closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to sink into the music’s embrace. The skilled fingers of the musician stirred something within him, the melody’s soulful notes seeming to awaken longing in his heart. Each sound ignited a response in his body, beckoning him to sway closer to San, to let down his guard, if only for a moment. He felt San’s presence acutely - the familiar scent that spoke of home, the comforting warmth that soothed his frayed nerves, allowing him to drift deeper into the solace of their shared rhythm. 

San followed his movements fluidly, though Wooyoung could sense that his touch was gentler than it had ever been before, as if he feared crossing some invisible line, as if unsure of his right to hold him. Wooyoung silently wished for him to abandon that hesitation, to not hold back.

When he opened his eyes again, the sight that greeted him hit him like a tidal wave - the gaze he had come to know so well, that same look of unguarded love that San only ever wore when they were alone. It was a look that made Wooyoung feel as though he was glimpsing directly into San’s soul, every layer peeled back, revealing the unwavering care and devotion there. San’s cheeks were softly lifted in a gentle smile, a warmth that softened the sharpness of his features. His dark brown eyes held a light that seemed to shine only for Wooyoung, while the slight curve of his lips and the bashful dimples that appeared with it made Wooyoung’s heart momentarily falter.

But he held himself firm, resisting the urge to mirror that smile. He was resolved not to let his guard fall so easily. San had to earn his forgiveness, he would need to prove his commitment and redeem himself fully if he hoped for them to move forward. A pretty smile wouldn’t do the work.

.

High above, from within the depths of shadow, a figure watched the scene unfolding below on the crowded dance floor. How adorable, he thought, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his face as he reached for an arrow, fingers moving with a practiced calmness as he carefully dipped its tip into a vial containing mixture that earlier had been meticulously prepared.

Such a shame that I have to do the dirty work for you, brother, Seonghwa mused, hiding in the darkness, his presence blending seamlessly with the shadows, remaining unseen by every soul below.

He notched the arrow, fingers taut against the bowstring as he drew it back, his aim steady and sure as he fixed his gaze on his target, choosing his mark with cold, unerring precision - Wooyoung’s heart.

The heart that San had been too weak to destroy, a mission San had failed to carry out. Seonghwa had warned Aeri of this eventuality, and now he could only smile to himself, relishing the satisfaction of being proven right as he witnessed this sentimental scene below, where San, instead of finishing the task, swayed, helpless and obedient, in Wooyoung’s arms. He could barely contain his disdain, watching his brother relinquish his role in such a disgraceful manner.

But Seonghwa was no weak link, and his patience had long worn thin. He had grown tired of observing San’s endless displays of reluctance, this shallow pretense of loyalty that stretched on, feeding the farce of a mission that should have ended long ago.

He relaxed his fingers, letting the bowstring snap back, releasing the arrow into the air.

It soared with merciless, unwavering accuracy, heading directly toward its destined mark.

Chapter Text

13.

Wooyoung watched as San’s bright, joyful expression sharpened in an instant, his jaw clenched tightly before he suddenly spun Wooyoung around in a whirlwind pirouette. The movement was unexpected, almost unnatural coming from San, who had never taken the lead in their dances - let alone broken away from the choreography.

“San? What are you doing?” Wooyoung whispered to his husband, feeling tension ripple through San’s body as his muscles tensed.

Then, piercing screams and shouts erupted from the crowd, echoing across the ballroom. Confused, Wooyoung looked around, trying to locate the source of the commotion and panic that swept through the gathered guests. The music abruptly ceased as the pianist froze mid-song, and several people began rushing toward the exits, jostling each other in a chaotic attempt to escape, while the guards surged forward to surround the two Kings.

“Your Majesty!” Yunho shouted, sprinting towards San.

Just then, Wooyoung felt San’s body almost slipping out of his hold, his husband’s weight beginning to falter in his arms. He looked at San again, a dizzying surge of adrenaline coursing through him as fear took hold. He didn’t understand what was happening, what had triggered the panic, or where the danger was coming from. San’s gaze was locked onto him, yet his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he was staring right through him, his vision clouded and distant. His lips parted in a silent cry, each breath shallower and more unsteady than the last, as his chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. Wooyoung steadied his husband’s body with both hands as San’s weight increased, his form growing limp and slipping further into Wooyoung’s arms.

“Woo-”

“Sannie? Sannie, what’s happening? Please, talk to me-” Wooyoung pleaded, his voice thick with panic as he slowly sank to the ground, holding San’s half-conscious form in his arms.

A thin shaft with fletching caught his attention abruptly - an arrow lodged in San’s back. Silver blood seeped from the fresh wound, staining San’s shirt and vest, painting his attire with a silvery gleam that caught the light. The arrow was embedded in the muscle of his back, at the lower end of his left shoulder blade.

They both sank to the floor, Wooyoung kneeling as he held San close, careful not to disturb the arrow and worsen his husband’s condition. Frantic shouts filled the air around them, as the guards formed a protective ring, sending for a medic immediately. They decided not to move San, fearing that any movement could worsen his injuries until the medic arrived and gave further instructions.

San’s eyelids began to flutter closed, each attempt he made to keep them open growing weaker and weaker, until finally, he could no longer fight the pull of unconsciousness.

“No, no, no- San, Sannie, please talk to me, my love-” Wooyoung sobbed, one trembling hand supporting San’s head as it fell limply against his chest. His other hand braced San’s body, holding him as tightly as he could. He felt suffocated - not by his husband’s weight, but by the overwhelming fear flooding him.

“You’re going to be fine, I’m right here, darling. It’s going to be okay, it has to be, do you hear me?” Wooyoung chanted the words like a mantra, as if trying to convince himself as much as San. “I love you so much, please don’t leave me.” His voice cracked as he pressed his shaking lips to San’s forehead, leaving a tender kiss there, watching helplessly as his husband began slipping away in his arms.

“No, no- please-” Wooyoung patted San’s cheeks, trying desperately to keep him awake, but it was in vain. “You can’t leave me, not now, Sannie, please-”

Strong arms began to gently pull him away, but Wooyoung resisted immediately, refusing to let go of San, not for a single moment.

“Let go of me, now!” he screamed.

“It’s for his own good,” Jongho replied, holding his friend tightly, preventing him from breaking free. “The healer is here, they’ll take care of him.”

“He can’t d-d... die. I... I need him, I-”

“I know,” Jongho murmured, tightening his embrace around Wooyoung, who finally surrendered, breaking down in his friend’s arms. Salty tears streamed down his face as he choked on his sobs. Another hand began to gently rub his back, and he didn’t need to look up to know it was Yeosang.

“I-I... need to t-talk to him, I need to know th-the... t-truth...” Wooyoung whimpered, his voice filled with a painful cry, leaning his full weight onto Jongho, who held him silently. Shaking in his friend’s arms, he prayed wordlessly to Eclipse, pleading not to take San from him.

…

The night stretched on endlessly for Wooyoung, every passing moment adding to his exhaustion and despair. Immediately after San was carried out of the banquet hall, Yeosang had taken Wooyoung by the arm and led him to his chambers, refusing to leave his side for even a moment. Wooyoung was grateful for Yeosang’s presence, sensing that he could hardly endure the thought of spending even a single second alone in his room.

The sight of the empty bed filled Wooyoung’s mind with an unyielding flood of memories, each more vivid than the last, memories of their shared laughter and quiet moments that tugged painfully at his heart. He felt his breath catch as scenes from their time together replayed in his mind like ghosts moving through the shadows: the evenings when San would coax him to drink that damned tea, and the pure, peaceful mornings when they were at their closest, honest and unguarded, with no secrets or facades between them. 

All of it was so intensely real, yet somehow so hopelessly distant, a series of cherished moments that he feared might never return. He was worried that he would never speak with San again, or never again feel the warmth of his hand in his own, never again teasing each other, never sinking into the comfort of San’s voice as he shared the simple details of his day.

Soon his body gave out, not able to uphold himself anymore against the doorframe, he collapsed onto the soft sheets, his silent tears giving way to deeper sobs as San’s scent still lingered faintly on the bedding. His throat tightened as he struggled to keep his cries silent. He gasped for air, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting to block out the memory of his husband’s warmth.

The painful vigil seemed to stretch on for hours, his grip on reality fraying with each passing minute until finally, there was a knock at the door, and around two in the morning a message from the medic arrived.

San was alive.

Without hesitation, Wooyoung rushed to the room where his husband lay, unconscious but alive. Not bothering to seek permission, he approached the bedside and took San’s hand gently, his heart thundering in his chest as he knelt by the bed. San’s torso was bare, save for thick bandages that encircled his chest, wrapped tightly around his ribcage at the level of his heart, indicating the wound that lay hidden beneath. The bandages were wound tightly, and San lay on his side, carefully propped up with numerous pillows to prevent any accidental shifting.

“Sannie-” Wooyoung’s voice broke as he let out a sigh of relief, his eyes fixed on the faint, steady rise and fall of San’s chest.

San was truly alive. Wooyoung closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the hand he was still holding, taking a long moment to calm his nerves and find some measure of peace in the steady rhythm of San’s breaths.

“Your Majesty,” the medic’s voice broke the silence, drawing Wooyoung back to the present.

“What’s his condition?” Wooyoung turned his head immediately, though he kept his hold on San’s hand, which felt cool to the touch. He instinctively began to rub his thumb over San’s knuckles, trying to warm them.

“We’re unsure, Your Majesty, King San has yet to regain consciousness since we brought him here. His body temperature and pulse are stable, and for now, he seems… simply to be asleep.”

“When will he wake up?” Wooyoung asked, his voice thick with desperation, earning a sympathetic, almost pitying look from the medic.

“I cannot say, Your Majesty. His body needs time to rest. The wound was deep, but thankfully it missed his vital organs. We managed to stop the bleeding, and with care, the wound should heal properly. However, as for the substance-”

“What substance?”

“The arrow was coated in a black residue, and we’re in the process of analyzing it to determine what it is.” Wooyoung’s face registered shock as he processed the medic’s words.

“Could it be… the same poison that was used on me?”

“No, Your Majesty. Darium toxin is colorless and has a thinner consistency, and it wouldn’t make sense to use it in a direct assassination attempt. Darium doesn’t produce immediate effects, regardless of the dose - it requires regular applications over time.”

Wooyoung let this information sink in slowly. “Inform me as soon as you discover anything.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the medic nodded. “But… I must inform you that I’m required to report all findings back to the council - from the traces of poison in your blood, to the recent assassination attempt, ending with…” He hesitated, casting a glance at San, his eyes lingering on the bandages. “Ending with the fact that our King possesses silver blood.”

Wooyoung managed to nod, though he struggled to keep his face impassive. The weight of this new reality pressed down on him, tightening his chest. If the council learned of San’s true nature, the ensuing consequences could be disastrous. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect San from the council’s call for retribution. Yet there was no realistic alternative, he couldn’t conceal what had happened, especially knowing that news would inevitably spread across the kingdom.

Still, perhaps if he managed things carefully, he might be able to avoid revealing San’s role in the poisoning - at least until he had the full story. The uncertainty made him uneasy, they didn’t know when, or even if, San would awaken. He’d narrowly escaped death once already, and Wooyoung wasn’t prepared to hand him over to the council solely because of his silver blood. After all, did the color of his blood truly matter?

Sleep was elusive that night. After being asked to leave San’s room with the reasoning that both Kings needed rest, Wooyoung returned to his chamber but spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling in his mind. Exhaustion settled heavily over him, but no amount of weariness could quiet his anxieties.

Regret was the most pervasive emotion gnawing at him - he wished he hadn’t pushed San away so quickly, that he’d listened to him that day instead of letting his anger cloud his judgment. 

But deep down, Wooyoung recognized that he was only human, vulnerable to emotion. His love for San had been immense, but so was the pain San had caused. 

Pushing him away had been a rational, if harsh, response driven by betrayal and rage toward the man he had trusted completely. Now, though, with San lying unconscious, and no clue as to what poison had tainted the arrow that struck him, Wooyoung found himself praying for just one more chance to speak with his husband.

The council meeting was scheduled to be convened urgently this morning - an earlier assembly was out of the question due to some council members’ drunk state from the previous evening’s feasting. This delay was also necessary given Wooyoung’s own emotional turmoil, who was worried about San’s condition.

As dawn broke and birds began to sing, Wooyoung knew true rest would evade him for some time. The headache he felt was an unpleasant reminder of the tears shed and the sleepless hours that stretched endlessly behind him. Yet the worst part of it all was the sight that greeted him at the council table - his father seated among the council members. Jaesong hadn’t attended a single council meeting since Wooyoung had ordered him out the first time, his pride too great to return on his own.

Until now.

Once all the council members were seated, Chul opened the session. Wooyoung did his best to mask his pain, though his heart clenched painfully at the sight of San’s empty chair.

“What are you doing here, father?” Wooyoung asked with a sigh, his tone weary but sharp.

“Mr. Chul requested my presence. I trust you don’t mind, Your Majesty,” Jaesong replied, though a bitter smirk twisted his lips - one only Wooyoung could recognize instantly.

“Care to explain?” Wooyoung propped his chin on his hand, leaning forward as he glared at Chul.

“With the utmost respect, Your Majesty, I believe we need to approach recent events with a rational mind.”

“And what does that have to do with my father’s presence here?”

“We require the perspective of a representative of the Jung Dynasty, and I imagine… that Your Majesty is perhaps rather shaken after last night’s ordeal.”

Wooyoung stared at him, the meaning behind Chul’s words sinking in slowly. “You think I’m emotionally unstable?”

“No, Your Majesty-”

“We’re simply concerned for you, my son,” Jaesong cut in, his tone chillingly smooth. “I know how deeply affected you must be. Watching that silver-blooded scum die in your arms… what a tragic image.” He scoffed, his voice dripping with malice. “It would have been better if he had died that way, but I suppose now we have a perfect opportunity to punish him for his treachery. What do you say to… death by a thousand cuts? Letting the traitor bleed out slowly in front of all his subjects?”

“One more word, and I won’t hesitate to grant you that pleasure myself,” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the air, every word edged with an icy finality.

“Your Majesty,” Chul warned, his voice tense.

“See! This is exactly what I mean, you’re not thinking rationally, Wooyoung.” Jaesong triumphantly leaned back in his seat.

Wooyoung drew a deep breath, battling to steady himself as he held his father’s gaze. He wanted to snap, wanted to scream at him - but deep down, he knew Chul was right. At this moment, they needed a deliberate king, not a shaken young man worried about his husband.

Not only San's fate rested in his hands, but also that of the entire silver-blooded population - their fate depended on today's meeting.

“Please, continue Mr. Chul.” 

"There are three pressing topics we need to address thoroughly today," Chul continued. "Unfortunately, we still lack any solid leads on who might be responsible for the poisoning of King Wooyoung." At these words, Wooyoung felt a wave of relief wash over him, though he kept his expression carefully controlled. Inside he exhaled deeply, thankful that the truth had not seen the light of the day. Only the Kings, along with their closest friends - Yeosang, Jongho and Yunho - knew the full story. He was also quietly reassured that they had chosen not to speak a word of it to anyone else.

"I might be bold in saying this," Wooyoung began, meeting the eyes of those gathered, "but I have suspicions that yesterday’s assassin may not be a mere coincidence. In fact, I wonder if that individual might have had a part to play in this larger scheme." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "Isn’t it a strange coincidence that suddenly so many would wish to see either me or my husband dead?" His question hung in the air, casting tension over the room.

"It’s possible Your Majesty has become the target of multiple factions,” one of the members had spoken. "Your Majesty… the nobility is deeply displeased.”

"Displeased? And why is that?" Wooyoung asked. 

“The new order you’ve introduced within the kingdom, Your Majesty, has not pleased the golden-blooded nobles. They believe that the sacred traditions you’ve modified should remain untouched.” The council member's tone was firm, carrying with it the weight of old beliefs and customs.

"Sacred traditions established by whom, exactly?" Wooyoung retorted. “As far as I can recall, the golden-blooded aren’t known for their religious fervor. Where does this sudden change of heart come from? Or perhaps,” he continued, his voice taking on a cutting edge, "they simply don’t like the idea that an era is coming to an end, an era where they ruled others solely because of their bloodline. Tell me if I’m wrong," he challenged, his gaze fixed on each council member in turn.

A voice spoke up, “You’re making a serious mistake, Wooyoung. You’re trampling on the sacred principles entrusted to you, the legacy of your ancestors, as if it means nothing,” Jaesong remarked.

"Perhaps. But it was you who treated your subjects as if they meant nothing," Wooyoung responded, a subtle but unmistakable challenge in his tone. Despite the intensity of his words, his demeanor remained calm and collected. "You played god - deciding who deserved life and who didn’t, who was worthy of shelter and food - just like my grandfather, and those before him. But I draw a line at that," he declared, his voice resonant with finality.

"Is this all because of that scum’s blood?" Minjun scoffed, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain as he looked away.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he responded in a measured voice, "That’s His Majesty Jung San to you, you old prick. Don’t forget yourself." He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a definite edge in it. "And no, it’s not because of him. The silver-blooded have suffered enough. The time for change has arrived," he asserted with authority.

Jaesong raised an eyebrow, issuing a subtle challenge. "Do you truly believe anyone will support you in this?" A slight smirk was playing on his lips.

"Let’s find out, shall we? We will vote now," Wooyoung declared. "From this point forward, we will discuss the future of our kingdom, and I have no intention of tolerating council members who are radical extremists - those who show no respect for life solely because of the color of one’s blood." He glanced around, meeting the eyes of those who had, until now, kept their loyalties hidden. “Those who support my vision of a Kingdom of Crescent - a kingdom flourishing in unity, free from divisions between silver- and golden-blooded subjects - please raise your hand.” The command left his lips firmly, though his heart pounded in his chest.

As Wooyoung scanned the room, hope ignited within him like a fire fueled by oil. The first to raise his hand was Hongjoong, always loyal, ready to support Wooyoung’s vision without hesitation. One by one, others joined him, each raised hand adding strength to Wooyoung’s resolve. Finally, nearly three-quarters of those gathered had raised their hands. Wooyoung looked across the room to his father, who sat defiantly with his arms crossed, his face set in a stony expression of silent opposition.

"Your Majesty, if I may," a voice interjected, drawing the attention of the room to Chul. Wooyoung noticed that Chul hadn’t raised his hand, though he looked at Wooyoung with a surprising warmth in his eyes. "I think the time has come for me to step down," Chul announced calmly. "I have served your father faithfully, and…” his gaze shifted to Hongjoong. “And I believe my son will make a worthy successor. I trust that together, Your Majesty and he will bring about a brighter future for our kingdom.” He gave Wooyoung a warm, knowing smile, his approval a balm to Wooyoung’s soul.

The contrast was jarring to Wooyoung. Here was a council representative, nearly a stranger, who supported his vision wholeheartedly, while his own father sat on the opposite of him, his face as hard as stone, a look almost of contempt for his own son.

Turning to Hongjoong, Wooyoung asked solemnly, “Will you take on this duty?”

"It would be an honor, Your Majesty," Hongjoong replied promptly, bowing his head in deference.

"Then we shall continue our deliberations with the council’s new composition,” Wooyoung proclaimed, his voice gaining a newfound strength. “Those unwilling to support the vision of a united kingdom without divisions may leave now.” As he spoke, he felt a surge of conviction and a renewed hope for a better tomorrow.

Once the council had reshuffled itself according to Wooyoung’s command, the deliberations resumed. Of course, Minjun and Jaesong could not resist adding a touch of drama when they were about to exit the room, making clear their displeasure, but Wooyoung remained composed, determined not to let their antics sway him.

“We shall continue discussing the future of the silver-blooded and the proposed changes to our laws once my husband returns,” Wooyoung declared. "I do not wish to make further decisions without him."

“Your Majesty, but shouldn’t King San abdicate?” one council member interjected, his tone sharp with disapproval. "He deceived us all, sneaking through the Tournament despite not having golden blood."

"Does it matter? On the contrary, this is the ideal opportunity to show that the Jung Dynasty envisions a future for our country that is united. The union between myself and San - as a representative of the silver-blooded - will serve as proof that our intentions are sincere, that our words are not empty," Wooyoung replied, his gaze steady.

"Rational decisions should guide us, not sentiment," someone muttered, the tone heavy with skepticism.

"Sentiment?” Wooyoung responded. "I believe San has more than once proven his worth," he continued, swallowing as he prepared to defend his husband’s honor. He would fight for their happy ending. “He won the Tournament fairly, through his own skill and hard work. Over the past half year, he has ruled the people with dignity, never once letting me down," he added, though his voice faltered slightly as he forced the words past his lips, the lie barely passing his throat.

“So, what? We simply move on, pretending as if nothing has happened?” one council member interjected.

“Oh no, not at all. We will issue a formal statement to reassure that San will continue to be the King. He will act as a link between the silver-blooded subjects and the Crown, someone they can rely on for support and trust to truly represent their interests,” Wooyoung explained his intentions.

The council chamber filled with silent but evident agreement as members exchanged quick nods and looks of understanding. Wooyoung felt a rare sense of satisfaction settle within him. Though he knew that many problems still lay ahead, he was pleased to have this matter settled for now. 

However, another issue remained pressing in his mind: he needed a strategy to clear San from any suspicions that might soon fall upon him. Wooyoung was fully aware that if anyone were to connect the dots, they might conclude that San could be a suspect in Wooyoung’s poisoning. 

For this reason, Wooyoung knew he had to stay one step ahead.

In short order, the captain of the royal guard was summoned to the council chamber, entering with a respectful bow.

“Have you managed to apprehend the person responsible for the attack?” Hongjoong asked, his voice calm but firm.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Do we have anything that could be a clue? Any witnesses?”

“A patrol stationed at the capital’s outer limits reported that, before they received news of the assassination attempt and before we could enforce a full lockdown, three individuals hastily exited the kingdom’s territories,” the guard answered.

“Do we have any information on who they were?” Wooyoung pressed.

“We do not yet know their identities, Your Majesty. We only know that the group consisted of two men, appearing to be around thirty years of age, and one older woman.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Wooyoung inquired.

“Unfortunately, no, Your Majesty,” the captain replied with a slight bow of his head. “We conducted a thorough search of the entire ballroom, but we found no clues. The assassin seems to have been meticulous, covering all traces. We continue to monitor the borders vigilantly, but thus far, nothing suspicious has occurred.”

“So, it appears the culprit has most likely managed to escape?” Wooyoung asked, his voice heavy with contemplation.

“Regrettably, there’s a high probability of that,” the guard affirmed, and somewhere among the council members, a sigh of resignation could be heard, voicing the feeling of frustration all of them felt.

Wooyoung rubbed his temples as the weariness of a sleepless night began to wear him down. “Assuming that the same person is responsible for both poisoning me and attempting an assassination on my husband,” he said, thinking aloud, “how might we verify that these incidents are indeed connected and not mere coincidence?”

“We should wait,” suggested one of the council members, a scholar.

“Wait for what, exactly?” Wooyoung asked, turning his gaze to the man.

“Darium should dissipate relatively quickly if it isn’t administered continuously. If we assume that the suspect has indeed crossed our borders, halting the poisoning process, then the level of the poison’s metabolites in Your Majesty’s blood should begin to decrease naturally through the body’s cleansing mechanisms. Therefore, we should wait and closely monitor Your Majesty’s health,” the scholar concluded with conviction.

“It’s a bold theory,” Hongjoong commented, his tone measured.

But not an unfounded one,” Wooyoung replied, a hint of a smile flickering across his face as he processed the logic. Now that he was aware of San’s actions, he could ensure that his husband would no longer have any role in his poisoning. This way, all responsibility would shift solely onto one individual, making it easier to clear San’s name.

As for San, Wooyoung would confront him privately, on his own terms - but not without a conversation first.

“Then it’s settled, at least for the moment,” Wooyoung said, clapping his hands lightly to signal the close of the discussion. “We’ve all endured a long and challenging night, followed by an intensive council session - be sure to take some rest,” he said, rising from his seat. The other members of the council followed suit as they prepared to depart.

As Wooyoung stepped out of the council chamber, he felt a renewed sense of control. For the first time in a long while, he felt as if he were orchestrating a game of chess entirely on his own rules, each piece moving according to his will and vision. Everything was falling into place, according to his plan.

The King was back in the game.

…

Wooyoung spent nearly the entire following day by San’s bedside, waiting for the moment his husband would regain consciousness. He tended to his wound meticulously, ensuring the bandage remained secure and didn’t bleed through, even though the medic had everything under control and regularly checked on San’s condition.

Still, Wooyoung couldn’t shake his worry.

He held San’s hand firmly, his gaze fixed on the gentle rise and fall of his husband’s chest as he took shallow breaths. Hours dragged on endlessly, each moment more agonizing than the last. Without even realizing it, Wooyoung eventually fell asleep in his chair, slumped in an uncomfortable position. He rested partially against the bed where San lay, seeking solace in his husband's presence, finding faint comfort in the warmth of his skin. For the first time in what felt like forever, Wooyoung managed to doze off.

However, his rest was short-lived. Not long after his eyes had closed, well before he could slip into a deep sleep, the medic roused him with urgent news. The substance found on the arrow had been identified - it wasn’t darium, as initially suspected. Instead, it was a potent soporific draught, administered in a dose strong enough to kill an average man.

The medic suspected that the only reason San was still alive was due to his muscular build, which likely required a higher lethal dose to overpower him. Yet, even this didn’t guarantee when - or if - San would wake up. The dose had been dangerously close to fatal even for someone of his strength.

Despite the grim prognosis, Wooyoung remained steadfast at his husband’s side. He dabbed at San’s chapped lips with a damp cloth and occasionally brushed his hair away from his forehead, planting soft kisses there. Thankfully, San didn’t have a fever, which could have posed an even greater threat to his fragile state.

Nonetheless, nearly two full days had passed since San fell unconscious, and with each passing minute, Wooyoung’s anxiety deepened. In his current condition, San couldn’t properly be hydrated or nourished, and the lack of progress was deeply unsettling.

When the medic temporarily asked Wooyoung to step out to redress the wound, he spent the interim pacing back and forth along the hallway, nerves eating away at him. Upon returning to his chair by San’s side, he felt the same overwhelming helplessness wash over him once more.

San looked so peaceful yet heartbreakingly vulnerable in this state. His face was soft and relaxed, his lips slightly parted, and Wooyoung ached to see the dimples of his smile again. He rested his palm gently against San’s cheek, stroking it tenderly with his thumb.

And then, San’s eyelids fluttered faintly. At first, he squeezed them shut more tightly before they opened just a sliver, only to close again, unaccustomed to the room's light. He parted his lips as though to speak, but a violent cough wracked his body. Pain etched itself onto his face as every movement and tension in the muscles near his wound brought fresh pain.

Wooyoung immediately grabbed a cup of water, holding it steady as he helped San take a sip. Once San had managed to drink, Wooyoung quickly called for Jongho, instructing him to fetch the medic and inform him that San was awake.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Wooyoung took San’s hand in his own once again.

“Where am I?” San croaked, his voice raspy.

“In the medic’s chamber,” Wooyoung replied softly. “You were injured during the ball.”

Finally meeting San’s gaze, as his husband’s fluttering eyes fought to stay open, Wooyoung felt the tension of the past days begin to melt away. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of San’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tired, mostly,” San sighed, wincing as he accidentally moved too abruptly. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Almost two days now,” Wooyoung replied. 

San closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, Wooyoung noticed a mixture of hope and remorse shining through.

“Wooyoung, I-”

“Don’t.” Wooyoung interrupted firmly. “Not now, San. We’ll talk later, once you’ve regained your strength.”

“Will you stay with me a little longer?” San asked hesitantly.

“I was never intending to leave,” Wooyoung assured him.

…

From the moment San awoke, Wooyoung remained steadfastly by his side, always ready to lend a helping hand - whether it was assisting San when bending down caused too much pain in his back or helping him change clothes when he struggled. 

Wooyoung was always there for him.

The day after San regained consciousness, the medic conducted another thorough examination and kept him under observation for twenty-four hours before granting permission for him to return to their shared chambers. Once the medic left them alone again, a heavy silence settled between the two - neither of them knew how to broach the subject weighing on their minds.

Wooyoung wrestled with his thoughts, selfishly yearning just to hold San in his arms again, even though the road ahead of them was long and fraught with challenges. 

It had been over a week since San had last been in their chambers, when the revelations about his secrets first came to light. Wooyoung decided there was no point in postponing the inevitable confrontation.

San cleared his throat, “I’ll sleep somewhere else, don’t worry,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on Wooyoung. “Could you just help me put on my shirt?”

Wooyoung nodded immediately, grabbing a loose shirt and carefully helping San into it without disturbing his bandages.

They walked slowly toward the palace wing where their shared chambers and a spare room were located - where San had stayed before the ball. As they passed the doors to their bedroom, Wooyoung stopped abruptly, reaching out to gently squeeze San’s hand. His husband looked at him, confused, but paused alongside him.

“Do you…” Wooyoung trailed off, chuckling nervously, feeling like a shy teenager about to ask their crush on a date - not a man about to ask his husband for a conversation. “Come with me. That room is as much yours as it is mine, you should sleep in a proper bed.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” San replied, trying to sidestep the offer.

“You won’t. I want to talk with you anyway.”

A flicker of hope lit up San’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

“If you take any longer to decide, I’ll shove you through those doors myself,” Wooyoung muttered, turning and heading into the chamber without looking back to check if San followed.

He knew he would.

They sat side by side on the bed, San propped up against a pile of pillows. 

An oil lamp flickered on the bedside table, its soft glow filling the room. San leaned away from the light, shifting to the opposite side of the bed.

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. But when his gaze fell on San’s soft, unguarded face - the one that once spoke of love and devotion - he knew what his heart wanted to say.

“I’ve missed you,” Wooyoung whispered.

San gave him a small, sorrowful smile. “You shouldn’t. You should hate me.” His lip quivered as he bit down on it. “You should have let me die there, in the middle of the ballroom.”

“Sannie-”

“No, Wooyoung. I don’t deserve to be here with you. I don’t deserve your care. I don’t deserve a second chance.”

“Jung San, I swear to the Eclipse, if you don’t shut up and let me speak, I’m going to lose my temper,” Wooyoung interrupted, cupping San’s face in his hands.

San immediately fell silent.

“You can’t even imagine how much it hurt to see you lying unconscious in that room for two long days, not knowing if you’d survive. All I wanted was to hear your voice again. Nothing can describe how much I regretted not talking to you when I had the chance. I won’t make that mistake a second time. So, San…” He paused, taking a breath to steady himself. “Sannie, please, be honest with me this time and explain everything.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” Wooyoung pressed.

“Do you really want to know everything?” San asked.

“I need to. I want to understand you,” Wooyoung said, releasing San’s face but reaching out to take his hand instead.

San sighed deeply. “Do you remember the woman I invited to the Feast of the Dead?”

“You mean your mother?” Wooyoung’s brows furrowed.

“She’s not my biological mother. I’m not even sure if she was ever anything close to a foster mother. She was just someone who took me under her wing when my entire world collapsed - when I lost everything I had ever known. I was so young then, far too young for what happened.”

Wooyoung didn’t interrupt, his thumb gently rubbing slow, comforting circles on San’s hand.

“Have I ever told you why I’m afraid of fire?” San asked. When Wooyoung shook his head, San continued. “Do you know what happened thirteen years ago?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, San. A lot happened back then - I don’t know what you mean.”

“You see, I could never forget that night. It was the night my parents died. It was the night the merciless King Jaesong ordered the district where silver-blooded people lived to be set ablaze. They claimed it was because we were planning a rebellion against the Crown. But the truth is, we were innocent. Hundreds of people died for nothing, consumed by the flames without regard for age or gender, whether they were a father providing for his family,” San’s voice was tainted with despair, “a mother who was the center of her child’s world, or just an ordinary person who just wanted to live. ”

San paused, his voice trembling, and Wooyoung squeezed his hand gently in reassurance, giving him time to gather himself. He had remembered that night as well, it was the time he started doubting his father.

“My parents were killed because of Jaesong and his thirst for blood.” San’s voice was heavy with grief.

“I’m so sorry…” 

“That night, I wanted revenge,” San continued “I wanted to get even with Jaesong, to make him suffer so deeply he’d beg me to end his life. I was like molten steel, ready to be forged into a weapon, and Aeri… Aeri took advantage of that.”

The mention of Aeri made Wooyoung’s mind flicker to her face, to her sharp, commanding presence. Now, as he thought back, he realized how distinctly different she had always been from San. How had he not noticed before that there was no resemblance between them?

“Aeri gave me hope,” San said, his voice softening as a bitter smile curved his lips. “She made me believe that one day, I could avenge my parents’ deaths. We shared the same vision - both of us wanted justice for the silver-blooded people. And I was young… so blinded by my anger and grief that I didn’t question her. I was a perfect puppet in her hands. I obeyed her without question, training in various combat styles, honing my skills while waiting for the perfect opportunity to exact my revenge.”

“The Tournament…” Wooyoung whispered, connecting the pieces in his mind.

“The Tournament,” San confirmed, nodding. “It was far too easy to get into the very heart of the castle.”

San let out a hollow chuckle. “It was far too easy to become the King.”

“But I don’t understand,” Wooyoung said, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions. “Why would you want to kill me? Why didn’t you come to me instead? I would have listened, San. I would have worked with you, I’m your husband. Together, we could’ve changed the kingdom’s rules, reshaped everything for the people’s benefit. You knew I wanted that - so why?”

Wooyoung’s frustration was evident, but beneath it lay the deeper wound. He had wanted to understand San, but no matter how hard he tried, the lingering pain of not being given a chance gnawed at him. The idea that San had dismissed him, had chosen deception over trust, was a cut that ran deep.

San’s expression was full of sorrow as he answered. “It was Aeri’s plan from the very beginning. I was never meant to stand beside you as an ally. I was only ever meant to use you - to use your trust to take the throne. And once I had it, I was supposed to end the Jung Dynasty by killing you. Slowly. Methodically. So no one would suspect me.”

“You thought I was just like Jaesong, didn’t you?” Wooyoung asked quietly.

San nodded hesitantly, his hands trembling slightly in his lap. “I did. I believed the old saying, ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ I convinced myself you were just as ruthless, just as power-hungry as your father. But I was wrong - so terribly, painfully wrong.”

San’s voice broke as he continued, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You are nothing like Jaesong. You are his opposite in every way. You’re filled with love and compassion, and you truly care for your people. They couldn’t ask for a better King than you.”

San’s lips quivered as he smiled softly, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “I regret everything I’ve done, Wooyoung. So much… I regret it all more than I can ever say.”

“When did you realize I was different from my father?” Wooyoung asked.

San hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “The doubts began to appear when you agreed to build the temple. That was the first time I saw how open you were to change.”

San paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “But my breaking point, the moment I truly knew I’d been wrong, was when we visited the silver-blooded people. Seeing you there, surrounded by your people - seeing the joy on your face as you connected with them - it shattered everything I thought I knew. I realized then how deeply you cared for them, how much love you had for everyone under your rule. And I understood how wrong I’d been to ever think you were like Jaesong.”

“That was in late autumn,” Wooyoung said, his voice tinged with confusion. “Why didn’t you stop poisoning me then?”

“Because I’m a coward,” San confessed, his face contorted in anguish as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “Because I’m a pathetic coward who couldn’t break free.”

He hiccuped, trying to stifle his sobs, squeezing his eyes shut as if to block out his emotions. Wooyoung gently brought San’s trembling palm to his lips, leaving a soft kiss there as a silent gesture of comfort.

San’s voice wavered as he continued. “I knew… I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I just couldn’t stop. I tried to, Wooyoung - so many times, so many nights. I fought with myself, over and over.” He exhaled shakily and opened his watery eyes, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Wooyoung, I wasn’t poisoning your tea every day. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t have the strength. I was so torn. On the days I didn’t use the poison, I felt this strange sense of peace, for those brief moments, I wasn’t consumed by guilt like I was every other day when I gave in. I could look into your eyes without that gnawing shame crushing my soul.”

His smile faltered, replaced by a bitter expression as he shook his head. “But then, those moments of peace would turn into torment. Guilt would find its way back to me, whispering that I was betraying Aeri. She had done so much for me, and I felt like I owed her. After all, wasn’t this what she had prepared me for? To see it through to the end?”

“You weren’t poisoning me every night?” 

“No, Youngie,” San said softly. “For the past few months, I used the poison at most once a week - sometimes even less.”

“That doesn’t make sense. The medic told me that darium needs to be used consistently to have its intended effect. It doesn’t work in irregular doses.”

San’s breath hitched. “But I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to die. I wasn’t even doing it for Aeri anymore. I was doing it for myself. I was too weak to break free from the routine, too afraid to let go of the past. I kept doing it… I don’t even know why. Maybe it was to quiet the chaos inside me, or maybe it was just easier than facing what I had become.”

For a long moment, Wooyoung sat in silence, staring at San with a mixture of empathy and sorrow. It was then that he understood - truly understood.

After all, they weren’t so different in this regard.

The young prince himself had been raised to be someone he couldn’t truly be. He had grown up in a world where the old order was forced upon him, where his father drilled into his mind the belief that golden-blooded people were superior to everyone else. For much of his life, Wooyoung had blindly followed these ideals, too afraid to question them or forge his own path.

He, too, had been too weak to step out of line - just like San.

And so, deep down, Wooyoung found that he couldn’t bring himself to be mad at San. Even though San had hurt him, even though their shared future remained uncertain, Wooyoung understood him.

He couldn’t forsake his love for San.

“Sannie…” Wooyoung began softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. “The medic told me something that has been lingering in my mind ever since.”

San sniffled, wiping at his eyes as he looked up at his husband. “What’s that?”

“He told me that the dosage of soporific draught used on you could have been deadly to an average human. But apparently, it wasn’t for you. Why would an assassin aim to simply put you to sleep? If they were skilled enough to vanish unnoticed from the scene, wouldn’t they have ensured the dosage would kill you?”

San frowned, the gears in his mind turning. “What are you implying?”

“The arrow wasn’t meant for you, was it?” Wooyoung asked, his voice quiet but steady. “It was supposed to kill me. It would have killed me.”

San’s silence spoke volumes. He hesitated before nodding. “I managed to notice the bow aimed at you at the last moment.”

“Why did you protect me?” Wooyoung asked, his voice trembling with emotion. “If you had the chance to get rid of me without staining your hands, why didn’t you take it? You could have freed yourself from guilt, taken the throne, and achieved your goal without any obstacles. So why?”

San's voice cracked with raw sincerity. "Because I love you! And I would do anything to protect you. I would give my life if it meant keeping you safe."

Wooyoung’s chest tightened and the ache in his heart deepened. The ache of desperation to just give in, to fall right there and then into San’s arms, to forgive him for everything. He took a sharp breath, trying to steady himself, but his voice still wavered as he asked, “How can you just say that you love me?”

“Wooyoung… I’ve doubted so much these past months. I’ve questioned myself, my choices, and the person I’ve become. I was lost, unable to recognize who I was anymore. But the one thing I never doubted, not even for a second, was my love for you.”

At those words, Wooyoung broke down completely. His shoulders shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his sobs wracking his body. It felt as though his heart was being torn apart, beating wildly against his ribs as though it might burst from the sheer force of his emotions.

“You asked me earlier if anything I did for you was genuine. And I wish I could give you a simple answer.” He paused, swallowing thickly before continuing. “But Wooyoung, every time I held you in my arms, every time I looked into your eyes, every time I kissed you - I felt like I’d found something I thought I’d never have again. I felt like I’d found home. You became my home.”

San’s voice faltered, his lips trembling as fresh tears welled up in his eyes. “That’s why I was so afraid to tell you the truth. I knew that once you knew, it would mean losing you. And I knew I couldn’t survive losing my home again.”

Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “That’s selfish of you.”

San hesitated, his eyes widening with guilt. His lips parted, as though searching for an excuse, but Wooyoung cut him off before he could speak. “No, listen to me now.”

Wooyoung’s grip on San’s hand loosened, and he let go completely. The moment their hands separated, fear flickered across San’s face, his expression almost desperate. Wooyoung’s heart clenched, but he pressed on. “It’s selfish because not once did you think about how I would feel if I had lost you.”

Wooyoung’s gaze bore into San’s. “I saw the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention,” Wooyoung continued, “I felt every kiss you pressed against my skin when you thought I was asleep. I felt how gently you held me every single night. San, I’ve never felt so loved by anyone in my entire life.”

He leaned in closer, cupping San’s tear-streaked face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the wet trails on his cheeks. “I know you, San. I know the version of you that others forced you to become. But more than that, I know your heart. I know my Sannie. My Sannie, who was there for me when I needed him the most.”

Wooyoung tilted his head slightly, taking in the sight before him. Despite the pain and sadness etched into San’s features, there was a quiet beauty in his vulnerability that left Wooyoung breathless. He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to San’s forehead.

His voice was a whisper as he spoke against his husband’s skin. “Do you remember the story you told me shortly after we met? About the woman who was guided home by the moonlight?” San nodded. “Ever since Eclipse brought us together, ever since we found our way to each other, and you became my home, I’ve never felt lonely again,” Wooyoung whispered. He pulled back just enough to look into San’s eyes, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” hope flickered in San’s tear-filled eyes like a fragile flame. “Could it really be that easy?” he asked, a hesitant smile forming on his lips. His dimples appeared, small but unmistakable, a sight that always made Wooyoung’s heart skip a beat.

Wooyoung’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “It won’t be easy,” he admitted honestly. “It will take time - maybe a lot of time - for me to trust you fully again. But I want you to be there for me, to prove yourself. I want you to be you, and I’ll be there for you. I’ll help you when you feel weak, when you stumble. I’ll hold your hand and help you get back up. That’s what husbands are for, aren’t they?”

San let out a quiet chuckle, “I suppose so. But does that mean you forgive me?”

“It means that I’m willing to give you another chance. Don’t let me down again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” San replied.

They sat in silence for a while, looking at each other with soft smiles.

“Am I going to have to wait much longer?”  Wooyoung asked, his smile widening, a tinge of mischief was behind his words.

San tilted his head in confusion, his brows furrowing. “Wait for what?”

“For my kiss.”

San’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stammered, “Oh- I- I thought that-”

“Oh shut up, you had one job,” Wooyoung whined before leaning over and sealing their lips together in a kiss that overflowed with love, longing, and a desperate need for connection.

San responded instantly, his hands finding their way to Wooyoung’s neck, pulling him closer. Carefully, Wooyoung climbed onto San’s lap, straddling him with a deliberate gentleness, mindful not to cause him any pain.

The kiss deepened, growing more intense and sloppy. San’s hand roamed Wooyoung’s body, his fingers gripping his hips and sliding along his thighs as though he couldn’t get enough. His touch was tender, the other hand was roaming through Wooyoung’s hair, threading into the soft strands of it, tugging ever so slightly. 

Their breaths mingled, hot and unsteady, as the kiss became more desperate, more consuming. Lips pressed harder, moving with a rhythm that was both chaotic and perfectly in sync. 

Wooyoung’s hands slid to San’s shoulders, feeling his mind go hazy, pouring every ounce of his emotions into the kiss - forgiveness, love.

When they finally broke apart for air, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths came in ragged pants. Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered open, meeting San’s gaze full of love and devotion. 

And even though neither of them said it out loud, they both had the same thought in their minds - they were home again.

…

That evening, their roles reversed - this time, it was Wooyoung who made his way to the kitchen, asking for help from a few servants. Thanks to them, it wasn’t long before he held a tray in his hands, carrying two cups, each filled with a tea flavor he knew so well.

Strawberry and mango.

With steady steps, careful not to spill a single drop, he made his way back to their shared chamber. Entering the room with a wide smile, he placed the tray on the bedside table on San’s side. Sitting close to his husband, he handed him a cup of tea.

San smiled at him, his bottom lip trembling slightly from emotion. Wooyoung leaned in, leaving a soft, quick kiss there.

It didn’t take long for them to discover that San wasn’t a fan of this tea - a grimace of distaste twisted his face after the first sip. But it was fine.

It was fine as long as Wooyoung stayed in his arms, chatting about the past and their childhoods. With San finally opening up, they had so much to share, so many stories to exchange.

It was fine, because eventually, they would find a tea flavor that suited San’s taste buds. They had countless evenings ahead of them to figure it out.

…

A few weeks later, once San had fully regained his strength, an official council meeting was convened to issue a decree that would reshape the kingdom’s order.

The kingdom returned to the system that had existed before the reign of the Jung dynasty. Brotherhood and unity between the silver- and golden-blooded was officially restored. Both San and Wooyoung knew these changes wouldn’t come overnight - the process would stretch over months, perhaps even years.

But both were ready for that. They had sworn to their people that they would lead them, ensuring no one would be treated unfairly - that everyone would feel they belonged among the people of the Kingdom of Crescent. That everyone would feel important.

And the people saw this. They saw it in every gesture of their two Kings - who held royal courts more frequently to hear the concerns of their subjects. Who visited their people, where Wooyoung always took significant time to play with the children, for whom he had a soft spot in his heart.

San, as always, watched him with hearts in his eyes, so proud of his husband. After all, Wooyoung had done it - he had finally brought about the order he had dreamed of for so long. And San would make sure to always stay by his side, to support him whenever things grew difficult.

…

One quiet evening, San made the difficult decision to confront the shadows of his past. Wooyoung, unwavering in his love and support stood behind him, pressing his body gently against San’s back. With his arms wrapped securely around San’s waist, Wooyoung held him close. 

Together, they faced the small but flickering flame of the oil lamp that San hesitated to touch.

San’s body trembled violently, his breathing uneven as tears rolled down his cheeks. Each sob was accompanied by desperate murmurs, barely audible, as he repeated over and over again that he couldn’t do it. Fear gripped him so tightly that his hands refused to move. His eyes were shut with such force it was as if he believed that by not looking, the flame could not hurt him. 

Wooyoung leaned closer, bringing his lips to San’s ear, he whispered words of encouragement, his tone soothing. 

“You’re safe, Sannie,” he murmured, his breath warm against San’s skin. “I’m here with you. You’re not alone, remember?” Each word was punctuated by light, tender kisses trailing along San’s neck, grounding him further in the present.

Encouraged by Wooyoung’s presence, San slowly opened his eyes, his vision hazy with tears. His gaze fell on the flame, which danced and flickered in front of him, its light reflecting in his glistening eyes. Wooyoung’s arms tightened around his waist, pulling him even closer, as if to shield him from the memories threatening to resurface. This time, San didn’t find himself trapped in the horrors of the past. He didn’t feel the suffocating weight of the acrid smell that had clung to the air that night.

Instead, he tried to focus on the here and now, on the comforting heat radiating from Wooyoung’s body against his back. That warmth, so familiar and reassuring, seemed to blend seamlessly with the gentle heat of the flame. 

And for the first time, as he stared into the small, flickering light, San realized the flame was no longer as terrifying as it once had been. 

It was just a flame - one that no longer had the power to control him.

…

Over the next few months, Wooyoung underwent a series of tests aimed at determining whether his condition was worsening. Initially, his blood continued to coagulate with the mireun extract, but as the weeks went by, an improvement became noticeable. His body began to independently eliminate harmful metabolites of darium from the system.

…

Spring was not only a time of rekindled love between the two Kings, a symbol of the trust blooming anew between them. It was also a season of collective relief for the entire kingdom.

As spring gradually gave way to summer, it awakened the crops to life, encouraging them to grow once more - a harbinger of wealth and prosperity for a kingdom that had anxiously held its breath since the previous autumn. At last, the people no longer had to worry about their future.

Not when the moon watched over them - not when Eclipse contently kept guard above.

…

With the arrival of night, the full moon had appeared, their faces were once again illuminated by the silver glow - nearly a full year having passed since the night of their wedding - they stood once more before each other, with the ceremonial dagger resting between them.

Over the past months, San had proven himself to be the dutiful husband he had once only pretended to be. But this time, he was genuine in everything he said and did. Slowly, Wooyoung began to trust him again, falling in love with him more deeply with each passing day.

So, they had decided to renew their marriage vows - this time, with complete sincerity. Every word spoken from their mouths came straight from the heart.

“Jung Wooyoung, I vow to stand by your side as your husband and king, with the well-being and happiness of our people in mind. I vow to love you, to support you, and to be your strength in every moment. I swear to bring you your favorite tea every evening, the one you never seem to get tired of,” Wooyoung giggled at that.

“Hey, you forgot to bring it to me three days ago,” Wooyoung teased.

“I’ve apologized to you at least ten times already. We were supposed to forget about it!” San whined playfully. “Anyway, don’t interrupt my vows,” he pouted before continuing, earning another wave of laughter from his husband. “I swear to stay with you in health and sickness, to care for you and stand by your side until my last breath. So help me, blessed Eclipse.” Wooyoung’s eyes were locked on his, with the brightest smile San had ever seen on his lips.

San pressed the blade against his palm, cutting his skin once again. They both watched the golden blood trickle down Wooyoung’s hand, shimmering as the light reflected off it.

“Jung San, I vow to you loyalty and to stand by your side as an equal, as your husband and king. I promise to be there whenever you need me, I promise to always soothe your pain, to always welcome you with open arms and a heart full of love. I promise to be your home forever. I’ll make sure to guide our kingdom to happiness and order together . So help me, blessed Eclipse.” Wooyoung finished, cutting San’s palm.

Silver blood mingled with golden as they joined their hands. This time, they sealed their vows with a kiss.

Lost in each other, they didn’t even notice the crimson blood that trickled down their arms. Once again, Eclipse watched over them, with a blessing to ensure that…

They lived happily ever after.

THE END

Chapter Text

Joyful melodies rang through the streets of the kingdom, echoing with the sound of celebration as the people marked the grand occasion of the three-hundredth anniversary of their kingdom’s existence. The aroma of roasting meats and sweet pastries drifted from open windows and bustling market stalls, the sounds of music and singing carried on the gentle breeze.

The moon, high in the sky, along with two bright stars that had appeared on the horizon several decades ago, shone more brightly than ever before. Their radiance seemed almost magical, bathing the kingdom in a soft, ethereal light that felt like a blessing from above.

The people of the Kingdom of Crescent, a land where the citizens had long known peace and happiness, gathered in unison on this night to mark the occasion. Their faces were filled with joy and pride as they celebrated.

“Gather around me, you lovers of joy, worshippers of beauty, and those who cherish good music,” the bard’s voice rang out, his words carrying across the square. He stood in the middle of the town square, just steps away from the grand temple dedicated to Eclipse. The bard’s fingers danced across the strings of his lute, playing a melody that flowed as naturally as the river, his feet tapping rhythmically in time with the music as he swirled and twirled, inviting more people to join in the celebration. “Tonight, I have a story to tell you, a story of two mighty individuals.”

The crowd began to gather around him, forming a circle of eager listeners. There were children, with wide eyes and smiles, adults, and the elderly, all drawn together by the familiar strains of the bard’s music. The people of every class and bloodline stood shoulder to shoulder, united in the same shared joy, side by side, regardless of whether their blood was silver or gold.

“They weren’t mighty like the great oak tree, with roots deep in the ground, standing tall and unshakable,” the bard continued, his voice growing more intense as he played. “No, they were mighty like the rushing current of a wild river, unrelenting and full of power. They were like an unstoppable force, charged with the energy of change, destined to reshape the world around them.”

The music seemed to pulse with energy as the bard continued to weave his tale. “Together, they walked the winding path of life, bound not just by fate, but by a love that defied every challenge they faced. One of them was of golden blood, and the other of silver - two individuals so different, yet destined to be as one. They were meant to bring peace and harmony back to a kingdom that had been torn apart. When our lands were struck by famine, when our kingdom plunged into chaos, and when brothers turned against brothers - they were the only hope left for us all.”

The bard’s fingers flew over the lute strings, creating a melody that captured the hope and longing of the people. “Forced by the cruelty of fate to join hands, they learned not just to survive but to thrive together. In their differences, they found strength. With their hearts united, they worked tirelessly for the good of their people. And through their actions, they became the very force that propelled the kingdom into a new era of peace and prosperity.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle in the hearts of the listeners. “It is because of them that we stand here today. It is because of them that we can rest easy in our homes, knowing that we are safe and that our future is secure. They did not achieve this through sheer force of will or ancient prophecy, but through the power of their love. A love that could not have been foretold, a love that changed everything.”

The crowd stood spellbound, some with tears in their eyes, others with smiles of admiration and gratitude.

He smiled, then turned his gaze to the youngest among the crowd, his voice softening as he spoke directly to them. “Listen closely, dear children, for the world is ruled by its own laws, and we must understand them if we are to live in harmony with it. But always remember, when you look up at the sky, you are never alone. For the souls of King Wooyoung and King San watch over us all, and their love will always guide us home.”