Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snow finally came.

After months of heat and pouring rain, Kaizenix was white again—rooftops, fields, and even the narrow alleys buried under a clean layer of cold. The palace lights glowed faintly through the storm, hundreds of lanterns burning for the coming winter solstice. Even the distant villages and empty fields glistened under the moon, their quiet broken only by the crunch of footsteps and the laughter of people huddled together against the cold.

In a small workshop at the edge of town, Yoo Joonghyuk was bent over a pair of unfinished boots. The smell of leather and wax hung in the air. Two women stood nearby, their coats still dusted with snow as he worked.

“—And even the commoners are invited, they say,” a woman’s voice carried over the sound of snow tapping at the panes. She was wrapped in a thick shawl, her nose red from the chill. “The ladies and the gentlemen, too. Apparently, the new prince doesn’t discriminate.”

“What a rumor!” said her companion. “But how can he produce an heir if he marries a man?”

“Adoption, I suppose. Like the king and queen did for him.” The first woman shrugged. “I heard people say that it’s wiser—choosing your heir instead of gambling on nature.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t interrupt. His focus was on the stupid stitch pattern along the boot’s edge, his fingers moving with practiced precision. Its maker had clearly done a shoddy job with it. He would have to measure it along the woman’s foot and redo the entire stitch.

“Well, not that it matters for us,” the first continued. “I’m taking my Clara to the celebration, but she’s hardly a beauty—oh, are you finished already? My, that was quick.”

He rose smoothly, brushing his hands against his apron. “Your boots will be ready in three days. If something changes, my sisters will deliver the message.”

The women exchanged a look—one of those pitying glances people shared when they thought they were being subtle.

“Ah, your sisters,” one said carefully. “It must be hard, running this shop and looking after them.”

Joonghyuk’s jaw tightened. “We manage.”

It wasn’t a lie. Lee Jihye kept the accounts, making sure they didn’t fall too far into debt, but she was still seventeen. Loud, impulsive, endlessly curious. The kind of person who could turn a well deserved quiet morning into chaos within three sentences and Yoo Mia was…young, it was difficult sometimes for both of them to convey what they felt but it was heard through the silence regardless, he was grateful for that. Joonghyuk didn’t resent them. He just didn’t always know what to do with them.

“Poor boy,” one woman murmured, soft enough to be polite. “So much responsibility for someone his age.”

He set down the boots a little harder than intended. “We’re closing soon,” he said. “You should get home before the roads freeze.”

They startled, then smiled, collecting their things. “Of course! Thank you again.”

The bell above the door rang as they stepped out into the snow.

For a while, only silence filled the workshop. Then, faintly through the walls:

“So efficient, that one. They say he works even faster than his father did.”

Joonghyuk paused. The words settled somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and uncertain.

His father.

He tried to remember — but the memories were like mist. They came and they went, but he could never hold onto enough for some reason, all his memories before Yoo Mia came into his life were fuzzy at best and absent at worst. He tried not to think about it, wallowing in the past would hardly pay their bills.

“Faster than his father,” he murmured under his breath. He wasn’t sure whether it was praise or mockery.

He blew out the lamp and sat at the workbench, flipping open his ledger. Columns of numbers, notes in careful handwriting. A few coins from the day’s sales, enough to last the week. His fingers ached faintly; his shoulders, too. He ignored both.

When he finally looked up, snow was still falling outside — slower now, drifting past the window in thick, heavy flakes.

For a moment, he simply watched. The way it covered the world felt quiet, almost kind.

He stood, gathered his coat, and stepped into the street. The cold bit through the air, sharp and clean. The town was half-asleep — lamps flickering behind shutters, smoke curling from chimneys. Somewhere down the road, he could already hear Jihye’s laughter spilling out of their house.

He sighed.

By the time he reached the small cottage, the door had already been left half-open — a sign that Jihye had come home late again.

Inside, the warmth hit him immediately. Mia was sitting by the hearth, darning a glove, while Jihye crouched on the floor with a pair of half-finished boots she’d “borrowed” to experiment on.

“Back already?” Mia asked without looking up. “Did those women pay in full this time?”

Joonghyuk nodded, hanging his coat. “They did. And you’re supposed to keep the door closed.”

“It’s not cold!” Jihye protested, grinning. “Besides, I was waiting for you.”

He gave her a look. “You were waiting while ruining my work.”

“Improving,” she corrected.

Mia sighed, but there was fondness in it. “Ignore her. Dinner’s on the stove. And before you protest—” she added hastily when he moved to speak, “we followed the instructions from that book you wrote for us, step by step. Not a single deviation. Plus we have news for you.”

“So much news.” Jihye said with a grin that already meant bad news.

He shut his mouth.

Joonghyuk looked around—at the uneven walls, the patched windows, the faint warmth that never quite reached the corners of the room and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh.

It was hardly perfect. But it was theirs.

He sat down, the fire crackling beside him, and for a fleeting second, the quiet felt almost enough.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

"No."

"Oppa—"

"I said no. Jihye I understand, but you too!?"

"Joonghyuk," Jihye said carefully, raising her hands as if approaching a stray cat. "Please just hear us out for once."

"Waste of time," Joonghyuk answered, going back to his food. "Waste of money. It's pointless."

Across the table, Yoo Mia set down her spoon with quiet frustration. “You’ve been working nonstop for months. One evening won’t destroy our savings and leave us to starve.”

“It’s still a big expense. Dresses, shoes, perfumes, so much more.” His voice was low but strained. "And even if we ignore all of that, what am I even supposed to do there? Smile? Pretend I belong? Talk pretty to some washed up noble, hoping they'll take enough of an interest in me?”

"It could be a worthwhile investment."

"But what if it isn't, Jihye? Have you thought about that?" He'd already set the spoon down and his hand was clenching at the side of the table again until his knuckles turned white. "I'm a guy, for god's sake."

"The Crown Prince doesn't discriminate." Mia added hopefully. "Besides, out of all of us, you're the only one who's of the same age."

"Yeah, same age among thousands."

Jihye opened her mouth to argue again, but Mia gave her a warning glance. “Oppa, please. You can afford to enjoy yourself once in a while.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because—” He stopped, teeth clenched, then forced the words out. “Because someone has to think about what happens after the music stops. Someone has to make sure there’s something left when all this—” he gestured around the table, at the warm fire, the patched walls “—falls apart again.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Mia's expression softened, but her mouth stayed stubbornly set. “We’re not falling apart.”

He laughed mirthlessly under his breath. “How would you know that? You don’t see it because I don’t let you.”

That came out harsher than he meant. He realized it instantly — the flash of hurt in Mia’s eyes made something twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly. “I'm sorry I just—”

“Forget it.” Mia pushed her chair back and stood, eyes cold. It was times like this he was painfully reminded of how similar she was to him. “You’re tired. Eat something before it gets cold.”

“Mia—”

But she was already turning away. Jihye followed her with her gaze, frowning before looking back at him. “You could’ve said that nicer, you know.”

Joonghyuk leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I know.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. The fire crackled. The snow outside muffled the rest of the world.

“Fine,” Jihye muttered eventually. “We’ll drop it. For now.”

He nodded, grateful and guilty all at once.

When he finally went to his room later, the air felt colder than usual. The house was small, the walls thin; he could still hear the soft voices of them talking in the next room, low and tired. He wanted to go apologize properly, but instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the dim firelight.

He hated arguing with them. They were all they had left.

The door clicked softly as Jihye stepped in.

He sighed. “What is it?”

“You’re really bad at pretending you’re fine, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re terrible at knocking.”

“Habit,” she said, slipping inside anyway and closing the door behind her. She sat cross-legged on the floor, chin resting on her hand. “Mia’s upset.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s just worried. We both are.”

I know. I'm grateful. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.

Joonghyuk didn’t answer.

“So,” she went on after a moment, “how about we cut a deal?” 

He gave her a wary look. “None of your ideas are ever any good."

“Not if you listen,” she said, grinning briefly before her tone softened. “If you’re worried about money, I'll ask for extra shifts at the kitchen this month.”

"You can't possibly be serious. You hated working there! And that ugly old bastard will never—"

"You have got to respect Pildu-ssi more you know?" She interrupted. "He's technically our landlord."

"Landlord my ass." Joonghyuk muttered darkly.

That got a laugh out of her. "I'll talk to him, don't worry about that."

Silence returned to the room, lighter this time. Neither of them spoke and the low crackle of the lamplight filled in the gaps.

Finally, Jihye said, “You didn’t mean what you said earlier, right?”

He stared at the floor. “…No.”

“You always say things like that when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re scared something will happen again. That you’ll lose us.”

His throat tightened. He swallowed. “That’s not something I can afford to risk.”

You two are all I have.

He studied her in the dim light. Seventeen, still clumsy, still loud and somehow unshakable. And for once, he didn’t have the strength to argue.

"It's just one night, Joonghyuk. Nothing's gonna happen to us."

"Okay."

She grinned. "Can I take that as a yes?"

"Yes, for the two of you. I'm still not going."

Jihye stood up and stretched her arms, yawning. "Please tell me you'll at least think about it."

"I will."

Jihye smiled, tired but sincere. “Good enough for me. Thanks Joonghyuk.”

When she left, the room felt colder — but lighter, too.

Joonghyuk sat there for a long time, staring at the small fire in the lamp until it went out. His chest ached with things he’d never learned how to say. How could he? There was no way to put the panic that clawed at his chest from time to time into words. He knew it was unreasonable, what could possibly happen to them in a royal palace? But he couldn't help it.

He would apologize to Mia tomorrow.

For now, the only sound was the snow against the window, and the faint echo of Jihye’s voice in his head.

He slept.

Chapter Text

It was the evening of the ball, and Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t regret his decision. Not even a little.

The past few days had been chaotic. Half the town suddenly remembered they needed dancing shoes before the solstice, and everyone came running to his shop with wide eyes and last-minute bribes. He’d told every one of them off for their poor planning—then stayed up half the night finishing their orders anyway.

Now, finally, the house was quiet. The snow outside had swallowed every sound except the creak of floorboards under his boots. For once, there would be no chatter, no arguments, no one knocking on the workshop door every five minutes. Just silence. Blessed, perfect silence.

He exhaled slowly. Freedom.

The peace lasted all of thirty seconds before Lee Jihye burst through the door.

“Joonghyuk, look!”

Mia followed right behind her, adjusting the sleeve of her coat. “Jihye, stop spinning before you rip it.”

Joonghyuk blinked at them, broom in hand. They looked nothing like the girls he’d eaten breakfast with—hair neatly done, faces bright, their dresses stitched and fitted with a precision that made even him pause.

“Well?” Jihye grinned. “How do we look?”

Joonghyuk gave them a long, considering look. The dresses weren’t very expensive, they didn’t have the money for anything like that, but they’d worked hard to make them look that way—hand-sewn ribbons, repurposed lace, colors chosen carefully to flatter. He was…proud, if he was being honest. But he’d rather bite his tongue than say that aloud.

“Presentable,” he said instead.

Jihye groaned. “You can’t even pretend to compliment us?”

“I said presentable,” he replied. “That’s higher than average.”

Mia laughed. “Take the compliment, Jihye.” She turned back to him. “Are you sure you’ll be fine here alone?”

“Completely.”

“You could still change your mind,” Jihye tried. “It’s not too late.”

“It is for me,” he said, sweeping up a pile of dust with almost exaggerated focus. “Go. Have fun. Talk to people. I’ll stay here and do something actually useful.”

Jihye crossed her arms. “You mean cleaning?”

“Yes,” he said without irony. “Cleaning.”

Mia gave him a long look, then smiled—small and patient. “We’ll bring you back something sweet, okay?”

He only hummed in response.

As they finally stepped out, the sound of their laughter trailed behind them. Through the window he caught a glimpse of their figures disappearing into the snow, wrapped in scarves and excitement.

He should’ve felt lonely. Instead, he felt his shoulders drop with the first real sigh of relief he’d had in weeks.

He could already imagine the noise of the palace—the endless greetings, the crowds, the music, the forced smiles. The very thought made his stomach turn. Dancing with strangers? Talking? Socializing? Ew. He almost laughed. No, this was better. Infinitely better.

He shut the window and turned back toward the quiet house.

For the first time in ages, there was no one to stop him from doing exactly what he wanted: sweeping the floor properly, checking the pantry, reorganizing the tools on his workbench by size and frequency of use. Heaven.

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as he worked. Every now and then, he caught himself smiling—small, fleeting, but real.

When the chores were done, he planned to curl up in his room with one of his old books he'd never managed to finish reading, maybe even make tea if he felt indulgent. Just one calm evening to think, or not think at all.

But of course, peace never lasted long in his life.

He had just set the broom aside when someone knocked on the front door.

He froze, eyes narrowing. The knock came again—polite, but firm.

Joonghyuk muttered a curse under his breath and considered ignoring it. If he stayed still, maybe they’d think no one was home. Whoever it was could surely take a hint.

Another knock.

He sighed through his nose, shoulders slumping. “So much for peace,” he muttered.

Tucking the broom under his arm, he went to the door and pulled it open.

He went still.

Some woman was standing there, half-leaning against the frame as if she owned the place. Her hair was a wild mess of shoulder length dark hair, and her eyes glowed faintly—not from the lantern light, but something far less natural. A smirk curved her mouth as she chewed, quite happily, on something that looked suspiciously like one of the dumplings he’d made for breakfast today.

“Mm,” she said, licking her fingers. “Not bad. Bit too neat, though. You kneaded the dough for too long, didn’t you?”

Joonghyuk slammed the door in her face.

“Rude.”

Joonghyuk turned.

The same woman was standing in the middle of his workshop, brushing snow off her shoulders.

“Seriously,” she said, flicking a crumb from her sleeve. “You open the door, I give you some culinary critique, and you slam it shut? That’s the problem with humans—no manners.”

Joonghyuk’s brain took about two seconds to reboot. Then he lifted the broom.

“What the hell—get out of my house!”

“Aw, come on,” she said, completely ignoring the threat of being bludgeoned. “I came all this way to thank you for the food. You didn’t have to leave it out for me, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“What!?”

“Ohhhhhh, wait. I think it was your sister that left it out?”

He swung the broom.

She sidestepped, laughing. “Are you honestly trying to hit me with a stick?”

“Get. Out.”

“Calm down broom boy.”

He swung it again in a wild arc. “I’m perfectly calm!”

“You’re yelling.”

“And you’re in my house!”

She snorted, barely avoiding the next swing. “You don’t invite family to your home? I’m your godmother! Surprise!”

“Listen up lady, I don’t know which psycho factory you escaped from but if you don’t get out of my house right now I swear to God I’ll—”

He threw the broom at her head. Which, admittedly, terrible move. You never give up your weapon like that but the situation was getting more and more ridiculous by the passing second.

It passed through her in a faint shimmer of smoke, hit the far wall, and clattered to the floor.

It passed through her.

Joonghyuk just stood there. “…What the hell are you.”

“Half-demon,” she repeated cheerfully. “Han Sooyoung. Professional nuisance, part-time miracle worker. Also, I’m your godmother now, since you didn’t have one already. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m calling an exorcist."

“Good luck finding one that takes your side,” she said, smirking as she floated slightly off the ground, just to piss him off. “Most of them owe me money."

He dragged a hand down his face. “Why is this happening to me?”

Sooyoung just shrugged.

He lunged for the broom again, but it was gone—vanished from the floor.

She was holding it now. Upside down. Like a scepter.

“Really?” she said, mock-serious. “Did you honestly think you could hurt me with a piece of wood?"

Joonghyuk’s eye twitched.

“Wow, you look ready to commit homicide.”

“Tell you what,” she continued, twirling the broom around in her hands. “You go to the ball, play nice for one evening, and I’ll leave you alone."

What was it with everyone wanting him to go to the ball!?

“Tempting,” he said dryly. “Except for the part where I say no. Kindly fuck off.”

“Tough luck. You’re going.”

There was a pop and Han Sooyoung vanished and reappeared. Except this time, the demon was leaning upside down from the ceiling, idly swinging one leg in circles. Her grin was sharp.

“I told you to leave.”

“And I told you I don’t particularly care.” She dropped to the floor, landing perfectly on his workbench. “You’re still not ready for the ball, by the way.”

“I’m not going.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hand, unimpressed. “Every idiot says that before they trip over fate and fall into a romance subplot.”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Please get out of my house.”

Sooyoung sighed dramatically. “You’re really going to make me do this the hard way.”

Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed. “If you even try—”

She snapped her fingers.

There was a faint sound, like the crack of ice. Then a flicker of light, dim but deep, running across the floorboards and curling around his feet.

Joonghyuk felt his skin prickle. He looked down—and froze.

His work clothes were gone. In their place was something absurdly formal: a dark suit, tailored perfectly to his figure and embroidered with faint gold thread, sharp enough to look expensive and good enough to piss him off. On his face, sat a mask.

“What the—”

“Tailored by yours truly,” Sooyoung said, grinning. “Try to think of it as a bonus. You actually look good when you clean up and are not covered in…whatever it is that you were covered in. You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You never agree to anything. That’s why people have to summon me.”

He took a slow breath and reminded himself that murder was illegal. “Undo it.”

“No can do.” She popped another dumpling into her mouth—he didn’t even know where she’d gotten it from this time. “You’ve got a royal ball to attend.”

“I’m not leaving this house.”

“You’ll regret that."

“I’m regretting opening the door.”

Sooyoung rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist again. The door flew open by itself, a wind rushing in so strong it almost shoved him back. Frantically his eyes darted around the room, searching for another excuse to stay home. "The housework!" he burst out at last. "Someone needs to do it, and if I'm not home—"

The half-demon sighed and waved the broom around like a wand, almost immediately the room cleaned itself up better than it had in years. “Done. Can you leave now?”

"Wait!" Joonghyuk shouted as the wind dragged him towards the door. "No!"

“Go on,” she said cheerfully, completely ignoring him. “Carriage’s waiting. The spell breaks at midnight, yadda yadda—you know the drill. Try not to trip over your own existential dread before then.”

“You’re insane!”

“Probably,” she said cheerfully. “Now move before I make the floor collapse.”

He glared, but the wind pushed harder. His boots scraped against the floor. “This isn’t going to work,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Keep saying that to yourself.” Sooyoung said, sitting on the table, eyes bright with amusement. “Maybe if you say it enough times, it might come true.”

Joonghyuk hesitated. The cold air bit at his face; the snow outside glowed faintly under the moonlight.

“Come on Yoo Joonghyuk,” Sooyoung gently nudged him with the broom. “Do it, no balls.”

“If I get executed for punching a noble in the face,” he muttered, “I’m haunting you.”

Sooyoung grinned. “Finally, a promise worth keeping.”

He stepped outside. The moment his foot hit the snow, a faint shimmer lit the path ahead—a carriage waiting, black, sleek and unfamiliar, horses stamping their hooves impatiently. It was steered by a man in a tall hat whose face he couldn't see.

Behind him, Sooyoung’s voice echoed lazily, already fading.

“Don’t worry, hero boy. Midnight, everything goes back to normal. Clothes, courage, probably the carriage—poof. Try not to embarrass me before then.”

"Probably!?"

The door slammed shut on its own.

Joonghyuk stood there for a long second, breathing out slowly, every muscle in his body screaming no.

And then, like every other terrible decision in his life, he got in the carriage anyway.

Chapter Text

The library was too bright for Kim Dokja’s liking right now.

Dozens of golden chandeliers burned above him, throwing light over rows of polished shelves, over the white marble floor, over him—sitting in the corner, halfway through a book he’d already finished reading ages ago.

He tugged at the collar of his ceremonial coat for what felt like the hundredth time. The fabric was fine silk trimmed with gold thread, heavy on his shoulders and stiff at the sleeves. Beneath the white outer layer gleamed the subtle pattern of Kaizenix’s crest—an eclipsed sun framed by laurel leaves. The outfit looked perfect. It also felt like being slowly roasted alive.

He scratched at the edge of the collar and muttered an incredibly colorful string of curses.

“You’re talking to yourself again, Your Highness.”

Jung Heewon’s voice was dry, edged with amusement. She stood at the entrance to the library in full armor, polished to a mirror shine, a single black cape draped over one shoulder. The gold insignia of Kaizenix caught the light as she folded her arms.

Dokja looked up. “I’m pretending to study diplomatic histories. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m your bodyguard. And the ball starts in ten minutes.”

He sighed, closing the book and setting it down. “Can’t you just tell them I’m sick?”

“You told them that last month.”

“Then tell them I died.”

Heewon tilted her head. “Tempting, but I like my job.”

He leaned back in the chair. “I don’t see why I have to attend. It’s just another parade of rich strangers pretending to be interesting.”

“It’s also your parents’ idea of diplomacy,” she said, walking closer. “They want you to look like you care about your future.”

“I do care,” Dokja said. “I care about avoiding it.”

Heewon rolled her eyes and offered him a hand. “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get this over with.”

He didn’t take her hand, but he stood, straightening his coat with visible irritation. “This thing has at least four layers. If I die of heatstroke, you’re explaining it to my mother.”

Heewon smiled faintly. “I’ll just say you finally took my advice and went out in a blaze of glory.”

The ballroom was already full when they entered. Laughter and music bounced off the tall ceilings, and the air shimmered with candlelight. Kaizenix’s royal council spun across the marble floor in a last-ditch attempt at practicing dance, jewels flashing in the soft glow of a hundred chandeliers.

Her Majesty, Queen Persephone of Kaizenix, spotted her son instantly. “Dokja!”

She swept over in a gown of emerald silk, her hair pinned with pearls, Hades following a step behind. The king was tall, quiet, the kind of presence that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard. His dark eyes softened when they landed on his son.

“You look well,” Hades said simply.

“I look like a gilded idiot,” Dokja muttered.

Persephone laughed. “You look handsome, dear. Try not to look so miserable. You might actually find the love of your life here tonight.”

Dokja gagged theatrically. “Ma, please. It’s not a quest for love. It’s a political circus.”

“Circuses can be fun,” she said simply.

“Not when you’re the exhibit.”

Hades placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but the weight of it steadied Dokja’s breath. “Humor her,” his father murmured.

Dokja sighed. “Fine. But I’m leaving early.”

“Just give them a chance,” Persephone said with a wink. “You never know.”

Heewon leaned in beside him. “You could at least pretend to smile. You’re making me look bad.”

“Knights don’t care about appearances.”

“I do when I’m standing next to a sulking prince,” she said.

Dokja almost smiled at that. Almost.

After his mother finished speaking with Heewon, the ‘festivities’ actually began in full swing. He spotted Heewon at the corner giving him a silent thumbs up, not that he needed it, the speech had been drilled into his head so many times he could probably recite it half-asleep. Still, he appreciated the gesture of confidence.

Idly his eyes roamed over the innumerable guests. There were many pretty young ladies in pretty dresses and many handsome young men in dashing suits. None of them caught his interest. They were all so...ordinary, so one like the other, so incredibly interchangeable. 

Not like he expected to feel anything else tonight.

More and more guests arrived. Kim Dokja heard many names and saw many faces and remembered none of them. The palace grew louder and more and more crowded. Speeches were made, music was played, and finally the dancing began.

He was thirsty. And tired. He wanted to sleep. More importantly, he wanted to be away from this crowd of unfortunate nobility that made his skin crawl with the way they touched him at times like he was some sort of trophy taken out of a glass cabinet to be admired.

Think of your parents. Do it for them. Do it for them. Do it for them. You can last a few more hours of this torture.

Not that Persephone and Hades would mind if he issued an order to have those bastards rounded up and thrown out. They’d gladly do it themselves. But he didn’t want to be even more of a burden to them than he was, they’d already heard enough from an angry nobility when they decided to adopt him. And even more when he’d told them he didn’t particularly mind marrying a guy either.

He greeted the nobles, danced once or twice out of obligation, and tried not to think about how every conversation blended into the next. Compliments about the palace. Polite laughter. Empty smiles. It all felt like static.

At least Heewon was nearby, standing guard by the wall, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword. When he caught her eye, she raised an eyebrow as if to say Still alive?

He responded with a tiny shrug. Barely.

And then, suddenly, the music stopped.

A hush rippled through the crowd. The great doors of the ballroom swung open with a low groan. Every head turned.

The announcers didn’t speak. No name was called.

Dokja frowned, following the shift of the crowd’s gaze. The air itself seemed to tighten.

A man stepped through the doorway.

Oh fuck.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black so deep it seemed to swallow the light. A mask covered half his face, plain but gleaming faintly like obsidian. The rest of him was—Dokja swallowed—distractingly well put together. The cut of his coat was sharp, the fabric fitted close, the contrast of silver buttons and the weave of gold thread linings against the dark fabric precise to the point of absurdity.

He moved like someone who did not want to be here—shoulders tense, stride too controlled, as if he’d rather fight the crowd than join it.

Hot.

And God help him, Dokja couldn’t look away.

He felt the breath catch in his chest before he could stop it.

Something about that man—masked, unfamiliar, uncomfortable in his own elegance—drew every part of his attention. Even worse, the band decided to pick up a new tune right then. Slow, soft jazz. The sound of saxophones floated through the air.

Heewon elbowed him lightly. “You okay?”

Dokja exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the newcomer. “Yeah,” he said. “I just…think I found my next mistake.”

The carriage halted before the palace gates, wheels crunching against frost.

Yoo Joonghyuk sat frozen for a long second, staring at the massive doors ahead. Every window was lit, the golden light spilling onto the snow like fire. He could already hear the faint echo of music—too loud, too warm, too alive.

I’m going to kill Jihye.

He regretted everything.

He regretted agreeing to Han Sooyoung, to this entire ridiculous plan. He regretted existing near people who thought “fun” meant “public humiliation.”

The carriage door swung open.

“Go in,” the driver said, faceless under the hood. “You’re late.”

Joonghyuk’s jaw clenched. Perfect. Now everyone would hear him enter.

Still, he stepped out. The cold bit at his neck; the air tasted sharp. He could run, maybe—but Sooyoung’s words echoed in his head: If you try, I’ll make the ground eat you.

He sighed. Fine. He’d go. He’d stand in some corner until midnight, say nothing, and leave. If he was lucky, no one would even notice him.

The guards didn’t stop him. They bowed instead.

That should’ve been a warning.

By the time the ballroom doors opened, the music had cut off mid-note. Hundreds of eyes turned toward him.

Joonghyuk froze. His heart sank straight through the polished floor.

He could feel the heat of the chandeliers against his skin, the weight of the stares, the uncomfortable pull of the mask the half-demon had forced onto his face. His clothes were fine, tailored perfectly but far too tight. The kind of outfit that made him look like he belonged here.

He didn’t.

Every step echoed in the silence. He wanted to vanish.

And then, through the sea of staring aristocracy, someone moved.

A figure in white and gold stepped out from the crowd.

The Prince. His Royal Highness.

What was his name again?

Kim Dokja.

He looked—annoyingly—like the kind of person born to stand in light. The gold accents of his regalia caught on his dark hair, the edges of his white coat glimmering faintly as he walked. His eyes—dark brown, glimmering and shot through with hundreds of tiny, brilliant lights under the chandeliers—were sharp in a way that felt practiced, deliberate, as if he’d learned long ago to look calm even when he wasn’t.

Beautiful, Joonghyuk thought grimly. The kind of beautiful that made people stop what they were doing without realizing it.

How irritating.

Dokja’s gaze caught on him, and for a moment the prince looked almost startled—like something had just shifted in the air. Then he smiled, small and easy, though Joonghyuk caught the faintest tension around his eyes.

When Dokja finally spoke, his voice carried clearly across the hall. “You’re late.”

The prince spoke like they were old friends. Joonghyuk blinked, his palms felt sweaty. “...Got lost.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the guests, quiet but noticeable. Dokja’s smile twitched wider.

Please don’t execute me. Please don’t execute me. Please don’t execute me.

“My apologies then,” he said. “However, you came all this way. You might as well enjoy the night.”

“I’ll pass.”

Why the hell did I say that!?

But Dokja was already stepping closer, hand outstretched, that same polite, infuriatingly calm look on his face. He was shorter than Joonghyuk was, if only barely.

“Then dance with me instead,” he said. “One song. That’s all. ”

Joonghyuk stared at him. “What?”

“It’s tradition,” Dokja said, like that explained everything. “Consider it a token of gratitude for showing up despite the…mishap.”

Joonghyuk glanced around. The crowd was still watching. There was no escape without making a scene.

He sighed, low and heavy and stepped closer, into the Prince’s space. “You’re not going to stop asking, are you?” he whispered.

Joonghyuk thought he heard Dokja’s breath hitch for a brief second. “Not really.”

He took the hand—begrudgingly, stiffly—and felt the prince’s fingers curl around his. Warm, too warm, like everything else in this cursed palace.

As Dokja led him toward the dance floor, the music started again, soft and slow. Around them, the sea of people pressed in but kept careful distance, enough space for the prince to dance.

Somewhere in his mind he heard Han Sooyoung’s laughter

Joonghyuk thought about throttling her.

Instead, he muttered under his breath, “This better end at midnight.”

Dokja’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Midnight, then.”

This is going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t know how to dance.

He did. Technically. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his childhood memories, there were half-forgotten lessons about posture, rhythm, and how not to crush a partner’s foot.

That said—he hadn’t practiced in years. And now, standing in the middle of a glittering royal ballroom, being dragged across the floor by the prince himself, he was realizing that maybe he should have.

The music was slow and lazy, a lull of strings and brass drifting through the air like a heat haze. Conversation blurred into background noise; the world had narrowed to movement, to rhythm, to the steady warmth of Kim Dokja’s hand. Trying to actually keep up with the Prince of Kaizenix however, was another story entirely. The prince moved too easily, smiling easily as though they weren’t being stared at by half the court.

Joonghyuk, meanwhile, was desperately trying not to step on him.

It wasn’t that the steps were complicated. It was that Dokja, despite being shorter, seemed to insist on leading, and Joonghyuk didn’t quite know how to refuse without looking like a complete idiot. When the music piece finally ended and shifted to something slightly faster, he hoped to make a break for it. Life, however, had other plans.

“I know I said one song,” Kim Dokja murmured, bowing to press a kiss to his hand. “But would you allow me to ask for just one more?”

Would you allow me to ask for the sweet embrace of death!? Joonghyuk thought. But he gritted his teeth and nodded anyway. He'd just use that extra time to figure out a better escape plan. Maybe find someone else to distract this royal with, or just wait until he got distracted himself. It was annoying, how the prince acted like a lovesick maiden from a novel. He’d have thought someone who would one day run a country would know better.

“You dance well,” Dokja said lightly, as if commenting on the weather.

Joonghyuk grunted.

“Was that a no?”

He didn’t answer. He was far too focused on trying to not fall flat on his face and drag the Crown Prince along with him. His shoulders were tense, his hand hovering awkwardly at Dokja’s waist, careful not to touch too much or too little. Around them, the whispers were starting. Too many eyes lingered on them; too many guests had realized the prince had spent far too long dancing with one masked stranger. 

He hated it. He hated every second of it.

Dokja noticed, of course. He didn’t say anything, but Joonghyuk caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression—like he could read every thought running through his head.

The music shifted, gathering speed. Dokja matched the rhythm easily, one hand still resting against Joonghyuk’s shoulder, the other warm in his grip.

Joonghyuk considered breaking away, saying something, anything—but before he could open his mouth, Dokja beat him to it.

With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he spoke.

“So. Who are you?”

Joonghyuk froze.

He had no idea what to answer. Give the other man his true name? Like hell he would. Nobody could know he was here. He was officially staying home, cleaning the house and taking a break. If it came out that he had come to this ball after all—if Jihye and Mia found out—tomorrow all hell would break loose. Not to mention that lovely little unexplainable part about the magic half-demon and his clothes.

So...what? Give a fake name? Avoid the question?

He stared down at the serenely expectant face. “Does it matter?”

Dokja tilted his head upwards and Joonghyuk’s blood ran cold. The smile was still on his face, warm as ever but his eyes had gone cold and amused. Like a cat playing with its food. “It might,” he answered with a shrug. “I don’t recognize you. You’re not a noble, and certainly not royalty—I’d remember. You’re not an assassin either; you move too stiffly, and…”

He leaned in, his fingers brushing lightly along Joonghyuk’s spine in a slow, deliberate motion. “I can’t feel a single weapon on you.”

Joonghyuk’s pulse spiked, his heart was hammering in its ribcage and the roar of blood in his ears seemed to drown everything except the man in front of him, and judging by the way Kim Dokja smiled, he could feel it as well. He forced his body not to visibly react, but the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.

Dokja’s smile didn’t falter. “And you’re definitely not a commoner. That fabric—” he glanced down briefly at the fine black coat, eyes gleaming “—is no longer in circulation. It was made in the wastelands of Khaenri'ah isn't it? It costs more than a year of the royal kitchen’s budget. Even nobles can’t afford to wear something like that here.”

Han Sooyoung, I’m going to kill you, Joonghyuk thought grimly.

Dokja’s steps didn’t falter, but his tone cooled. “And I’m sure you aren’t on the guest list. I don’t know how you managed to get in but truly, I’m intrigued.”

Of course he figured it out! Joonghyuk gritted his teeth, why the hell had he decided to underestimate the man!? He should have known better.

For a brief moment, the smile and the easygoing warmth in his face slipped—just a little. His eyes, under the golden light, looked darker. Calculating.

Panic crept into Joonghyuk’s veins. His eyes darted around the room, One set of double doors led back to the main entrance, he knew. Others seemed to lead into the palace; he'd stay away from those, or he would only get lost. Still another row, however, opened to the palace garden. He just hoped they were unlocked.

Could I make it if I ran now?

This is exactly why I didn’t want to come!

“Who exactly are you, my mystery stranger?”

Joonghyuk’s heartbeat stuttered. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then Dokja laughed, soft and low, the sound of tension breaking—but not gone. “Relax. I’m just curious.”

The music flowed again, carrying them forward, and Joonghyuk wasn’t sure whether the prince had let him off the hook or simply decided to play a longer game.

Joonghyuk hesitated before speaking again. Internally his mind was screaming at him to not dig a bigger hole for himself, that the prince had excused him and that he should take full advantage of it. However, he couldn’t deny the feeling that if he didn’t say something very soon, he might not even live long enough to regret it.

He repeated his earlier question, “Does it matter who I am?”

Dokja’s mouth quirked. “Like I said. It might.”

"Then I'm a no one," he said. "Just a guest in a mask."

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best one I have.”

Dokja laughed quietly under his breath. It wasn’t mocking—just amused, like he found something about the exchange deeply entertaining. “Aren’t you interesting? It seems I was right to dance with you after all.”

Somehow that didn’t feel like a compliment to Yoo Joonghyuk.

“You’re a difficult man,” Dokja added after a beat, the warmth creeping back into his tone. “I like it.”

Joonghyuk didn’t respond. Mostly because the other option was yes.

“So what brings you here, mystery stranger? Surely not the dancing.”

Joonghyuk muttered, “My godmother sent me.”

“Would I happen to know her, perchance?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Joonghyuk replied lamely.

“Would you tell me about her then?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It might be.”

Dokja’s smile widened just a fraction. “You’re charming, you know that?”

Joonghyuk managed a quiet, “Stop talking. People are staring.”

Dokja only smiled, unbothered. “See? Difficult.”

He chuckled, and they continued moving together, the steps flowing more naturally now—though Joonghyuk would sooner die than admit it. The prince was lighter on his feet, easy to follow, and the warmth of his hand through Joonghyuk’s glove was beginning to make him distinctly aware of just how close they were. But beneath the laughter from the crowd and their lazy turns, Joonghyuk could still feel it: that thin edge of awareness in Kim Dokja’s gaze. Friendly, polite, but sharp enough to draw blood if he wanted to.

I swear to God if I get out of this alive I’m going to find and kill you Han Sooyoung.

The song went on far too long.

When it finally shifted again, Joonghyuk braced to step away, but Dokja moved first—leaning in just slightly, enough that his voice brushed the edge of Joonghyuk’s ear.

“You look uncomfortable,” Dokja murmured. “You’ve been so stiff since you arrived.”

Joonghyuk almost stopped mid-motion at that. The prince was disturbingly observant.

Dokja’s tone stayed calm, almost kind. “If you want to leave, there’s a library down the hall. No one ever goes there during these things. It’s quiet.”

Joonghyuk blinked. A trap? Maybe. Scratch that. Definitely.

On one hand, going anywhere alone with the literal Prince of Kaizenix sounded like an invitation to disaster. On the other, if things went south, he could probably take the guy in a fight and make a run for it.

He hesitated, watching the curve of Dokja’s faint smile.

The prince tilted his head. “Well?”

Joonghyuk sighed inwardly and braced for the worst.

He nodded once. “Lead the way.”

The moment they stepped out of the ballroom, Yoo Joonghyuk could finally breathe.

The corridors of the palace stretched wide and quiet, their marble floors gleaming faintly under rows of golden lamps. On either side, tall windows stood open to the night, letting in thin ribbons of cold air that cut through the leftover heat clinging to his skin.

He hadn’t realized how suffocating the ballroom had been until now—the crush of perfume, the noise, the way too many eyes had followed him. Out here, the air tasted clean. Cold.

Beside him, Kim Dokja walked with an easy stride, hands very unroyally shoved into pockets. He didn’t speak right away, and Joonghyuk didn’t either. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just strange, like a pause between breaths.

They passed through a long hallway open on both sides. Beyond the arches, the palace gardens lay buried in frost. Snow clung to the bare vines and frozen fountains, and the faint moonlight turned everything silver.

Joonghyuk’s shoulders eased a fraction. The cold bit pleasantly at the back of his neck. Finally, he thought, somewhere quiet.

He made a mental note of the way they’d come—the turns, the corners, the shape of the hall. The back gate was visible at one point, a shadowed arch beyond the hedges. If he needed to escape, he could. Always better to know your exits.

After several turns and a long staircase, the sound changed. The echo of their steps dulled, swallowed by something softer.

When the double doors opened, Joonghyuk stopped short.

The library was enormous.

The ceiling arched higher than the ballroom’s, latticed with carved beams and crystal lamps. Shelves towered toward the rafters, their ladders gliding silently on rails. Rows of tables were scattered across the floor, each piled with more neat stacks of books and surrounded by cushioned chairs. The smell of paper and old ink drifted through the air, warm and familiar.

For a long moment, Joonghyuk just stood there, taking it in.

He didn’t often find himself impressed by things, but this—this was something else. The scale of the room, the quiet, the sheer magnitude of the knowledge probably stored here—it pulled at something in his chest.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Dokja’s voice broke the silence.

Joonghyuk turned. The prince was grinning, eyes bright as he tilted his head back to look at the shelves. It was…unexpected.

In the ballroom, Kim Dokja had looked every bit like the Prince was supposed to—composed, unreadable, untouchable, wrapped in layers of gold and politeness. But here, his posture had loosened. The stiff lines in his shoulders had melted. His gaze held something softer, open and unguarded, like a man standing in his favorite place.

Joonghyuk found himself watching, just for a heartbeat too long.

“…Yeah,” he muttered, looking away. “It is.”

Dokja caught the tone and smiled at him, almost conspiratorial. Then he moved toward a corner table, picking up a small glass pitcher and pouring water into two cups. He handed one to Joonghyuk without hesitation.

“Sorry if I scared you earlier,” Dokja said lightly. “I just had to check. I would be remiss in my duties if you actually happened to be someone with bad intentions and something occurred. I can’t allow that.”

Joonghyuk blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. He didn’t know what to say to that. Scared wasn’t the right word, but something about the prince’s directness—how he said it like it was nothing—left him silent.

He stared down at the glass instead.

Dokja tilted his head. “It’s not poisoned.”

Joonghyuk shot him a flat look.

“Fine,” Dokja said, laughing quietly. He plucked the glass back from Joonghyuk’s hands, took a sip himself, his eyes never leaving Joonghyuk's and held it out again. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Joonghyuk hesitated once, then drained the rest in one go before he could think too hard about it. He hadn’t even realized how thirsty he was until the cool water hit his throat.

“Better?” Dokja asked, the smile still playing at the corner of his mouth.

Joonghyuk didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if it was out of pride or habit.

Dokja only shrugged, as if he’d expected nothing more. He set his own glass down on the nearest desk, then leaned back against it, looking more at ease than Joonghyuk had seen him all night.

“God,” he muttered under his breath, fumbling with the top buttons of his coat. “I hate this thing.”

Joonghyuk watched as he undid the first two buttons, the stiff collar finally loosening around his neck. Dokja exhaled like a man who had just escaped a death sentence.

“Better,” he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

There was a brief moment of silence. He almost felt guilty for making the silence so awkward.

Kim Dokja broke the silence first. Again. “I really am sorry about earlier.”

Joonghyuk looked up. The prince was still leaning against the desk, posture relaxed but gaze thoughtful. “I didn’t mean to put you in a situation like that,” he continued. “I realize that I might have brought you the unwanted attention of the court because I danced with you for too long. I hope you'll forgive me for that, it wasn't my intention. I actually approached you because…”

He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward the far wall before he looked away altogether. “Because you looked uncomfortable.”

Joonghyuk blinked. He wasn’t sure what answer he’d been expecting but this certainly wasn’t it.

“I thought,” Dokja went on, rubbing at the back of his neck, the tips of his ears flushing red, “if you felt sick or needed air, I could tell you mid-dance that there’s usually a separate room arranged for guests. Somewhere quiet. Saying it publicly would’ve been…well, embarrassing for you.”

He gave a short laugh, awkward but genuine. “And then I realized I had no idea who you were.”

For reasons he couldn’t explain, that disarmed Joonghyuk more than anything else tonight. Something about the simplicity of it—the quiet consideration—unsettled him in a way his nerves from earlier hadn’t.

He didn’t answer. He only nodded once, faintly.

While Dokja spoke, Joonghyuk’s gaze drifted up to the clock on the far wall. Twenty minutes to midnight.

He exhaled slowly. Good. He just had to wait this out.

Dokja was still talking—something about how he disliked these events too, how nobility never really said what they meant and that meant he’d always have to be on the lookout—but Joonghyuk barely heard him. Ten minutes now.

The clock’s pendulum swung like a heartbeat, slow and steady.

Five minutes.

“Are you zoning out on me?” Dokja’s amused voice broke through his thoughts.

Joonghyuk’s head snapped up. “No. I’m paying attention.”

“Sure you were.” Dokja laughed again, the sound light in the quiet room. “You know, it’s not very common for people to ignore the Crown Prince in the middle of the conversation. Refreshing, in a way. You sure you aren’t royalty?”

Joonghyuk had no response to that either.

Dokja pushed off the desk, hands in his pockets. “Tell me something mystery man, will I ever see you again after tonight?”

The question was so casual that it caught him off guard.

No. Hopefully not ever.

Out loud, Joonghyuk said, “I don’t know.”

Dokja smiled—soft, almost sincere. “Then I'd be glad be if we do. I do hope it’s not too forward of me but I honestly do find you…captivating.”

Is he hitting on me???

Joonghyuk’s brow furrowed. “You have strange taste.”

“Probably,” Dokja said, unbothered. The corner of his mouth lifted into a faint grin. “You won’t tell me who you are. Perhaps you’ll at least do me the courtesy of allowing me to see your face?”

Joonghyuk stiffened. “I’d rather not.”

“That’s fair.” Dokja shrugged, leaning back again. “Not that it would really matter if you took off the mask huh? Regardless, I respect your privacy, mystery man.”

“Mhm.” Joonghyuk’s eyes flicked toward the clock again.

One minute left.

The pendulum swung. The ticking filled the silence.

He could feel his pulse in his throat. The spell—whatever Han Sooyoung had done—would break at midnight. He needed to leave now.

His muscles tensed, ready to move.

“Why are you staring at the clock?” Dokja’s voice slid easily through the quiet.

“I’m not.”

“Mhm.” Dokja tilted his head, studying him. The sharp intelligence from earlier flickered back into his eyes accompanied by the same easy smile, except this time it had genuine warmth to it. “Is it because—” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

Far too late, Yoo Joonghyuk realized exactly what was happening. His body caught up with it before his mind did.

“Not that it would really matter if you took off the mask huh?”

He knew.

He knew.

“—that the illusory charm breaks at midnight?”

Joonghyuk’s stomach dropped.

The clock began to chime.

One

For a fraction of a second that seemed to stretch into forever, Joonghyuk stared at him in shock and horror.

Dokja’s grin widened, triumphant.

Then they moved.

Two

Joonghyuk twisted on his heel and bolted for the door. The heavy fabric of his coat flared behind him as he sprinted into the corridor.

Three

Footsteps thundered behind him. “Wait!” Dokja’s voice echoed down the hall.

Four

Like hell, Joonghyuk thought, teeth gritted. He couldn’t be caught here.

Five

He flew through the hallways, turning sharply where he’d memorized the corners earlier.

Six

The gardens flashed past, cold air burning his lungs. There was a singular surprised guard near the far door, but he was pushed aside easily enough. It was funny the amount of strength adrenaline and panic could get you.

Seven

The sound of pursuit didn’t fade. Dokja was fast—faster than he’d expected for someone who’d spent his life in a palace.

Eight

He burst through the back gate, the ice-crusted hinges giving way with a crack.

Nine

The night air bit at his face, snow crunching under his boots.

Ten

He could hear the prince still behind him, close now. “Stop!”

Joonghyuk didn’t. Couldn’t. He didn’t care if the prince tripped, fell, or summoned the entire royal guard. He was not getting caught. Not today. He didn’t want anything to do with royalty, no matter how nice or attractive the prince seemed. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to be here in the first place! He still had his family to think about. He’d repeatedly lied and probably unintentionally insulted the Crown Prince of his kingdom. He had no desire to get executed.

Eleven

He reached the final stretch—the stone path leading down to the carriage waiting near the outer wall. Relief flared in his chest—until his boot snagged on a metal grate.

He stumbled, nearly went down.

Behind him, the sound of pursuit grew louder.

He yanked at his foot, cursing under his breath. The shoe didn’t budge. Panic clawed at his chest.

He could see the carriage—right there—but the prince was closing in. Even if he managed to get his foot out there’d be no way for him to reach the carriage in time. The faceless driver in black pulled at the reins, getting ready to take off.

He ripped the shoe off, spun on his heel, and in one desperate motion hurled it backward with everything he had.

There was a satisfying thwack and a startled noise behind him.

Joonghyuk didn’t stop to check. He ran the last few steps barefoot, the cold stabbing at his foot like pins, and threw himself into the carriage just as the final bell echoed through the night.

Twelve

The horses lurched forward. The palace shrank behind him. His clothes, his mask, everything dissolved until he was back to wearing his normal work clothes. His hair was back to usual.

He slumped against the seat, chest heaving, every muscle trembling.

Tonight had been an absolute disaster.

He stared at his one bare foot and hissed through his teeth.

You half-demon wretch, he promised mentally. If I ever see you again, I’m driving a broom through your head.

If he didn’t know better he could have almost sworn he heard a cackle echo through the wind.

The carriage rattled into the snow, disappearing into the night.

.

.

.

.

Snow crunched under Jung Heewon’s boots as she crossed the empty courtyard. The trail of footprints was easy to follow—deep, uneven impressions cutting through the pristine white. They led straight to a figure lying sideways on the snow near the shattered back gate.

Kim Dokja.

The bright light spilling from the open gate framed him in golden yellow, outlining the shape of his body against the dark frost. His white coat was dusted with a fine layer of snow, his hair catching faint flakes that glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

Heewon stopped a few steps away, watching him for a beat. His chest rose and fell evenly, his expression oddly peaceful.

“You’ll catch a cold,” she said finally.

Dokja didn’t bother to look up. “Hey, Heewon. Have you come to gloat?”

She smiled, stepping closer until her shadow stretched over him. “No,” she said, hands resting on her belt. “Though I do recall somebody telling me this ball wasn’t supposed to be a quest for love.”

He let out a small, breathy laugh—dry and self-aware. “Yeah, well.” He turned his head to look at her, the faintest trace of something strange in his voice—ecstatic? Disbelieving? It was hard to tell. “Plot twist.”

Heewon frowned slightly. Kim Dokja wasn’t the kind of man who got excited over anything, let alone romance. Yet there was a light in his eyes now, sharp and bright, something alive she hadn’t seen there in months.

He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the sky, and to her quiet surprise, he was grinning. His cheeks were flushed, his hair half-covered in melting snow.

“Would you believe me,” he said, voice muffled by his glove as he raised his hand, “if I told you my handsome stranger had an illusory charm placed on himself?”

He waved a single shoe—black, fine leather, dusted with snow.

Heewon blinked. “You’re holding a shoe.”

“He threw it at my face. It hit me.” Dokja laughed, low and genuine, pressing his free hand over his face. “God, I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out. I should have known the moment I couldn’t remember his features. I closed my eyes while we were dancing, and it—” He broke off, still laughing softly. “It was right there. Right there. I know I sound delusional right now but trust me Heewon. It was real enough.”

She groaned and Dokja made a face at her.

Heewon sighed. “So, just to clarify… out of every perfectly suitable and politically advantageous match at this event, you decided to pick the one man you know nothing about. And will, most likely, never see again.”

Dokja sat up, snow scattering from his coat, and pointed the shoe at her like a weapon. His grin was far too bright for someone who’d been assaulted by footwear. “That’s where you’re wrong. I have this.”

Heewon raised an eyebrow. “A shoe.”

“A clue,” he corrected, eyes shining with a little too much determination for her liking.

“You’re absurd,” she said flatly.

“Possibly.” He stood, brushing the snow from his shoulders, and shook his hair like a cat fresh from the rain. “But I’m going to find him.”

“Dokja,” she said carefully, “maybe your mystery man isn’t very interested in being found.”

He smiled at her—gentle, unfazed, and maddeningly certain. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll find him anyway,” he said simply. “Because maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s supposed to be found. Besides, if he isn’t interested in me, he can say it to my face.”

“You’ve actually gone insane this time huh?”

He flashed her a grin that was half-charming, half-deranged. “I’m a man with newfound purpose Heewon. Glorious, newfound, purpose.”

“You actually sound deranged this time.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do. Good luck to you on finding your mystery man.”

“I think you mean good luck to us, Heewon. You’re not getting out of this.”

Heewon exhaled through her nose, the breath turning white in the air. There was no stopping him when he got like this—bright-eyed, half-delirious with his eyes set on something. “Fine. But I’m gonna take a big bonus for myself. I don’t get paid enough to deal with your bullshit as well.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet Heewon! You say that almost as if you haven’t dealt with my bullshit free of charge for the last fifteen years.”

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

“Aye aye ma’am.”

She stepped aside as he started walking back toward the palace, humming some unrecognizable tune under his breath. His footprints trailed behind him, neat lines carved through the snow, already softening under the falling flakes.

Heewon stayed where she was, watching his retreating figure framed by the light from the hall.

Officially, she was his knight, his protector. Unofficially, she was like his older sister. She had grown up with him—seen him laugh, cry, fail, and claw his way through the expectations of being Kim Dokja, Crown Prince of Kaizenix.

He was her liege. Her closest friend. Her brother in all but blood.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” she murmured under her breath.

With a quiet sigh, Jung Heewon turned and walked back inside.