Chapter Text
Yeosang blinked awake to soft morning light filtering through the silk curtains, a golden haze draping the quiet of his chamber. The sheets beside him were cold.
Wooyoung was gone.
For a moment, he lay still, disoriented, before his eyes landed on the tray at his bedside. A modest breakfast—tea still steaming, warm rice porridge, and sweet buns—had been placed there in his absence. The quiet felt strange. Suspicious.
He sat up slowly, his muscles still aching faintly with the aftershocks of fever, but stronger than the day before. He ate in silence, barely tasting anything, eyes darting toward the door more than once.
There was no note. No sign of Wooyoung. No answers.
When the servants came in, everything felt normal again. They helped him dress, their hands swift and professional, adjusting his ceremonial robes and smoothing back his hair. The usual gentle banter flowed around him—light jokes about the weather, the palace gossip, a comment about how color was finally returning to his face.
He barely responded, distracted, trying to piece together the wrongness lingering in the air.
Then, just after they bowed and turned to leave, Yeosang heard the click.
The unmistakable sound of the door locking from the outside.
He froze. “What was that? Hey,” he called out. Yeosang darted to the door and pulled on the handle. Locked. His heartbeat surged in his chest.
“Open this door!” he snapped, slamming his fist against the wood. “Open it!”
No answer.
He slammed it again, panic creeping up his spine like a cold tide. He rattled the handle furiously before backing away, breath quickening.
What was going on?
Why was he locked in?
Where was Wooyoung?
And most of all—who had given the order?
His fists curled at his sides. A slow fire burned in his chest now, rising above the remnants of fever. Whoever thought they could shut him in his own palace—shut him away from him—was about to find out just how much of the prince still remained.
Yeosang paced the length of his chamber, back and forth like a caged animal. The once-comforting space—his sanctuary of embroidered tapestries, carved wood, and gold-accented silence—now pressed in around him like a prison. Each locked second stretched long and taut. Each breath more bitter.
His world is unraveling.
First Wooyoung. Then the locked door. And now this deafening silence from the court.
He grits his teeth, rage simmering beneath the surface, but beneath that, deeper still, is fear. Is it his own brother who orders this? Has Yunho taken his threats seriously? Too seriously?
His heart pounds with dread. Has he gone too far? Too fast? Should he have been more subtle, more patient—less honest about what he is willing to do for love?
No.
He squares his shoulders and strides to the door, slamming his fist against it once more. “I demand to see the king!”
A long pause.
Then, muffled voices. Movement.
And finally, the door creaks open.
Yunho enters, flanked by two guards. He dismisses them with a wave, calm as ever, dressed in muted, impeccable silks that suit his status. He looks like a statue carved from marble—cold, elegant, unreadable.
Yeosang’s voice is hoarse with disbelief. “You locked me in.”
His brother arches a brow. “You were ill. The physicians advised rest.”
“Do not lie to me.” Yeosang steps forward, fury blooming in his chest. “You locked me away. After everything. After I begged you—trusted you—”
“Trusted me?” Yunho’s voice barely rises, but the sharpness cuts like a blade. “You stood before me, flushed with fever and desperation, and threatened the entire royal family over a common criminal. And now you question my trust?”
“He is not—” Yeosang’s throat closes around the word. “He is not a criminal.”
“No?” His brother crosses the room slowly, folding his hands behind his back. “He aided in the burning of two noble houses. Conspired with a known traitor. Lied to the court. Lied to you. And now the servants talk.”
He meets Yeosang’s gaze, hard and searching. “That you were willing to throw away everything for him.”
Yeosang stares at him, trembling, then lifts his chin. “I would.”
The words hit like steel.
Yunho doesn’t flinch. He only looks at him, long and tired.
“Is this love, brother?” he asks quietly. “Or just rebellion dressed in silk?”
Yeosang swallows the lump in his throat. “He chose me. And I will abandon him now.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then Yunho exhales, rubbing his temple. “You are making this very, very difficult.”
“Then do not make it harder,” Yeosang says. “Let me see him. Let me speak. Let me fix this.”
“I am not sure if it can be fixed,” his brother replies, weary. “But I will consider it. I will not let you shame this family. But I will not see you destroyed either.”
With that, Yunho turns and leaves.
He pauses at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe as if it weighs more than gold, his voice stays steady—gentle, almost kind.
“I had no choice, little phoenix.”
Yeosang stands rigid in the center of the room, his eyes already glassy, mouth parted like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “No choice? You locked me away. You are sending him to trial. You promised—”
“I never promised anything,” Yunho says, not cruelly, but with the exhaustion of a man who has already run the conversation a thousand times in his own head. “I said I would think. I have made up my mind. And this is the only path that keeps the court calm. That protects you. That protects the throne.”
“At what cost?” Yeosang’s voice cracks. “You are going to let him die. For what? So the nobles keep their peace?”
Yunho doesn’t answer. The silence only makes the words fall harder when he speaks again: “He wikl face judgment. As is proper. Whatever the verdict may be.”
Yeosang takes a shaky step forward. “Please… please do not do this. You do not know him. You did not see—he was trying to protect his friends. He was not the one who—he did not start the fires. He is not—”
But Yunho shakes his head.
“I am truly sorry,” he says softly. “More than you know. But I will not jeopardize my kingdom for your heart.”
And that is the end of it.
Yeosang’s knees buckle. He catches himself on the edge of the settee, breath heaving now, hands shaking with the effort to hold back what is already spilling from his chest.
Tears stream down his cheeks, unchecked. “Don’t do this,” he whispers. “I love him. I love him, hyung. Please!”
But Yunho doesn’t turn back.
He steps out of the chamber and gives a quiet order to the guards. Then he leaves—without looking back once.
The door shuts with a quiet click and Yeosang is alone again.
He crumples to the floor the moment the door clicks shut, as if the sound itself has snapped the last thread holding him upright. He doesn’t even make it to the bed—just sinks to the cold marble floor, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them like he can fold himself small enough to vanish.
He sobs until his ribs ache and the breath won’t come right anymore. Until every inhale hitches like broken glass in his throat, and still it isn’t enough to wash the pain away. The walls blur through tears, then turn dark with the weight of his grief, swallowing the last sliver of hope that maybe, somehow, this has all been a bad dream.
I love him.
The words echo, useless now. Shouted into a locked room, to a door that won’t open, to a brother who has turned away. His chest hurts—not just from the fever that still clings like a second skin, but from something deeper, more unbearable. The ache of knowing Wooyoung is out there, alone, in chains, facing inevitable doom because he hasn’t protected him in time.
Yeosang curls tighter, arms shaking as the heat from his skin builds into something feverish again. He barely notices it at first—only that the floor is cold and his body too warm, sweat beading at the back of his neck. But then the chill turns to shivers, the warmth to dizziness, and the tears to fever dreams.
He doesn’t even feel himself slipping—only that one moment he is weeping in the dark, and the next he is somewhere else.
Flames lick at the edges of his mind. Smoke clouds the air. He is running, barefoot through a burning garden, thorns biting at his feet. Wooyoung is ahead of him, calling his name, always out of reach. The fire rises between them like a wall. No matter how fast Yeosang runs, he can’t close the distance.
Then the fire turns into hands—grabbing, pulling—his brother’s voice echoing through the inferno like judgment: “I had no choice.”
“No,” he whispers in the dream. “No, no, no—”
But it is too late.
The flames swallow everything.
And in the heart of the fire, Wooyoung turns away.
And Yeosang screams.
Back in his locked chambers, curled on the floor and slick with sweat, the prince whimpers in his sleep—lost in the fire he can’t outrun.
But he is a phoenix. Isn’t he?
***
Wooyoung sits slumped by the window, arms curled loosely around his knees, his eyes fixed on the bruised dusk sky, but it does nothing to soothe the storm inside him.
He feels hollow. Not the kind of hollow that comes from sadness, or even fear but the kind that creeps in when hope begins to rot. When time passes too slow, when each breath feels borrowed. He wishes Yeosang would appear, even if just for a moment. Just to look at him, to say something.
Anything.
But the silence holds.
He imagines Yeosang’s hand in his. Imagines the warmth, the way his thumb would brush so gently along Wooyoung’s knuckles when he thought no one was looking. The memory feels like an open wound now.
The lock scrapes suddenly, metal against metal, sharp and final. His head snaps toward the door just as it creaks open. Two guards stand there, stern-faced, unreadable.
“Stand,” one of them orders.
He doesn’t move.
They exchange a glance, then step forward and haul him up, not unkindly, but firmly—like he is no longer a man, just something to be delivered.
He tries to ask where they are taking him, but his throat is dry, voice caught behind exhaustion and dread. His feet drag slightly as they lead him through the corridors, past tapestries and sconces, past curious glances and murmured whispers. It feels like a walk to the gallows. His heart beats louder with every step.
Then the doors loom ahead—the throne room doors. Massive. Watching him like eyes.
They open.
The space inside is colder than he remembers. Vast and quiet. Except for the echo of footsteps and the slow whisper of silk as nobles turn to face him.
There stands the Park family in muted mourning colors, expressions rigid. There, beside them, the Kims. Lady Kim clutches a silk handkerchief, her eyes rimmed red. The magistrate's face is dark, gaze cutting toward Wooyoung like a blade.
And up at the dais—empty.
No king. No prince. Just judgment waiting.
The guards halt him in the center of the marble floor. Alone. Exposed.
He straightens his spine as best he can, despite the bruises, despite the ache in his ribs, despite the sheer wrongness in his limbs. The room smells faintly of incense and scorn.
And Yeosang is nowhere in sight. Has he given up on him after all?
The hush in the throne room is suffocating—every breath drawn feels like it might echo.
Wooyoung stands in the center, spine aching but unbowed, though he knows his fate has already been written.
Then the door opens behind the dais and the king enters.
Tall, broad-shouldered, robed in dark and gold embroidery. His face is stone, unreadable but aged by fatigue and fury.
Still no sign of Yeosang.
The king sits with the weight of a man who has borne decades of power, his eyes locking on Wooyoung’s as if he were a stain upon the marble.
When he speaks, the room trembles.
“Jung Wooyoung,” he says, voice deep and sharp. “You stand before the crown as a criminal. A simple man who clawed his way into the royal court.”
Wooyoung doesn’t flinch, but the words feel like a noose tightening.
“You broke into the palace. You stole from the royal family. You endangered the ailing prince by misleading and kidnapping him under false pretenses. And if that were not enough—”
His voice darkens.
“—you assisted in the coordinated arson of two noble estates, an act of terrorism. One that left a man dead. You conspired with traitors. You fled the scene. You endangered civilians. And you helped your co-conspirators escape justice.”
A murmur ripples through the room. Magistrate Kim's lips twitch—not with grief, but something colder. A smile. Smug and vindicated.
The king silences the room with one lift of his hand.
“Justice demands balance,” he says, tone final. “You have brought violence and disgrace into the court and blood upon noble hands. The punishment must fit the crime.”
Wooyoung holds his breath. Just one heartbeat more.
“You are hereby sentenced to death.”
The judgment is quick. Stone-faced. Like the king himself just wants to get it over with.
The words ring like a bell tolling over a battlefield. Cold. Reverberating. Irrevocable.
Magistrate Kim smiles fully now—tight and cruel, a predator watching a trap close.
Wooyoung feels the weight of it crash down on him. Not fear. Not yet. But grief. Not for himself, but for what this means—for Yeosang. For his family. For everyone he holds close to his heart.
He swallows hard, but says nothing.
He has expected this. Always suspected that someday he would end up like this. And now that time has come. Sooner than he hoped. And his heart aches for everyone he let down.
But still, some desperate part of him hopes—please, let this not be the end.
The halls leading down to the dungeons are darker than he remembers. The scent of soot still clings to the stone, mixing with damp earth and rusting iron. The guards flank him—two of them, tall and expressionless, gripping his arms tighter than necessary. His ribs scream with every step, but he keeps his pace steady. Eyes forward.
But his mind is racing.
The verdict still echoes in his ears: You are hereby sentenced to death.
Yet it feels somewhat surreal.
It rings louder than the clinking of keys. Louder than the guards’ boots on the stone. Louder than the voice in his chest screaming that this can’t be how it ends.
Not yet.
They reach the long corridor that leads to the dungeon stairwell, lined with faded banners and ornamental vases.
Wooyoung’s eyes flick briefly to a heavy porcelain vase standing atop a narrow column at the corner.
And then—without hesitation—he acts.
He staggers forward, as if his leg has buckled beneath him, and slams his shoulder into the base of the column. His ribs shriek in protest, but the result is worth it: the column tips. The vase wobbles—
—and shatters with a crash that echoes like thunder through the stone corridor.
The guards curse, jerking in surprise. One of them instinctively rushes to check the damage, turning slightly. The other’s grip on Wooyoung’s arm loosens for a split second—
And that is all he needs.
With a swift flick of his wrist, Wooyoung slips two fingers beneath the guard’s belt—just enough to find the chain of iron keys.
“What the hell are you doing?” the second guard barks, yanking Wooyoung upright again. “That thing’s older than you.”
Shit.
“Must’ve slipped,” Wooyoung wheezes, playing up the wince in his face.
The first guard grumbles and shoves him forward, no wiser.
They march him the rest of the way down and slam the cell door shut behind him, locking it tight. The iron bar rattles, then stills, the keys jingling as they walk away.
Wooyoung sits in the dim light, breathing hard.
The clink of the guards’ boots recedes down the corridor, but their voices—careless and low.
“…locked up his own brother, can you believe it?”
“Madness,” the other mutters. “Prince Yeosang’s been crying like a child, begging for the thief. King’s had enough of it. Ordered him confined to his quarters until the trial’s done.”
Wooyoung’s breath catches in his throat.
Yeosang.
Another laugh from one of them, sharp and cold. “Serves him right, fraternizing with the likes of that. Love or not, treason’s still treason.”
The voices drift out of reach.
Wooyoung sits utterly still, the key clenched tight in his fist.
Yeosang has been locked up. Because of him.
It shouldn’t surprise him. Yeosang has risked more than he ever should have. For him. For something fragile and dangerous they’ve only just begun to name. The prince has stood before the court, before his own family—and pleaded.
Loved him, openly.
And now he is paying the price.
Wooyoung feels the shame of it roll over him like a wave. But it doesn’t paralyze him. It lights a fire behind his ribs hotter than the pain.
They aren’t going to die like this. Not caged. Not controlled.
Not apart.
He has to get out. And he has to get Yeosang out too.
He scans the cell, eyes sharpening. Every inch, every corner. Every guard’s rotation in his memory.
We burn, we break, we run if we must. But we do it together.
The hours pass by—slow and suffocating.
Wooyoung doesn’t sleep. He paces the cramped cell, bruised ribs protesting with every motion, but he ignores the pain. His ears are tuned to every sound beyond the iron bars: the shuffle of boots, the clink of keys, the muttered complaints of bored guards.
He watches. Listens. Counts.
One guard passes every thirty minutes, sometimes alone, sometimes with another. They don’t always stop at his cell, but when they do, it’s a quick glance through the bars, a sneer, and they move on. They aren’t worried about him.
They don’t know who he is.
They believe he’s just a street rat, But he’s broken into palaces. He‘s outrun nobles, stolen from under their noses. And if he got in… he can get out.
He needs to get to Yeosang.
The idea has been growing in him since the moment he heard the guards speak. It blooms now into something clear.
He isn’t just escaping. He is going to take the prince with him.
A prison break and a kidnapping. Or maybe a rescue.
And he thinks: He won’t forgive me if I don’t try. He risked everything for me. Cried for me. Fought for me. Now it’s my turn.
His mind spins with escape routes, servant corridors he’s snuck through before, which gates change shift after midnight, which staircases have blind spots in their guard pattern. He’s spent enough time creeping around this palace to know its bones better than some of the staff.
And Yeosang is likely still locked in the royal wing. More guarded than usual, but still surrounded by people who underestimate a simple thief.
By the time the guard passes again, Wooyoung is leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, face slack with boredom. Inside, though, a storm is building. He has a plan to finish.
And by tomorrow night, he swears— They will both be gone.
Wooyoung knows he should be scared of the dawn—of what it means: exposure, judgement, the cold inevitability of death creeping closer with every tick of the sun. His body aches, ribs throb with every breath, but deep inside a fierce determination burns brighter than fear.
Long after midnight, when the palace halls are draped in silence and shadow, he lies still, eyes fixed on the flicker of torchlight passing his cell bars. The steps come closer—one guard, pacing alone, the familiar thud of boots echoing through the corridor.
Wooyoung’s lips curl into a sly, cruel smile. It is time.
He calls out, voice rough and low, dripping with mockery. “What, you think you’re so important, strutting past like a lord? Bet you wouldn’t last a night in these walls.”
The guard hesitates, then sneers, stepping inside the cell. His breath smells of stale ale and tobacco.
“You’ve got some nerve,” the man growls, shoving Wooyoung hard against the stone wall.
Pain explodes across his ribs, but he grins through it, playing the part of the defiant prisoner. “Maybe. But it’s the last thing they’ll remember before I’m gone.”
The guard’s patience snaps. Fists rain down, brutal and fast. Wooyoung takes the blows, jaw clenched tight, teeth gritting against the sting. His vision blurs at the edges but he refuses to fold.
When the guard finally stops, panting, he turns to leave.
Wooyoung’s hand shoots out, desperate—reaching for the key on the man’s belt.
But his fingers only graze emptiness. The key slips away, lost during the flurry of blows.
The guard door shuts, the clanging echoing in Wooyoung’s ears as he sinks to the floor, chest heaving, frustration and pain warring inside him.
Damn it, he thinks bitterly. So close.
Even as the darkness presses in, the stubborn spark in his heart refuses to die. He will try again.
Wooyoung lies sprawled on the cold stone, every breath a knife. Blood crusts at the corner of his mouth, mixing with sweat and dust. Pain pulses in waves through his broken ribs and bruised muscles, but it doesn’t matter.
The thought of Yeosang keeps him going.
His head lolls against the wall as he waits, heart thudding, the ache in his body threatening to lull him into unconsciousness—but he holds on.
For that soft voice calling him back from the edge.
For warm hands on his face, for love in the dark.
For the promise he’s made with no words, only glances and stolen kisses: I’ll burn the world down for you.
The next guard passes.
Wooyoung stirs and hisses, loud enough to catch his attention. “Hey, coward. You scared of a man in chains?”
The guard barely glances at him and keeps walking.
He sags. One shot missed.
About thirty minutes pass before another set of boots echoes down the corridor.
This one stops.
“You never shut up, do you?” the voice barks, lower and rougher.
“Why would I, when I’ve got prettier things to say to a donkey like you?” Wooyoung slurs, smirking even as pain bites down his spine.
The man wants to continue his round as Wooyoung, desperate now, goes for a low blow.
“Bet your mother is a beauty, maybe she’ll tend to my wounds,” he says sickly sweet.
Finally the cell door clanks open. “That’s it.”
The blows come fast. No hesitation. Stars burst behind his eyes, but he lets it happen, keeps his mind focused, hands shaking as they move.
The guard lifts his arm for another punch—
And Wooyoung’s fingers close around cold iron.
Finally.
The key slides free from the belt with a practiced twist, barely a sound. He curls his hand around it tight as the guard gives him a final shove and spits at him.
“I hope you choke on your own damn blood. You fucking rat.”
Wooyoung doesn’t even look up. The pain almost kills him as tears of agony run down his bruised cheeks. But it is worth it.
When the cell door slams again, and the boots stomp back into shadow, he lets himself sag.
Barely breathing. Almost broken. But the key is in his hand.
Wooyoung presses his forehead to the stone and laughs—a weak, rasping sound of pain and victory all wrapped in one.
Just one more quiet moment. That’s all he needs. Then he’ll run. Not just for himself— But for the only person who ever makes him want to live for something more.
“For you, my stupid little prince.”