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Chapter Text

There were only a few empires in the world, and one of the most powerful had undoubtedly been Jintaiyang. Spanning across two medium-sized continents and home to thousands of people, it was an empire that had continued to expand. Life within its borders was prosperous, its emperors were kind, and they had never sought to annihilate other empires—only to form alliances. Not a single drop of blood had been spilled needlessly under Jintaiyang, until the day they were massacred and driven out. The kingdoms and lands under their rule vanished, and only a handful of descendants survived, fleeing to distant lands.

Among these descendants were two teenagers of the noble Wen family, from the kingdom of Xinghai. They took it upon themselves to gather the remaining survivors of the empire, and over the years they formed a small group filled with people burning with bloodlust.

Thus, generation after generation, the Wen grew into warriors—men and women who would not hesitate to kill in order to fulfill their purpose. And what was this great purpose? To become an empire once more. For over two centuries, the Wen had carried the same ambition: for Jintaiyang to rise again in new lands. To achieve this, they pillaged villages, slaughtered thousands, and laid upon the shoulders of every Wen heir the heavy burden of continuing the violence until what had been lost by their ancestors was restored.

It was into this blood-soaked legacy that Junhui was born. He knew nothing of the past, nor of what awaited him in the future. He was merely a child born in a dungeon. No sunlight, no proper food—only a knife, with which his parents trained him every day. “You will be an excellent leader if you learn to use it well, Jun,” they told him, though he could not understand why. And so he trained tirelessly with the blade, until he forgot its true purpose was once meant to cut food, not to stab people.

The first time he saw the world beyond stone walls was at the age of thirteen, when his so-called family finally emerged from the dungeon. He walked in the center of the crowd, shielded by order, his younger brother and cousin at either side, clutching his hands as though terrified of losing him. The sunlight stung his eyes, unaccustomed as he was to it, and the burst of colors from the street stalls of Dravaryn—the buildings, the fabrics, the people’s clothes—seemed like something out of another world. In the distance, towering and splendid, stood the great castle of the Dravaryan kings. It was magnificent.

“Do you like the castle, Jun?” Minghao, his cousin, asked, holding his right hand. Junhui nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “I like it too. It looks like the one from the story my mother used to read to me when we lived below.”

Junhui nodded again in silence, walking on as the adults in black robes led the way, while others followed closely behind.

“Jun,” came the voice of his mother from behind. In moments, she was at his side, lifting his younger brother from his left hand into her arms. Chenle was no longer a baby—he was eight years old—but small for his age, a frail child who wept endlessly. His mother placed a hand on Jun’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper: “I promise you, in a year, that castle will be ours.”

He did not believe her at first, yet her words proved true. A year later, Junhui found himself staring at his sword dripping blood above the body of a young and beautiful woman lying on the floor in a pool of red. She was the crown princess of Dravaryn.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered, dropping the blade beside her. He pressed his hands together, closing his eyes as he recited the prayer for the dead he had once created with Minghao and Chenle. He tried to focus on the words as screams and cries echoed from the royal family being slaughtered in other halls by members of the Wen. Opening his eyes, he crouched beside the princess, reclaimed his sword, and gently closed her eyes with his hand. “I’m sorry… I truly am.” He wiped the blade clean on the hem of her dress before standing, moving on to another hall in search of more victims.

Or as Junhui preferred to call them: the released. He believed those who died swiftly at his clan’s hands were far luckier than those forced to endure life under its cruelty. The scars on his wrists and neck bore witness to the many times he had longed to be one of the “released,” but death had been stolen from him time and time again by his parents, who always dragged him back. Eventually, he surrendered. His personal hell was to continue living—and he had accepted it. It was the least he could do after ending the lives of so many innocents.

That day, he was officially named crown prince of Dravaryn, while his parents declared themselves king and queen, displaying the severed heads of every last member of the true royal family upon the flags of the realm. Junhui would never forget the petrified faces of the townsfolk who witnessed such savagery. Yet to him, such things were normal.

Tragically, that was the truth. In his family, “normal” meant bloodshed, and “strange” meant acts of affection. And though by all rights he should have grown into someone utterly broken, Junhui was, in fact, perfectly sane—or so he chose to believe.

He cared nothing for the empire nor for someday becoming the leader of such a murderous clan. All he wanted was a place truly normal, far away from it all, where it was only him, Minghao, and Chenle. He loved the mountains, and whenever he could, he slipped away to gaze at the distant kingdoms below. He could see little more than rooftops and forests, but he knew that down there were people with ordinary kings, living ordinary lives without fear. Chenle would lie in the grass at nightfall, reaching for the stars with tiny hands as though he could grasp them. Junhui remembered those sweet, fleeting moments with a smile.

Yet as an adult, he no longer spoke to his younger brother. They had grown too distant. He hardly spoke to his parents either; Minghao had become his voice to them in all things. Now he sat in an office of the castle, drawing strategies to kidnap heirs of neighboring kingdoms, forcing rulers to cede land to Dravaryn or bow to the absurd demands of tyrants. Those who refused saw their princes enslaved or executed—the punishment depending solely on Junhui’s mood that day.

He had grown covered in scars, the marks of endless training, punishments from his parents, and failed attempts at ending his own life. They were so many that he no longer remembered how most had been made. His raven hair, the signature of his family, fell in waves across his brow; he never bothered to trim it much, only enough to see clearly. He dressed simply, unlike his parents who draped themselves in extravagance, though the dark palette was a mark of all Wen—“bloodstains are harder to notice this way,” his father always boasted. But Junhui’s most striking feature was not his clothes, nor his scars, nor his disheveled hair. No, it was his eyes. Deep, warm brown eyes that would have been breathtakingly beautiful, if not for the emptiness in them, the lifeless gaze and the heavy shadows carved beneath by insomnia. Even so, despite his disheveled appearance, Junhui was considered the most handsome among the Wen. He thought it ridiculous. He was certainly not the most handsome—not even close. 

But lately, he had only carried two great concerns: the crown prince of Florienne, who was always overprotected by that kingdom’s mighty army, and the prince of Eryndel, Seokmin, whose escape from the dungeon where he had been imprisoned remained a mystery to all. Those worries, however, vanished the moment Minghao stepped into his office and handed him a sheet of paper that had arrived earlier from his most trusted informant.

«The second prince of Florienne, Lee Chan, will be traveling through the Aryvyn mountain border. He carries with him a small troop of nine knights. What distinguishes him is the hilt of his sword, adorned with many carved irises. I do not recommend killing him, for he possesses valuable information. —H»

“Today?” Junhui asked after reading it, setting the note upon the dark wooden desk.

“I was told it may be at dawn,” Minghao replied in his usual quiet, expressionless tone. Since childhood, he had been thin, with long, straight black hair. Though always well-kept and dressed neatly, stray strands often clung to his face in disarray.

The corners of Jun’s lips lifted ever so slightly, a spark of excitement tingling in his chest and fingers. At last, he would have a key piece of Florienne in his grasp—the very kingdom his insufferable parents were desperate to conquer.

“Gather some soldiers. I’ll go personally,” he ordered, rising to his feet. Minghao nodded and left the office, while Junhui moved to the wardrobe in the corner, trading his comfortable attire for garments suited to battle.

If his parents ever discovered the kind of questions he asked the princes he captured, they would likely disown him—and may they do so, Jun prayed inwardly. For before interrogating them about secret entrances to their kingdoms, or bargaining lands in exchange for their well-being, Junhui always began with questions like: “What is life like in your kingdom?” “Is there freedom?” “Are there many plants?” “Are you happy?”

Yes, he reduced himself to a melancholy child.

He departed before the other soldiers, riding ahead toward the Aryvyn mountains, savoring the night’s stillness and the pleasant chill in the air. He needed no map to guide him there; he had climbed and roamed those mountains so many times they had become a second home. And so he went straight to the borderlands. Concealing himself among the trees, he listened—footsteps, voices, the glow of lights not far ahead. Kerosene lamps, burning bright.

Junhui waited patiently by his horse until the voices faded and the lamps went dark. When they did, he launched his attack.

He could hardly contain his thrill, he was finally going to meet one of the princes of Florienne, the most troublesome kingdom on the continent.

Chapter Text

At the sound of branches snapping, Chan’s eyes flew open. He sat up inside his tent and gripped the sword still sheathed in its scabbard, the same one he always slept with in his arms whenever he was on missions. He pulled the flap open just enough to peer through. Despite the darkness, he could make out faint shadows moving near the other tents—his knights’. He thought of signaling the one closest to him, Kwon, but didn’t want to risk alerting the intruders.

Realizing there was nothing left to do but fight, he unsheathed his sword and pushed the tent fully open. Holding the blade firmly with both hands, his voice rang out steady and commanding:

“Who goes there?”

Suddenly, a lamp was lit. A man in a black cloak stepped closer, holding the lamp in one hand while raising the other as though pleading for mercy.

“My lord, we are but travelers. We mean no harm, we only…” The man’s eyes flicked quickly to Chan’s blade before locking back on him. The prince noticed. “We merely wished to ask if you had a map of this area. We are lost.”

“Travelers from Dravaryn?” Chan asked, distrust clear in his tone. The man nodded eagerly, even smiling. “At this hour? And what of the curfew?”

The smile vanished instantly. This time, it was Chan who smiled.

“It takes more than such a foolish ruse to deceive me,” he thought with grim satisfaction, though there was no time to linger. He whistled as he charged forward, forcing the man to drop the lamp and draw two daggers from beneath his cloak. At the sound of Chan’s signal, his knights poured out of their tents, already prepared for battle. Orders were unnecessary; they knew exactly what to do.

The cloaked man tried to close the distance between them, while Chan fought to keep him at bay and strike with his sword. But the cursed Wen were beasts in close combat.

Chan leapt back, unharmed, throwing his opponent off balance. The man stumbled to his knees, and in that instant, the prince pressed his blade to his neck, cutting him just enough to draw blood. The man hissed in pain.

“How many are you?” Chan demanded. “Are there more coming?”

“Long live the Wen!” the man shouted instead of answering, before thrusting his own throat against Chan’s blade. The prince barely had time to react before blood sprayed across him. He staggered back, wide-eyed in shock.

When he recovered a heartbeat later, he saw all his knights lying on the ground. And he was surrounded—figures in cloaks and heavy hoods hiding their faces.

Ah… but I only just arrived. Chan couldn’t help but laugh, dropping his sword before collapsing onto the ground, both hands raised in surrender. With luck, he’d be nothing more than a kidnapped and enslaved prince, rather than having his head sent back to his parents as some gruesome gift.

From among the crowd stepped a tall man, cloaked not in rags but in a dark suit. His expressionless eyes drew the prince of Florienne’s gaze. He had seen this man countless times in sketches.

Wen Junhui, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years of age, the so-called “crown prince” of Dravaryn. In truth, the future leader and tyrant of the Wen dominion.

“Welcome to Dravaryn, Your Highness,” the man said flatly, bending down to meet his eye level. “I do hope you enjoy conversation, for I have much I wish to discuss with you.”

The night was cold, Chan wore little to guard against it, and the ground beneath him was nearly frozen. Yet none of those things chilled him as much as Wen did. There was something inhuman about the man—ghastly, funereal, deathlike. His presence seemed devoid of emotion, and it made Chan’s skin crawl.

More than a “heart of ice,” as many called him, Wen Junhui was like an angel of death. Did the bodies strewn about not disturb him, even those of his own men? Damn it, Chan had one corpse lying beside him, freshly slain in the Wen’s name—yet Junhui ignored it all, the blood’s iron stench, the corpses, everything—fixing his full attention on Chan, as though the prince were the only living thing on this mountain besides the trees and the mist.

Just by looking at him, Chan knew one thing: this man was going to ruin his life. He hadn’t even properly set foot in Dravaryn, and already this? What a joke.

“Grandmother, you were always right,” he muttered, laughing bitterly at himself. “I’m good for nothing.” Shaking his head, he met Junhui’s eyes. “You’d do better to abduct my brother and kill me instead.”

“I don’t think so, Your Highness.” Junhui smiled. Another shiver went down Chan’s spine. It was the most terrifying, lifeless smile he had seen in his nearly twenty-five years. “I know you will prove far more interesting than Prince Hansol. Believe it or not, I know you quite well, Your Highness.”

“Me? How?” Chan tilted his head in confusion. “Have you been stalking me?”

Jun’s smile stretched so wide his eyes nearly disappeared. Straightening to his full height, he extended a hand to help Chan up.

“We can speak in your new home, Your Highness. I cannot promise it will be comfortable, but…” He shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished. Chan ignored his hand and rose on his own, brushing dirt from his trousers. He glanced back just in time to see one of his knights, Kwon, badly wounded, dragging himself away. They had agreed long ago that if an emergency arose, whoever could would return to Florienne to call for reinforcements.

“Oh, wonderful,” Chan muttered with biting irony. “What joy, being kidnapped on the very first day of my mission.”

“First and last,” Jun corrected, seizing Chan’s wrists so that one of his men could clamp shackles around them. “Come. It will be a long journey.” He gave Chan’s shoulder a pat before melting back into the sea of Wen. Another man, not cloaked but dressed as though straight from a funeral, forced Chan to follow behind Junhui.

They bound him onto a horse, and with him rode the same dull-looking man Chan already suspected to be Wen’s right hand—always near him, yet keeping distance from the rest of the clan. Chan’s head bobbed several times throughout the ride, but the relentless rhythm of the galloping horses—his own beneath him, and the others before and behind—kept him from sleep. Dawn came sooner than he had imagined, though the only sights were endless trees. Instead of passing through villages, the Wen had chosen the mountains for their route.

They stopped only twice along the way to rest. Of course, this did not include Chan, who was forced to remain on horseback while all the Wens present relieved themselves, ate, drank water, and sprawled on the dry leaves to rest. His stomach twisted, begging for food, but he was certainly not going to complain out loud. He had endured far longer without eating during past missions and training.

He was about to drift off when a sweet aroma forced his nostrils open involuntarily. His eyes landed on a piece of sweet bread being offered to him. Junhui stood at the side of the horse, palm extended with the bread in hand, while Chan gave him nothing but a harsh glare.

“What?” Chan asked, gruffly.

“Eat something, Your Highness. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

Junhui took a bite out of the bread himself and swallowed it before offering the rest back to the prince.

“I don’t plan to kill you,” something in Jun’s voice rang honest. Chan glanced one last time at the bread before snatching it and swallowing it in a single bite. “…yet,” Junhui added belatedly, smiling in that way that filled Chan with fear. Fear, disgust, shivers, and… many other unpleasant things. Everyone knew the Wen clan was not normal, but Junhui seemed to exceed all limits. Everything about him was strange; his aura was heavy, yet strangely compelling. Utterly terrifying.

Chan shook his whole body, startling the horse slightly, and hurried to soothe it, whispering softly as he usually did with his own horse.

“Ow…” he pouted, thinking of the steed he had left behind near the camp. “I hope they can untie themselves and make it back home…”

Chan’s spirits remained low for the rest of the journey to his so-called “new home,” as Junhui had called it. He couldn’t even walk when he was finally pulled down from the horse, his legs completely numb. Once they arrived, the other Wens dispersed, leaving only Junhui and his supposed right-hand man.

Chan’s new home was a small, one-story house standing in the middle of barren land. Between Junhui and the other man, he was forced inside and immediately chained to iron bars fixed into the wall. The entire house felt like a prison, reeking unbearably of dampness. There was only one window and a single door, both secured with iron. Bars lined all four walls, there was a tiny mattress in one corner, a chair set before it, and a refrigerator. Above the doorframe hung a clock.

Oh, quite cozy. In truth, Chan had expected less.

“If you cooperate, you’ll sleep in the bed,” Junhui said, turning the wooden chair to face him and sitting down. The other man left, shutting the door and leaving them alone.

“What bed?” Chan muttered, grimacing at the pain in his wrists as he tried to lower himself to the ground. “Oh, you mean that rotten little mattress over there? If that’s what you call a bed, I’d rather not cooperate.”

“You spoiled little brats,” Jun grumbled, looking suddenly angry. The hairs on Chan’s neck stood on end. “I spent thirteen years sleeping on the filthy floor of a dungeon. I would’ve killed to sleep on a mattress like that.”

Ah, so this was Wen Junhui when he was angry. Even more frightening. And he lost his temper over the smallest things—what kind of temperament was that? Something told Chan this man would get along with Seungkwan or Eunbi, his best friends, and he almost smiled at the thought, until he remembered his current situation.

It dawned on him that just as Junhui frightened him, so did other things. Chan was scared of certain bugs, of his parents’ anger, and, above all else, of mathematics. So perhaps facing the grim Wen Junhui could be child’s play—if he kept his mind strong and focused on one single goal: completing his mission.

“And what am I supposed to do about that? Is it my fault your criminal family decided to have children in a dungeon just to bring them into this world to suffer?” Chan never had much tact; his softer self was known only by his parents—not even his closest friends or his brother. Was he supposed to treat kindly a mass murderer who had just kidnapped him and slaughtered his squad? “Look, let’s be clear about one thing, Wen. I will not cooperate with you, nor will I pity you for whatever tragic past you might have. Everyone has problems, alright? And mine are far greater than listening to you whine about thirteen years without a bed. Thanks.”

Ha… well…

“Seems to me someone else needed to vent…” Jun muttered. Chan noticed how hard he was fighting not to laugh. That idiot. “I only meant to point out that sleeping on the floor isn’t exactly comfortable.”

“Neither is getting an infection.” Chan flashed him an annoyed smile, and Junhui finally relented, shrugging.

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Junhui cast a sidelong glance at the clock and sighed, folding his arms. “Let’s begin. Just a few questions today, since it’s your first day here, yes?”

“You really think I’ll answer you?”

“They won’t compromise your kingdom’s safety, I assure you. Today, I only wish to ask questions that benefit me personally.”

Chan frowned.

Remember: no Wen is ever normal.

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“What is life like in Florienne?” That weary, lifeless gaze lit up with something different, like a child receiving a gift. “Are the citizens usually happy?”

Confirmed: Wen Junhui was missing a few screws.

Chapter Text

Junhui waited patiently for about twenty seconds for Chan to answer, but the prince only stared back at him as if he’d completely lost his mind. What was so wrong with wanting to know what life was like in other kingdoms? Even a Wen had the right to know that much.

“Are you not going to answer something so simple?”

“No,” Chan replied, and then he smiled.

This man isn’t normal, Junhui thought. Which, coming from his family, might sound a little hypocritical —but the prince of Florienne was definitely not in his right mind. He had just been ambushed, kidnapped, watched his entire squadron be slaughtered before his eyes, seen a man take his own life in the name of the Wen, eaten only half a piece of sweet bread, and spent quite some time shackled to iron bars… and yet he smiled? How strong was his mind, exactly?

The other princes Junhui had kidnapped had fallen apart within hours, but Lee Chan acted as if everything was fine, like everything was going according to his plan.

Honestly, it infuriated him. Why didn’t he cry or complain? Why didn’t he curse and scream? Why didn’t he tremble in fear and beg for his life? Junhui clenched his jaw and tightened his fists at the same time.

“You must be patient,” he remembered all the times his grandmother had told him that as a child. He’d never been able to beat Minghao in hand-to-hand combat, even though he was older and stronger than his cousin. “Things done in desperation often go wrong, and a Wen should never have anything to regret.”

His grandmother had died a year before they escaped the dungeon. And even if Junhui didn’t miss her at all, he had to admit that the old woman had left him with a few decent lessons. Though she had been wrong about one thing: a Wen could indeed have plenty to regret.

Junhui shot up from the chair and kicked it hard behind him. The fragile wooden legs cracked into several pieces, hitting the floor with a sharp, echoing thud. Chan had stopped smiling.

Ah, good.

“I told you it’d be better if you cooperated,” Junhui tried to speak softly. Tried being the key word, because his voice came out furious, sharp like a blade. He stepped dangerously close to Chan, cornering him. “Do you want to die that badly? I could kill you right now if I wanted to.”

“Do it,” Chan challenged, locking eyes with him. “You already slaughtered my squadron. I’ve got nothing left to fight for.”

“Oh? Now you think about your squadron? You’ve been acting for hours like their deaths didn’t touch you.”

“What would a murderer like you know about grief?” the prince spat with venom.

Junhui took a single step back, letting the words pierce through him. Chan was right—what could a murderer like him know about grief? Many members of his family had died, and he hadn’t felt a thing. He’d always blamed it on the fact that he’d never loved them or cared for them, so their lives or deaths made no difference to him. He’d reached the point where even Chenle’s well-being didn’t mean much to him anymore. Maybe not even Minghao’s. Maybe not even his own.

He smiled, or whatever that twisted curl of his lips was supposed to be.

“Do you want to die, Your Highness?” he asked, his voice suddenly calm, soft even.

“Yes. I’d rather die than carry the shame of a failed mission back to my kingdom.”

The anger in Jun slowly melted away, replaced by something else—something that buzzed through his chest, hands, and legs like static. He almost wanted to smile for real. With two fingers, he tilted Chan’s chin upward, savoring how the prince furrowed his brow for half a second before relaxing and showing nothing at all.

“Then I’ll let you live,” Junhui said, releasing his face. He reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out a small, rusted set of keys. “You’ll be free inside this house. But don’t even think about escaping.” He crouched down to unlock the cuffs. Chan winced, immediately massaging his left wrist with his right hand. Both wrists were bruised, the left one even bleeding a little. “I think we can get along just fine, Your Highness, don’t you?”

Chan gave him a look full of disgust and disdain, head to toe.

“If you don’t kill me, I’ll do it myself, no proble—”

So sudden.

His words were cut off when Junhui’s large hand wrapped around his throat, tightening. Chan coughed, instinctively trying to push him away, but the pain in his wrists made him weak.

“You’ll live for as long as I want you to,” Jun hissed. “You don’t get a say in this.” He tightened his grip just a little more, watching the young prince’s face flush red as he weakly pounded on Jun’s chest, desperate for air. This is the same man who led Florienne’s cavalry? How pathetic.

“F… fuck you,” Chan choked out, his tear-brimmed eyes burning with defiance.

Junhui almost laughed. But instead, he simply let go. Chan collapsed to the floor, gasping for air in rapid, shallow breaths. Since he no longer had a chair, Jun sat down in front of him on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Your Highness,” he said lightly, “I just realized I’m not the only one here with personal motives.”

“What the… hell are you talking about, idiot?” Chan rasped, running a hand over his throat. The reddish imprint of Junhui’s hand was clear against his skin.

“I kidnap princes to win my parents’ favor and learn more about other kingdoms. But you came to Dravaryn for what? To end the threats to your brother? To free the people? To put yourself on a pedestal as a hero?”

That same infuriating smile appeared on Chan’s face. Of course. Florienne. Everything about that kingdom was annoyingly irritating.

“Revenge.”

“Revenge?” Junhui repeated, confused.

“You have no idea how spiteful I can get, Wen.”

Had the lack of air messed with his brain? Chan seemed a little dazed, lost… Junhui worried for a second that he’d just turned the prince into a useless wreck who wouldn’t be able to give him any information. He decided to drop the subject of Chan’s personal motives for now. Whatever they were, they didn’t matter. So far, all Junhui wanted was to know what life was like in Florienne—whether the people were happy. Hearing how different other kingdoms were from his own gave him a strange sense of hope. A quiet, forbidden hope.

He looked at the prince lying in front of him, disheveled short, messy brown hair, dried blood staining his clothes from the Wen who’d killed himself earlier that day, and wrists raw and bruised. Not that Junhui looked much better himself, except his clothes were cleaner.

He sighed, stood up, and walked to the door. He trusted Chan wouldn’t try to escape, but still, he glanced back as he opened it. The prince was still lying there, exactly as he had been seconds ago. Minghao was on the other side of the door, standing like a lifeless doll.

“Bring some clothes. Food. And… something to treat wounds,” Jun ordered. The man nodded and vanished in seconds. Junhui shut the door and turned back to find Chan at the far end of the room, flipping the mattress over while biting his lip, probably to distract himself from the pain in his wrists.

“What are you doing?”

“Maybe the underside isn’t as rotten as the top,” Chan muttered, finishing the task and sighing with relief. Just as he’d guessed, the underside was less disgusting than the surface now facing the floor. He shook off some dust and dirt with his hands.

Ridiculous. Everything about him was ridiculous.

“I thought you preferred the floor,” Junhui mocked. Chan shot him another glare. “What’s the easiest way to get into Florienne?” Jun asked.

“I thought today’s questions weren’t supposed to compromise my kingdom’s security.”

Touché.

Junhui smiled—this time, genuinely. Chan was unbearable, but Junhui was starting to enjoy playing with him. Unbearable and fascinating. What a dangerous mix.

“Seems like neither of us is very good at keeping our word, don’t you think, Your Highness?”

Chan didn’t answer. He just dropped onto the mattress and closed his eyes, sinking into the faint comfort after hours on horseback and long, painful minutes standing in chains.

( ၴႅၴ

Minghao returned exhausted under the overcast afternoon sky, carrying in a bag all the things Junhui had asked for. He had gone all the way to the castle just to pick everything up and immediately rushed back to the small house in the mountains where the prince of Florienne was being held captive. Honestly, his cousin was a pain in the ass.

Another thing—Minghao had known for hours that Chenle was following him. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill them, but this was his little cousin and the “Second Prince,” so all he could do was keep walking as if nothing had happened. He hated that feeling of being followed and not being able to act on it. It was unbearable.

If Chenle found out that a prince of Florienne had already been kidnapped and Jun hadn’t told their parents yet, there would be a real mess among the Wen. Minghao would be punished, and stupid Junhui would get mad at him for letting his dumb little brother find out about everything. But what could he do? He was stuck in the middle of a mess.

In the end, it was all Junhui’s fault, like always. Every problem in Minghao’s life existed because of that stupid heir of the Wen clan. And yet, at the same time, Junhui was the only one who could solve them. Maybe that was why Minghao stayed so faithfully by his side. Truth be told, he didn’t have a choice. He was only alive because of Jun, and he had to give something back in return.

Even so, those weren’t good enough reasons to put up with so much. He continued walking toward the house, spotting Chenle poorly hidden behind some trees a few meters away, and knocked on the door, exhausted.

Jun opened, took the bag, and shut the door again.

“Bastard,” Minghao muttered, raising his fist angrily at the door as if threatening Jun through it. And then, a truly awful idea crossed his mind—a decision he would regret later. Junhui’s grandmother had always said that the Wen should live without regrets, but Minghao wasn’t a Wen. He was a Xu. That didn’t apply to him. He could have as many regrets as he wanted.

“Jun, keeping the prince of Florienne hidden isn’t a good idea. It’d be better to tell the kings as soon as possible!” he shouted loud enough for both Jun inside the house and Chenle behind the trees to hear. “You know how much they hate it when you hide things from them!”

The door opened again.

“Mind your own business, you little shit,” Junhui spat and slammed it shut.

Minghao stood there, speechless.

“You are my business!” he wanted to scream at that idiot. He wanted to shake him, kick him, punch him. But instead of doing any of that, he took a deep breath and returned to the composed man he always had to be. Xu Minghao, twenty-five years old, with a miserable life, had to keep his composure. His life depended on it.

“Hao!” he heard a whisper behind him. Turning around, pretending to be surprised, he saw Chenle’s head peeking out just a little while the rest of his body stayed hidden. Minghao crossed his arms and walked toward him.

“You know you’re not allowed to leave the castle, Chenle.”

“Yeah, so what?” the boy rolled his eyes, and Minghao clicked his tongue. No one respected him—ever. “Hey, so my brother kidnapped Prince Hansol?”

“No, the other one,” Minghao whispered like it was a dangerous secret, even though it was just the two of them there. “Don’t tell anyone,” he added, fully aware Chenle was a hopeless gossip.

“I promise, I won’t tell anyone… absolutely no one,” Chenle nodded like he was trying to convince himself. “Alright! I’ll go back to the castle.”

“Do you even know how to get back?”

Chenle gave him a sheepish smile.

“Take me back, Hao?” he asked, forcing a childish, innocent tone. Minghao let out a long sigh.

What a life… what a damn life. Minghao just wanted a break.