lividstar - Tumblr blog

lividstar · 5 months ago

Text

UN CHEVALIER AIMANT

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤChapter III: Unraveling

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ < previous | next >

── .✦ masterpost.

── .✦ wc: 21.3k

── .✦ fantasy, knight!yunho x princess!reader, slowburn, fluff, angst, forbidden romance, royal politics, prince!woosansang, knight!mingi, duty vs. desire, power struggles, themes of misogyny and sexism, in no way does sanʼs character in this fic represent his ideals!

── .✦ playlist.

── .✦ The world weighed heavy on a woman’s shoulders—pretty things made to be seen, not heard. Promises of freedom dangled like jewels, only to be locked away the moment fingers reached out to claim them. Every breath, every smile, every step was measured—crafted to please, never to want. Men watched with hungry eyes, carving out futures in their minds—futures where your heart was never yours to hold. But he was different. His gaze did not strip, nor did it conquer. It lingered—gentle, reverent—as if you were something meant to be understood, not owned. His silence was a rebellion in itself, a quiet defiance against the world that sought to bind you in silk and expectations. Yet even he could not hold back the ache that bloomed between you—slow and aching, as if desire was a crime neither of you could name. To yearn was to betray. To touch was to fall. But in the hush of shadows, where no eyes could reach—what was a woman if not something meant to be free?

to all the women who grew up hearing the phrase “a womanʼs purpose must only be decided by a man” and all of its other variants, know that your worth is way beyond the limited perception of men. to all the women who have been spoken over in rooms they deserved to lead, who have carried brilliance in their minds only to be met with doubt—know that your voice is a storm waiting to break. to all the women whose worth was measured by how much they could serve, how gentle they could be, how quietly they could endure—know that your existence alone is defiance against every hand that tried to shape you into less. you are not fragile for wanting more. you are not difficult for demanding respect. you are not asking for too much—you are asking for what should have always been yours. happy womenʼs history month, and may your light continue to shine bright beyond this month 💌

tags: @wolviejex @owlsfeatherpen

Morning arrived in the form of golden light spilling through the tall windows of your chamber, but no warmth could penetrate the heaviness in your limbs. The moment you stirred beneath the silken sheets, a deep, aching soreness radiated through your muscles, a cruel reminder of the night before. Every inch of you protested as you shifted, your arms leaden, your legs stiff, the effort of rising from bed a battle in itself. You gritted your teeth and swallowed the discomfort, willing yourself to move.

You had asked for this.

A maid entered just as you sat up, her hands already reaching for the drapes to let in more light. You schooled your face into something neutral, unwilling to let the strain show. But the stiffness in your posture must have been evident, for the girl, young and keen-eyed, hesitated before setting the tray of warm tea and fresh bread beside your bedside.

“My lady,” she began tentatively, hands clasped before her apron, “shall I prepare a warm cloth for your shoulders? You seem rather fatigued this morning.”

You shook your head. “I am well. A mere restless night, nothing more.”

Another maid, already setting out your garments for the morning, turned at the words. “My lady, your gait—”

“—Is fine,” you interjected, rising to your feet with forced ease, though every muscle in your body screamed in protest. You would not let them fuss over you. You could not.

So you moved through the morning preparations as if you were no different than yesterday, allowing them to lace up the bodice of your gown, comb through the tangles in your hair, and press a warm towel to your face. You willed yourself not to wince when they smoothed ointment over your arms, covering what they assumed to be marks left by the edge of your sleeves rather than bruises from training.

A lady of Elythria did not bear wounds of battle.

By the time you stepped into the dining hall for breakfast, you had perfected the art of walking without betraying the dull ache that followed your every movement. But your father, sharp-eyed and scrutinizing, caught something amiss the moment he laid eyes on you.

“You look unwell,” he remarked, not even bothering with a greeting. He sat at the head of the long table, fingers lightly tapping against his goblet. “Paler than usual. Have you fallen ill?”

The words were not laced with concern, only with disapproval.

Your mother sat beside him, her hands delicately wrapped around the stem of her teacup. Though she said nothing at first, her gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long, a silent question in her eyes. She was perceptive. Too perceptive. But unlike your father, she did not accuse.

You lifted your chin. “I am quite well, Father. The evening air was simply colder than I anticipated last night.”

Your mother’s fingers tightened around her teacup ever so slightly. “Did something happen last night, my dear?” she asked, her voice as soft as ever, yet it held an unmistakable weight.

You met her gaze. “Nothing of consequence.” She held your stare for a moment longer, as if searching for the truth in your words, but she did not press further. She never did.

Your father, apparently satisfied with your response, exhaled through his nose. “It must be ensured that you look your best later,” he declared, reaching for a piece of bread from the silver platter before him.

You frowned slightly. “Later?”

Your father barely glanced at you as he spread butter over the bread with slow, deliberate strokes. “The Prince of Tharian shall be arriving shortly.”

Your hands stilled against the handle of your spoon. Your lips parted slightly, but you hesitated before speaking. “May I ask why, Father?”

He finally looked up, his gaze as impassive as ever. “The prince had to take a sudden leave due to urgent matters in Tharian last time, do you not recall? He had been expressing his “need” to redeem himself since that day, so I figured Iʼd bestow upon him a chance.” Ah, right. You remembered now.

Suddenly, a deep voice rang through the grand dining hall, echoing off the marble pillars and gilded arches.

“My lord, a message.”

Mingi stood at the threshold of the main hall, his towering presence framed by the morning light seeping through the high windows. His armor gleamed, the emblem of Elythria catching the soft glow of dawn. He bowed his head slightly, his right hand pressed over his chest in reverence before he continued, voice steady and firm.

“The Prince of Tharian and his royal advisor are expected to arrive within the next thirty minutes. Their convoy is approaching from the eastern road.”

A murmur of approval left your father’s lips as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with the timeliness of the visit. You, however, barely heard his response. Instead, your gaze flickered toward Mingi, and beneath the table, unseen by all but him, your fingers curled into a subtle wave—a small, quiet gesture of familiarity.

Mingi caught the movement in an instant. He did not smile, nor did he break the mask of formality etched into his features. Instead, he gave the smallest nod, an acknowledgment so faint it could easily be mistaken for mere decorum. To anyone else in the room, it was nothing more than a knight paying proper homage to his princess. But to you, it was something else entirely—an understanding, a silent exchange stuck between the lines of duty and friendship.

Your father, unaware of the brief interaction, turned his gaze back to you.

“You must make yourself presentable.” His tone left no room for argument. “The prince arrives soon, and I will not have you appearing unfit for such an occasion.”

Madame Forestier stepped forward from her place near the far wall, ready to escort you to your chambers. But before she could reach for your arm, your mother moved. Her fingers curled around Madame Forestier’s wrist, halting her movement. It was a delicate touch, but firm nonetheless. The older woman hesitated, looking between your mother’s calm expression and your father’s unreadable face.

“I shall tend to my daughter myself,” your mother said. Her voice was soft, yet the weight of it was undeniable.

Madame Forestier did not argue. She only bowed her head in quiet compliance before stepping aside. Your father, after a brief pause, merely exhaled through his nose, offering a single nod of approval—though you suspected he cared little either way, as long as you were no longer seated before him. And so, with a gentle press of your mother’s hand against your back, you were led away.

—

Your mother’s hands were delicate yet firm as she adjusted the folds of your dress, her movements precise, almost methodical. The silence in the chamber was thick, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of fabric. You sat stiffly on the edge of your bed, hands clasped over your lap, waiting for her to speak—knowing she would, knowing she must.

Finally, she sighed, a soft, weary sound. “You are not yourself,” she murmured, her fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary before she pulled away. “There are things I do not ask, for I know I will not receive the truth.”

The breath you had been holding stilled in your chest. “But a mother knows,” she continued. “Even when her child keeps her lips sealed.”

Your pulse quickened. Was this a mere observation, or had she seen? Had she caught sight of you slipping back into your chambers last night, breathless, shaken, your body bearing the quiet ache of training?

“I do not know what troubles you,” she continued, though her voice carried the weight of certainty, as if she did know. “But I fear you are treading a dangerous path.”

You swallowed, carefully keeping your expression neutral. “I do not know what you mean, Mother.”

She hummed, unimpressed by your deflection. Her gaze was knowing, piercing in the dim light of your chamber. “There are whispers in these halls. Small things. Shifts in the air. Secrets being kept.”

You looked away, your fingers tightening against the fabric of your dress. “If I were keeping one, would you wish to hear them?”

A pause. Then, softly, “Only if you wished to speak them.”

For a moment, something inside you wavered. You had spent years perfecting the art of restraint, of keeping your thoughts carefully veiled behind the mask of a perfect princess. But your mother had always been different. She was no fool, nor was she merely a silent figure at your father’s side. She had seen more than she let on, endured more than anyone could fathom.

She sighed again, her fingers grazing the edge of your vanity, tracing the grain of the wood. “I know you are not weak,” she said suddenly, her tone distant. “Though many would claim you are.”

Your head snapped up. She was not looking at you, her expression unreadable as she studied her own reflection in the mirror. “But strength,” she continued, “is not only in the body. It is not in the way one wields a sword or stands unshaken before their enemies. It is also in knowing when to step back. When to yield. When to guard oneself against dangers unseen.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You could hear the unspoken warning beneath her words, the veiled caution woven between them. “I do not ask where you have been,” she said, finally turning to meet your gaze. “Nor do I ask why your hands tremble when you believe no one is watching.”

You inhaled sharply. Her expression softened, just a fraction. “But I will ask you this—do you understand what it is you are inviting into your life?”

You did not answer. Could not.

She exhaled, stepping closer, lifting a hand as if to touch your cheek—but she hesitated, letting it fall to her side instead. “There was a time when I, too, thought myself untouchable,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “When I believed I could shape my own fate, regardless of expectation.”

A slow, bitter smile crossed her lips.

“You see how that turned out.”

The weight of her words settled heavily upon you. She had never spoken like this before—not with such raw honesty, not with such an air of quiet resignation.

“You are my daughter,” she said, voice steady now. “And I love you far too much to watch you follow a path that will only lead to heartbreak.”

You kept your face still, unwilling to let even the faintest flicker of guilt betray you. “I do not know what you mean, Mother,” you repeated, your voice softer now, more careful.

She merely hummed, tilting her head as she studied you. “No? Then tell me, my dear, how is it that you grow paler by the day?”

Your fingers tensed.

“How is it that your hands shake when they think no one is watching?” She reached out, gently taking one of your hands in hers. Her thumb brushed over the faint callouses forming near your palm. Not the hands of a princess, the touch seemed to say. Not the hands of one who has only ever held quills and silk.

“How is it that each time someone asks if you are well, you smile and say ‘it is nothing’—yet your eyes tell another story entirely?” Your lips parted, but no words came.

Your mother sighed, squeezing your hand once before letting it go. “Do you think I have not noticed?” she continued, voice gentle but unwavering. “That I have not seen the way you drift through the halls, as if lost in some terrible dream? That I have not heard the quiet scrape of your door shutting long past midnight, or the hurried steps of a girl trying too hard to return unnoticed?”

Your chest ached. She had seen. But what frightened you more was the possibility that she understood why. Your mother turned away then, moving toward the window. She touched the velvet drapes lightly, gaze distant, as if looking at something far beyond the palace walls. “You know of my marriage to your father, how it was arranged to unite two powerful bloodlines.” A humorless smile touched her lips. “But what you do not know is that I once loved another.” A sharp breath caught in your throat. She did not turn to look at you, but she must have sensed your reaction, for she chuckled softly—though it held no mirth. “I was young,” she continued, fingers tightening slightly around the drapes. “Naïve. I thought love alone could protect me. That if I only held onto it tightly enough, I could escape the life that had already been written for me.”

She exhaled, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “But love is not enough, my darling. It never has been.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache, as if she were not merely speaking to you but to the girl she had once been—to the foolish, hopeful thing she had long since buried. “What happened to him?” The question left you before you could stop it.

Your mother closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were unreadable. “He is gone,” she said simply. “Not dead, no—but gone, all the same.”

“He was a man without power, without status. No matter how fiercely we dreamed, there was no place for us in a world that values blood and duty above all else.” She finally turned back to you, eyes searching. “Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”

“I have made my peace with it,” she continued, stepping closer once more. “But I have never forgiven myself for believing, even for a moment, that we could have been more than a fleeting whisper in time.”

“This… this has nothing to do with me,” you whispered, though the words felt weak even as you spoke them.

Your mother’s lips parted, as if to argue, but after a moment, she only sighed. “Perhaps not.”

Yet you both knew it was a lie.

She stepped closer once more, lifting a gentle hand to brush your hair away from your face. “My sweet girl,” she murmured, voice laced with something akin to regret. “You are so much like me…”

“—and that is what terrifies me most.”

The silence that followed was heavy, and it lingered in the space between you and your mother. Her words had settled deep, carving themselves into the very marrow of your bones. But still—there was one thing left unspoken.

“…Do you know where he is now?” Your voice was quiet, but it did not waver.

Your mother’s fingers, which had been absentmindedly tracing the embroidery of your bed’s coverlet, stilled. She did not answer at first, as if weighing the cost of her reply. Then, with a slow inhale, she spoke.

“I do not.” A pause. “At least, not anymore.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “You sought him out?”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh but carried no joy. “Once, yes.” Her gaze was distant, as though looking not at you but at something beyond. “A foolish endeavor, for what could I have possibly done? My place was here. It has always been here.”

There was something in her tone that made your heart ache. A resignation so deep, so ingrained, that it felt like a part of her very being. “But had you found him…” You hesitated. “Would you have left?”

Her expression did not change, yet you could see the flicker of something in her eyes. “I do not know.”

It was the only answer she could give. And perhaps, in another life, it would have been different. Perhaps there existed a world where love was not a chain, where duty did not suffocate, where the choices of a woman did not belong to men. But that was not the world you lived in.

She reached forward, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. “Do not mistake my words for regret,” she murmured. “My path has led me to you. And for that, I would not change a single thing.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly, though the feeling in your chest remained. The conversation lulled, stretching into a silence that neither of you felt the need to break. Instead, your gaze drifted to the window, the light of morning casting long shadows upon the stone floors. Your mother followed your line of sight.

Without a word, she stood, her movements as graceful as ever, and made her way toward the balcony doors. A flicker of confusion crossed your mind, but you did not question it. Instead, you followed.

The doors opened with ease beneath her touch, the morning breeze slipping past and caressing your skin. The scent of the gardens below mingled with the crisp air, the distant hum of castle life carrying softly to where you stood. And then, your eyes fell upon it.

The training grounds lay just beyond the gardens, the expanse of land well within view from your balcony. It was still early, and few knights were about, but that was not what caught your attention.

There, resting against the post where the training dummies stood, was a sword—yet not just any sword. It was very one Yunho had pressed into your grasp the night before, its blade unfamiliar in your hands, its weight a silent promise of the pain it would demand. It had not been left there carelessly. It stood in waiting, an unspoken message only you were meant to see.

Your fingers curled against the stone railing. “He expects you,” your mother murmured, her voice unreadable.

You exhaled slowly. “It seems so.”

“Will you go?”

You did not answer immediately. Instead, you stared at the weapon below absentmindedly. Because whether or not you wished to, you already knew the answer.

Your mother did not turn to leave. Instead, she remained beside you, her gaze lingering on the sword below, but something in her demeanor shifted. There was no longer a veil between you, no longer the careful restraint that often colored her words. Then, she spoke.

“Since when?”

You blinked, startled by the abruptness of her question. “Since when?” you echoed, frowning slightly. “Since when what?”

She did not answer right away. When she finally turned to face you, there was no trace of impatience, nor was there amusement. There was only quiet knowing, the kind that made your pulse quicken.

“…Do I truly need to explain further?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Because she was right. She did not need to explain. You knew.

The realization settled like a stone in your chest, heavy and cold, yet burning at the edges. It was a question that had long been waiting to be asked—one that you had spent years avoiding, perhaps even longer. And yet, to answer it… To answer it would be to stop pretending. To step beyond the comfortable barrier of denial and acknowledge what lay beneath. But were you ready?

Your grip tightened around the railing as memories stirred.

You thought of Wooyoung, of the way he was teasing you with that ever-present smirk of his as he spoke of his insights, watching you with an amusement that held too much insight for your liking. You had scoffed at him then, rolling your eyes as if he were being ridiculous. But Wooyoung was nothing if not relentless. You had dismissed him then, shoving the thought away as nothing more than idle teasing.

Yet, standing here now, with the sword below as undeniable proof of an unspoken understanding, you found yourself unable to brush it off so easily.

Your motherʼs hand brushed against your arm. She was studying you, her expression unreadable, though there was something in her eyes—something soft, something sad. Then, she chuckled. It was quiet, barely a breath of laughter, but it carried something weighty, something that made your chest ache.

“My dear,” she murmured, “denial is a cruel companion. It will whisper to you that there is still time, that there is no need to acknowledge the truth just yet. That perhaps, if you ignore it long enough, it will fade.”

Her fingers traced lightly over your sleeve, a gesture more for herself than for you. “But time is merciless,” she continued. “And one day, when you finally gather the courage to stop pretending… you may find that it is already too late.”

Suddenly, the arrival of the Prince of Tharian was announced with a resounding echo of horns, their deep, commanding notes reverberating through the vast stone halls of the palace. From the balcony, you and your mother watched as the grand procession made its way through the castle gates, a display of power and prestige that left little room for doubt—Prince San had not come alone.

The banners of Tharian, woven in rich scarlet and adorned with their sigil—a black wyvern mid-flight—fluttered in the wind, carried high by his standard-bearers. Rows upon rows of royal guards, clad in armor that gleamed like polished obsidian, marched in perfect unison. Their formation was tight and disciplined.

And though the presence of such an entourage could easily be dismissed as the simple precaution of a royal accustomed to his own importance, something about it unsettled you. It was excessive.

Even you, the beloved and fragile princess of Elythria, were not granted this many knights when you ventured beyond the palace walls, despite your father’s insistence that the most delicate treasure of Syelviore must be guarded with an iron grip. No, this was not mere vanity. This was caution.

Or perhaps, something more sinister.

Your mother seemed to sense it too. She said nothing, merely exhaling softly before turning to you, eyes unreadable. Without a word, she gestured for you to follow. It was time.

You descended the grand staircase together, your steps slow and precise. The halls had already been lined with nobility and high-ranking officials, each awaiting the moment of formal reception. The palace guards had formed two lines by the entrance, swords drawn in ceremonial salute. And at the threshold of the great hall, the King himself stood tall, adorned in his finest regalia, a picture of authority and composure.

The massive gilded doors were pulled open, and the Prince of Tharian stepped inside. From the moment he crossed the threshold, you felt it.

Malice.

It did not manifest outright—there was no outward display of hostility, no telltale sign of deceit—but it was there. Lingering. Cloaked beneath layers of practiced charm and effortless grace.

And, gods, he was charming.

San carried himself with an ease that could only belong to one who knew of his own allure. He was dressed in dark silks trimmed with silver, an outfit that accentuated his striking features—the sharp angles of his jaw, the subtle smirk that graced his lips, the weight of his gaze that seemed to settle on everything and nothing all at once.

His hair was swept back just enough to reveal the fine arch of his brow, and as he reached the end of the hall, he came to a halt, bowing in the elegant manner of a man well-versed in courtly decorum. The King acknowledged him with a nod, and at once, the formalities began.

The herald stepped forward, voice carrying across the chamber. “Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince San of Tharian, known throughout Syelviore as the Black Wyvern and the Bloodborn Heir.”

You had heard the titles before.

The Black Wyvern—named after Tharian’s sigil, but also for his nature. Wyverns were creatures of destruction, swift and merciless, feared on the battlefield for their sheer unpredictability.

The Bloodborn Heir—a name with a history dark enough that it was often left unspoken. It was said that San had been baptized in blood from the moment of his birth, his destiny written in the fall of those who had dared to oppose his lineage.

And now, he stood before you, smiling as though none of it mattered.

The exchange of pleasantries commenced, a dance of words and propriety. San spoke with ease, his voice rich, smooth—every syllable carefully measured. He complimented Elythria’s splendor, acknowledged the honor of standing within its halls, and spoke of his anticipation for the days ahead. Then, his gaze shifted.

And for the first time, it settled upon you.

There was something almost playful in the way he looked at you, a flicker of amusement lurking beneath the surface. But beneath it, deeper still, there was something else. Something unreadable. Something dangerous. And though you despised the weight of it, you could not deny—he deserved his titles.

The royal gathering took place within the grand hall, where the air was thick with the scent of polished oak, burning incense, and the lingering traces of fine wine. It was a setting designed for opulence, but beneath its grandeur, it was a battlefield of words and intent, where alliances were forged and broken within the span of a single conversation.

Your father, seated at the head of the table, exuded authority with little effort. Clad in robes of deep crimson, the crown atop his head glinting under the candlelight, he was every bit the ruler he claimed to be—commanding, shrewd, and perceptive. Beside him sat your mother, her presence quieter but no less significant. Her eyes, unreadable yet sharp, flickered toward you only once before settling upon the untouched goblet of wine before her.

And then, there was San.

Seated directly across from you, he had made himself comfortable, one hand resting lazily upon the table, the other swirling the wine within his goblet with an ease that spoke of familiarity. His posture was relaxed, almost leisurely, yet his gaze remained ever watchful, the flicker of amusement in his eyes betraying his awareness of the game at play. The conversation, as it often did in gatherings such as this, began with pleasantries.

“Elythria’s beauty never fails to leave an impression,” San remarked, lifting his goblet slightly in acknowledgment. “The gardens, the architecture… the people. There is a certain grace here that one does not find elsewhere.”

Your father smiled, the kind of smile that was practiced and void of warmth. “A kingdom is only as grand as its ruler’s will to shape it so. And Tharian, I hear, has flourished under your father’s reign.”

San hummed in agreement, though the slight quirk of his lips hinted at a deeper amusement. “Indeed. Though my father believes power is best wielded with a firm hand, I find that it is the subtleties of influence that determine true strength.”

Your father’s gaze darkened slightly, yet his expression remained unreadable. “Subtleties, you say?”

San leaned forward just a fraction, his voice smooth, effortless. “A sword can take a throne, Your Majesty, but only wit and charm can ensure it remains in one’s grasp.”

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your goblet. He was testing your father. And from the way your father studied him, the King knew it as well.

It was an exchange veiled in diplomacy yet sharp in intent, and it was not lost upon you how easily San maneuvered through it. He was not merely charming—he was calculated. Every word, every shift of expression, every lingering glance was deliberate.

And though his words were dressed in flattery, his eyes found you often.

Not in the manner that other princes had—where admiration was simple, a shallow acknowledgment of beauty and status. No, his gaze was heavier, edged with something unreadable, something that pressed against the boundaries of propriety without ever crossing them outright.

He was watching. And he knew that you knew.

“You have been quiet, Princess,” San mused suddenly, drawing the attention of the table toward you. “I must admit, I had hoped to hear more from the jewel of Elythria herself.”

Your father chuckled, though the sound carried an edge of expectation. “My daughter is a woman of few words, but those she does speak carry wisdom beyond her years.” A compliment, yet also a warning.

San only smiled. “Then I am all the more eager to hear them.”

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, the cool metal grounding you against the weight of his attention. “I speak when there is something worth saying, Your Highness.”

San tilted his head slightly, as though amused by your response. “A wise philosophy.” He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine once more before adding, “I do wonder, then, what would be worthy enough to hear from you?”

It was a challenge, veiled beneath the guise of polite intrigue. Your mother shifted beside you, her gaze flickering toward San before returning to the plate before her. She said nothing, but the slight movement did not go unnoticed.

And neither did the way San observed her. The moment stretched, yet you held his gaze. You knew what he was doing. He was not merely flirting—he was unsettling you, testing you.

And though he was charming, though the whispered tales of his silver tongue and effortless allure were not unfounded, you were not so foolish as to be drawn in. No, he was not here to court you in earnest. He was here for something else entirely.

He had set his sights on you, that much was clear. Yet it was not the admiration of a suitor seeking favor, nor the courteous pleasantries of a prince extending goodwill to another kingdom’s jewel. No, this was something different. Something far more deliberate.

“Tell me, Princess,” San began, setting down his goblet with a measured grace, “does the beauty of Elythria inspire poetry in your heart? Or have you grown so accustomed to its splendor that it no longer holds wonder in your eyes?”

His tone was light, casual, but the weight of his gaze did not match it. You regarded him carefully, noting how he leaned slightly forward, as if to close the space between you without truly doing so. As if testing whether you would retreat.

You did not.

“Beauty does not lose its wonder merely because one has known it for long, Your Highness,” you replied, keeping your voice composed. “But I have found that it is often those who speak of beauty so freely who seek to twist it into something of their own design.”

A flicker of something—amusement, intrigue—glinted in his dark eyes, and the corner of his lips lifted in a slow, deliberate smirk. “How fortunate, then, that I have no such intentions. I would never dare to alter what is already perfection.”

Your father chuckled lowly, his voice laced with approval at the exchange. He had always admired cleverness, even when it came with sharp edges. But you saw the way his fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair, the slight narrowing of his gaze as he observed San. He, too, was watching. Measuring.

San turned his attention momentarily toward your father. “Your Majesty, I must commend you—not only on the splendor of your kingdom, but on the brilliance of your daughter. It is rare to find a princess who carries such wit and sharpness beneath her elegance.”

Your father inclined his head slightly, his expression betraying nothing but polite acknowledgment. “The blood of Elythria runs strong within her.”

San merely chuckled before turning his attention back to you, studying you as if you were something worth deciphering. “And what of knights, Princess?” he mused, resting his chin upon his hand. “Do they inspire poetry in your heart as well?”

The question struck something deep within you before you could stop it. Your grip upon your goblet tightened—you knew what he was doing. It was not a question asked out of idle curiosity. It was a probe, a gentle yet insistent pressure against something unspoken, something buried within the chambers of your heart.

You thought of Yunho.

Of the way his voice had sounded in the stillness of the night. Of the weight of the sword in your hands. Of the quiet patience in his gaze as he had watched you, guided you.

Had you been so transparent?

“I find that knights are often at the mercy of those they serve,” you replied evenly, refusing to let your voice falter. “Poetry is written of their valor, yet it is the hands of kings and princes that dictate their fate.”

San exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting his head as though considering your words. “A fair point,” he conceded. “Though, I would argue that knights have far more power than they are given credit for.”

Your mother, who had been silent throughout much of the exchange, finally spoke. “And what power is that?” Her voice was soft, yet there was an undeniable weight to it.

San turned his gaze toward her, offering a smile that was almost too perfect in its politeness. “Influence, Your Majesty. Knights are the trusted hands of their rulers, after all. And trust is a weapon sharper than any blade.”

A hush settled over the table at his words. Your mother’s expression remained unreadable, though you did not miss the way her fingers ghosted over the stem of her goblet, as if tracing the delicate pattern etched into the glass.

You knew what she was thinking. What you were thinking. The weight of secrets, of trust placed in hands that may or may not be worthy of it.

Yunho.

San’s eyes flickered back to you, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. He knew he had struck something. And you despised that he had.

Before you could respond, your father cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation elsewhere. “Tell me,” he said, voice composed but firm, “what news do you bring from Tharian?”

San’s expression shifted instantly, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “Ah, but of course. I did not come merely for pleasantries.” He gestured subtly, and one of his men—who had remained stationed near the entrance of the hall—stepped forward, presenting a sealed scroll.

The sigil upon it bore the mark of Tharian’s royal house. Your father accepted it, breaking the seal and skimming the contents. His expression did not change, but you could sense the way the air grew heavier, how your mother’s fingers tensed ever so slightly upon her lap.

You stole a glance at San, searching his face for any trace of what he knew. But he gave you nothing. Just that same unreadable smirk, that same unwavering gaze.

You did not trust him. And he knew it.

Surprisingly, he had been playing his part well. Flirtatious, sharp-tongued, effortlessly charming—his words laced with a subtle venom that only those who knew how to listen would catch. And then, in a perfectly measured moment, he spoke.

“I must say, it is rather bold of you, Your Majesty, to assume the kingdoms of Syelviore would not see the strings being pulled behind these banquets and alliances.” His tone was light, playful even, yet it rang through the hall with an unmistakable weight. He swirled his wine lazily in his goblet, watching the deep red liquid coat the glass before meeting your father’s gaze once more. “After all, not all kings play blindly.”

The room tensed.

It was subtle—so subtle that, to the untrained eye, it might have seemed as though nothing had changed. The courtiers continued their chatter, the laughter did not fully fade, yet there was a pause. A flicker of hesitation in the air. Your father’s smile did not falter. Not even for a moment. But his eyes—his eyes darkened.

A silence stretched between them, so fleeting it might have been imagined. Then, like a well-rehearsed performance, the nobles chuckled, brushing the remark off as nothing more than playful political banter.

But you knew better. San knew better. And, most terrifyingly, your father knew better, too.

Tharian knew. They had known for some time.

The evening carried on, but the air had shifted. Even as toasts were raised, even as polite smiles were exchanged, there was something lurking beneath the surface now—an undercurrent of something dangerous. Something inevitable.

And then, at last, the gathering began to draw to a close. The guests rose, bidding their farewells, and the court slowly began to empty. The tension had not left. As you turned to leave, you felt a presence at your side before you saw him.

San.

A slow, knowing smirk curved upon his lips as he inclined his head, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “Your Highness,” he murmured, “I wonder if I might request a moment of your time.”

Your father’s gaze shifted toward him, unreadable, but there was a moment of hesitation. San was a prince. And diplomacy dictated that his request could not simply be denied.

“Very well,” your father said at last. “But do not keep her for long.”

San placed a hand over his chest in mock solemnity. “You have my word.”

A lie. You knew it the moment he offered his arm, and you—bound by propriety—had no choice but to take it.

He led you through the castle halls, his grip light yet firm, his pace leisurely despite the cold air creeping through the stone corridors. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the walls, elongating his figure, making him seem more imposing than he already was.

Then, when the distant echoes of the banquet had fully faded, he stopped. And in an instant—his demeanor shifted. The smirk remained, but it was different now. Sharper. Crueler. Gone was the flirtatious prince, the charming nobleman who danced through conversations like a man who had never known fear.

What stood before you now was something else entirely.

“You do realize what your father is doing, don’t you? He has been playing a dangerous game for far too long.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “And you believe your own father has not done the same?”

San let out a quiet chuckle, but there was no warmth to it. “Oh, he has,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But unlike your father, mine is no fool. Nor is he passive.”

The space between you seemed to shrink with every word. His presence was suffocating, a force that demanded attention, that demanded submission.

“You are the key, Your Highness.” His voice was almost gentle, yet it sent a chill down your spine. “Once your father marries you off to the kingdom easiest to control, he will use that as leverage. Then, another. And another. Until Elythria rules Syelviore in its entirety.”

His eyes studied you, as though he were searching for something beneath your composed exterior. And then, almost lazily, he smiled. “But you see… my father harbors the same ambition.”

The realization settled in your stomach like lead.

“So here is what is going to happen.” He exhaled, as if this were all so terribly simple. “You will be my betrothed.”

The words struck like a blade to the ribs. Your breath caught in your throat, your expression momentarily faltering—just enough for his smirk to widen.

“As my wife,” he continued smoothly, “your life will no longer be your father’s to control. It will be mine.”

He tilted his head, watching your reaction with quiet amusement. “And believe me, I will ensure Elythria’s ambition dies before it begins.” Then, he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or…”

The warmth in his tone vanished.

“You refuse.” His gaze darkened, and though he did not raise his voice, the weight of his next words pressed against your chest like an iron grip. “And we will declare war.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His smirk did not return. His expression did not shift. He simply watched you, as though waiting for you to realize the inevitable.

“Do not think for a moment that Elythria will survive unscathed,” he murmured, his tone chillingly soft. “Tharian is not alone in its cause.”

You knew what he was doing. You knew what was at stake. And yet—

“I refuse.”

The words were spoken without hesitation. Without fear.

San stilled. Then, slowly, his head tilted, something dark glinting in his gaze. “How bold,” he mused, almost as though he were impressed. “And here I thought you might have some sense of self-preservation.”

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. “I am not a prize for power-hungry men to barter over.”

The words hung in the air. San regarded you for a moment longer. Then, before you could react—

His hand snapped to your throat.

Your back hit the stone wall, the cold seeping through the silk of your gown. His grip was not crushing—not yet—but it was firm, unyielding, a silent reminder of who held the power in this moment.

He leaned in, so close that you could feel his breath ghost against your skin. “You will learn,” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous. “One way or another.”

You clenched your fists. You refused to tremble. You refused to let him see you crumble. But the truth was undeniable.

You were weaker.

Not just in strength, but in every way that had been forced upon you since birth. You were a princess—a delicate flower meant to be admired, not a warrior trained to wield steel. You were born to stand in silken gowns, to smile and curtsy, to be loved, not feared. And now, that same fragility, the very thing your father had cultivated for the sake of power, was being used against you.

San could do anything to you in this moment, and no one would come. No one would save you. Except yourself.

Your mind raced. You needed to act—to fight. But how? Your father never allowed you to train, never permitted you to lift a blade. The most you knew of combat were mere glimpses…

But then came a memory.

One night, long ago, you had watched from your balcony as Yunho trained beneath the moonlight. He had not known you were there. He had been alone, his blade gleaming silver as he moved through the courtyard with silent precision. You had been mesmerized—not by the violence of it, but by the fluidity, the control. You had memorized the way he moved, the way his body shifted, how he twisted at the last second to turn an opponent’s strength against them.

You remembered it now. The way he had shifted his weight. The way he had pulled free. Your body acted before your mind could catch up.

You turned into San’s grip, wrenching your arm upward to break the angle of his hold. With all the force you could muster, you stepped forward, twisting at the last moment, forcing him off balance. It was not perfect—your execution was nowhere near as sharp as Yunho’s had been—but it was enough.

San stumbled back.

For the first time since this conversation had begun, his expression flickered. Not with anger, nor with amusement—but with surprise. It was only then, only after the rush of movement, only after your breath came ragged and sharp in your throat, that you realized what you had done.

You had attacked him. A prince. You had raised a hand against a man.

San did not move for a moment. His gaze flickered to his sleeve where your forceful shove had rumpled the fine embroidery, and then back to you.

He then laughed. A slow, dark chuckle, rich with something you did not understand until he reached into the folds of his suit. The air between you shifted. The amusement did not leave his face, but his eyes—his eyes turned razor-sharp as he withdrew something gleaming from his pocket.

A dagger. Slim. Refined. Elegant, in the way a weapon should not be.

The silver glinted in the candlelight as he twirled it between his fingers, stepping forward before you could even think to move. His other hand snatched the collar of your gown, yanking you forward with a force that stole your breath.

The blade kissed your throat before you could react.

And then, the pressure. Not enough to slice deep—but enough for the edge to break skin. Enough for you to feel the first sting of pain. Enough for the warmth of blood to trickle down your neck.

San hummed, tilting his head as if studying a piece of fine art. “That,” he murmured, “was a foolish decision, my lady.” You stiffened, but you did not let your fear show. You would not let him see it.

“Did you think that would make a difference?” His voice remained light, almost… amused. “Did you truly believe that your defiance would change the outcome of this night?”

You did not answer. His grip on your collar tightened.

“You were given an opportunity,” he continued, his tone slow, deliberate. “A chance to secure peace—not just for yourself, but for your people. A chance to submit—to yield, as a princess should. I could have overlooked your foolishness, your misguided attempt at resistance. I could have given you another chance to reconsider.”

The dagger tilted, pressing just a fraction deeper. “But then, you did something far worse than simply saying ‘no’.”

He dragged the blade downward—slow, taunting, tracing the line of your skin without breaking it further. “You committed violence.”

The word dripped with disdain, as if it were something vile, something unnatural for a woman to even comprehend. “A princess,” he mused, “should know her place. She should be gentle. Graceful. She should accept the reality of her station. And yet—you struck me.”

The silence stretched, suffocating. “You are no longer just a stubborn girl refusing a betrothal,” he whispered, so close that his breath fanned against your cheek. “You are an insult.”

Your pulse pounded against your throat where the dagger remained poised. “I wonder,” San continued, “how it shall feel—to know that your defiance will be the cause of bloodshed.” The words felt like ice slipping into your veins.

He smiled, slow and cruel.

“War shall begin,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps next week. But soon. And when it does, when your people fall beneath the weight of what is to come, I hope you will remember this moment.”

His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “I hope you will choke on the guilt of knowing it is your fault.” Your breath hitched. “That by refusing to be a toy,” he said, voice almost thoughtful, “you have condemned them all.”

A pause. A moment of stillness. And once he let go of you, your knees hit the cold stone floor, the sudden loss of support stealing the strength from your legs. The blood from your throat dripped onto your gown, onto the pristine marble beneath you. Your vision blurred, but not from pain. Not from the wound.

From the weight of what had just been spoken into existence.

San did not spare you another glance.

He stepped back, adjusting his sleeves as if nothing had occurred, as if you were nothing more than a passing amusement. His footsteps echoed as he turned, the slow, deliberate rhythm of them fading down the corridor.

You remained where you were, trembling, blood warming the chill of your skin, breath ragged as the enormity of it all crushed you.

What have you done? No—what had he done?

And yet, it would be your burden to bear. Your father would blame you. The court would blame you. Your people would blame you. For daring to fight. For daring to say no. For daring to exist as something more than a pawn to be moved.

Tears spilled before you could stop them, silent and bitter, dripping onto the cold stone floor beneath you. You had tried to defend yourself. And now, war would come because of it.

The weight of it crashed down on you like an ocean’s tide, relentless and inescapable. The moment you had fought back, the moment you had dared to be something other than what was expected of you, the world had turned against you. You had been born into a life where your purpose was predetermined—not to rule, not to decide, but to be used. To be delicate. To be soft-spoken and docile, a thing to be admired rather than a force to be reckoned with.

And yet, you had defied that expectation. You had resisted. And now, they would make sure you paid the price.

Your fingers trembled as you pressed them to the wound on your neck, feeling the warmth of your own blood seep into your skin. It was a small cut. A warning. A cruel reminder that your body, your choices, your very existence was not your own to command. Even the pain was not yours—it had been given to you, inflicted upon you by a man who thought himself untouchable, a man who would suffer nothing for what he had done.

But you? You would suffer everything.

They would say it was your fault. That you should have known better. That you should have smiled, curtsied, and played your part. That you should have accepted his advances, accepted the fate that had been so generously chosen for you, because what right did you have to refuse?

What right did a woman have to say no?

The answer had been carved into your skin with the edge of a blade. None.

And yet, it was not the pain that suffocated you. Not the sting of the wound nor the lingering echo of San’s grip against your throat. No, it was something far worse. Something that clawed at your ribs and settled deep in your chest like a sickness. The guilt.

It wrapped itself around you, insidious and unshakable, whispering cruel truths into the hollow space where your resolve had once been. You had condemned them. Your people. The men and women of Elythria who had trusted in you, who had looked to you as their symbol of peace. They would not understand why you had done it. They would only know the consequences.

Because you had resisted, there would be war. Because you had refused to be used, your people would suffer. And wasn’t that the very thing you had sworn to prevent? Wasn’t that why you had endured everything before this moment—why you had smiled through the suffocating weight of expectation, why you had played the role of the gentle, fragile princess so flawlessly?

You had wanted to believe that, in some way, you could control your fate. That if you were kind enough, obedient enough, compliant enough, you could navigate this world without being swallowed by it. That if you endured quietly, the storm would never come.

But the storm had come anyway. And now, they would all drown because of you.

You could already hear the words that would be spoken in hushed tones through the palace halls, in the grand chambers where the fate of kingdoms was decided by men who saw you as nothing more than a bargaining piece.

“The princess should have known her place.”

“She provoked him.”

“If she had just agreed, this wouldn’t be happening.”

And worst of all—

“What else did she expect?”

Because no one would question San’s actions. No one would condemn him for threatening you, for pressing a dagger to your throat, for turning your resistance into a declaration of war. No one would look at him and think, he should not have done this. They would only look at you and think, she should not have fought. That was what it meant to be a woman in this world. To be held responsible for the violence inflicted upon you.

You wanted to scream. To weep. To claw at your own skin and rid yourself of the shame that was not yours to bear. But what good would that do? Tears would change nothing. Rage would change nothing. Even if you threw yourself at your father’s feet and begged for his mercy, there would be none. Because this was your fault. Even if it wasn’t.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? Knowing that the blame would always be placed on you, no matter what you did. Knowing that you had never stood a chance. That you could have submitted, could have let San have his way, could have smiled and curtsied and swallowed your pride whole—and it still would not have been enough.

Because your worth had never been your own to decide. It had always belonged to them. And you had dared to believe otherwise.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolted you from the abyss of your thoughts. Your breath hitched, panic seizing your chest as you hastily wiped at your face, smearing blood and tears alike across your trembling fingers. You could not be seen like this. Not like this. Not broken on the cold stone floor, a disgrace to the very image of grace and composure Elythria had forced upon you.

Your hands shot up to your neck, pressing against the wound in a feeble attempt to conceal it, as if your very touch could erase what had been done. Your gaze darted upwards, prepared to meet the merciless stare of yet another vulture eager to feast upon your suffering—only to be met with something far worse.

Yunho.

He stood before you, a fair distance away, his figure rigid as his eyes scanned your face. His gaze, sharp as steel yet somehow softer than anything you had ever known, drifted downward, settling upon the hand that desperately covered the cut upon your throat. His expression darkened in an instant.

The moment you moved to stand, your body betrayed you—your limbs, weak from the weight of what had just transpired, faltered beneath you. Before you could fall, Yunho was there.

He crossed the distance in an instant, his hands firm against your arms as he steadied you, his warmth a stark contrast to the suffocating cold that clung to you like a second skin. His grip was strong but careful, as if he feared you might shatter beneath the slightest pressure.

“What happened?”

You shook your head. You refused to meet his eyes, refused to let him see the ruin in yours. If you did, you knew you would crumble completely. His grip did not tighten, did not demand, but it remained. Unyielding.

“Look at me.”

You kept your gaze to the ground, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape.

“Look at me, Your Highness. Please.”

This time, his voice was softer. A plea, not a command. But you could not. You would not.

Your head shook weakly, another fresh wave of tears slipping past your lashes. The wound still pulsed beneath your palm, a reminder of your failure, of your weakness, of the destruction you had wrought upon those who had placed their trust in you.

Yunho exhaled sharply, and before you could react, his fingers curled gently around your wrist—the very wrist of the hand that so desperately tried to hide the truth from him. “Who did this to you?”

His voice was low, controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it. Something you had never heard before. You did not answer. You could not.

Yunho’s hold on your wrist tightened just enough to ground you, but not enough to cause pain. His patience, however vast, was wearing thin. “Tell me.”

Still, you said nothing. Instead, something inside you broke. A strangled sob tore from your throat as your body gave out completely. You collapsed against him, your grip on his tunic tightening as your cries broke through the fragile walls you had so desperately tried to maintain.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice was barely a whisper at first, muffled against the fabric of his uniform. Then, again—louder, more desperate, more broken. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

The words spilled from you, frantic and unrelenting, as if speaking them enough times would somehow erase the irreversible damage you had done. Yunho did not move, did not speak. But his arms—his arms encircled you, pulling you against him with a carefulness that was almost painful. He held you as you wept, his warmth shielding you from the suffocating chill of your own grief.

Yunho held you carefully, his arms steady despite the way your weight pressed against him. Your sobs had lessened, though your breaths still trembled against his chest. He paid no mind to the way his vest had become damp with your tears, nor did he shift uncomfortably at the way you clung to him with such fragile desperation. The thought of pulling away from you never even crossed his mind.

Thankfully, the gathering had lasted long into the night, and Yunho had already rid himself of his armor. Mingi had insisted on taking care of everything else, allowing him to step away from the exhausting politics that had filled the great hall for hours. For once, Yunho had been grateful to relinquish his duty—he never could have predicted that it would lead him here, holding you in his arms as you trembled from something he had yet to understand.

His large hands moved gently against your back, tracing slow, careful circles in an effort to soothe you. His touch was hesitant at first, as if unsure whether the motion would bring comfort or simply remind you of the hands that had hurt you. But when you did not recoil, when you only pressed yourself further into his hold, he let himself continue.

“Would you care for some air?” His voice was quiet, coaxing, barely above a whisper. “The royal garden is empty at this hour… We could go there, if you wish.”

For a moment, you did not answer. Yunho waited patiently, his fingers never ceasing their gentle motions. Then, after what felt like forever, you spoke, your voice so faint it barely reached his ears.

“…Take me anywhere.” Your hands clutched at his tunic, your grip weak but desperate. “Anywhere… just as long as it is outside these walls.”

Yunho understood. The castle, once a place meant to protect you, had become a prison of gilded lies and suffocating expectations. Whatever had happened—whoever had done this to you—it had happened within these very walls. The longer you remained here, the heavier the weight of it became.

But… you were still holding onto him. Tight.

He exhaled quietly, tilting his head downward so that his lips were near the crown of your head. “Princess,” he murmured, careful with his words, “I will take you wherever you wish. But… you must allow me to move.”

Before he could say more, you stirred against him, as if sensing what he would say next. Your fingers curled into his tunic, holding him tighter than before, and when you spoke again, your voice was barely above a breath. “Then… carry me.” A weak, quiet plea. “Please.”

Yunho’s chest ached at the sound of it. You did not want to let go.

A quiet sigh left his lips, and then, without hesitation, he adjusted his hold on you. His arms shifted beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly from the cold stone floor. You did not resist, only pressing your face further against his chest, your exhaustion evident in the way your body sagged in his hold. It was familiar—reminiscent of the very first time he had carried you, though this time, there was no playful resistance, no lighthearted jest about knights and their formalities. This time, you simply clung to him, trusting him entirely.

“I know just the place,” Yunho murmured, his voice gentle as he began walking. “Far from the chambers of Elythria, away from all that burdens you. But first… we must tend to your wound.”

You did not respond. Whether it was from exhaustion or resignation, he could not tell.

His jaw tightened as he glanced downward at the blood staining your skin. Whoever had done this… they would pay. He did not know the name yet, but when he found out, there would be no mercy. For now, however, his focus remained solely on you.

The corridors of the castle were silent as he made his way towards the knight’s quarters. The night air was crisp when he finally stepped outside, the cool breeze brushing against his face. He adjusted his grip on you, his steps careful and steady, ensuring that not even the slightest movement would disturb you further.

As he approached the headquarters, a familiar figure stood waiting. Mingi had remained outside, leaning against one of the stone pillars, his arms crossed as he gazed up at the sky in thought. The moment he noticed Yunho approaching, however, he turned, lifting a hand in greeting.

“Ah, there you are—” Mingi’s words faltered the moment he took in the sight before him. His expression shifted instantly, the faint smile on his lips disappearing as his eyes landed on you. Concern overtook his features, his posture straightening. “Yunho—what happened?”

Yunho did not slow his steps as he reached him. “I do not know,” he admitted, his voice lower now, mindful of your half-conscious state. “I found her like this. She refuses to speak of it.”

Mingi’s brows furrowed, his gaze flickering between you and Yunho. “That wound…” His voice dropped, his concern now laced with something darker. “She did not do that to herself, did she?”

“No.” Yunho’s response was immediate. “Someone did this to her.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened, but he did not push further. He knew Yunho well enough to recognize the quiet storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. “What do you need?”

“She wishes to be taken away from Elythria for the night. I will take her somewhere safe.” Yunho’s grip on you remained firm. “I need a carriage.”

Mingi nodded, already stepping away. “Consider it done.”

As Mingi busied himself with preparations, Yunho turned toward the headquarters. He had no intention of letting you travel without tending to your wounds first. Carefully, he carried you inside, heading straight for his quarters, where he kept his supplies.

Yunho moved with the utmost care, cradling you in his arms as he approached his bed, mindful not to jostle you awake. Your weight was light against him, fragile in a way that made something deep within his chest ache. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his touch delicate yet firm, he withdrew his arms ever so slowly, ensuring you remained undisturbed.

Even in your exhaustion, you stirred faintly, a quiet sigh slipping past your lips as your body settled against the sheets. The sound was soft, barely there, but it held him still. He did not move for a long moment, merely watching, as if afraid that even the slightest shift would shatter the fragile peace that had momentarily enveloped you.

A sigh left his lips as he finally turned away, his hands reaching for the bag of supplies he kept stored within the confines of his quarters. His movements were practiced, efficient—he had tended to countless wounds before, seen more blood than he cared to admit, and yet, as he pulled out the tools he needed, his fingers faltered.

This was different. This was not the aftermath of a battlefield, nor the consequence of a training session gone awry. This was not the wound of a knight who had accepted the dangers of war.

This was you—his princess, the very embodiment of Elythria’s gentle heart, marred by cruelty that should never have touched you.

His grip tightened around the cloth in his hand. He forced himself to exhale, to steady the quiet rage that simmered beneath his skin. Later. He would find out who did this later. For now, he would tend to you.

Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he shifted closer, his gaze locked onto your resting form. The wound upon your neck was shallow, but still, the sight of it unsettled him. He reached forward, dipping the cloth into the warm water he had prepared, wringing it out before carefully dabbing at the dried blood. His touch was light, cautious, yet even as he worked, his gaze drifted.

The flickering lamp beside his bedside table cast a soft, golden glow upon your features, illuminating every delicate curve and gentle slope of your face. He had always known you were beautiful—Elythria’s beloved princess, the envy of neighboring kingdoms, the one whose very presence turned heads in admiration.

But now, as he sat so close, as the shadows danced across your face, as the faint rise and fall of your chest filled the silence of his quarters, he realized that your beauty was something else entirely.

It was not merely the elegance you carried, nor the softness of your skin, nor the way your lashes rested against your cheeks. It was not just the way your lips parted ever so slightly in sleep, or the way your hair cascaded against the pillow, strands spilling like silken threads over the fabric. It was more than that.

It was the strength in the way you bore your suffering, the resilience in the way you carried yourself even after the world sought to break you. It was the fire he had glimpsed in your eyes, the determination that burned even beneath layers of gentle grace. It was the way you had endured, despite the weight of expectations crushing down upon you, despite the cruelty that had sought to silence you.

He had always thought you were delicate—fragile in the way a glass sculpture was, precious yet breakable. But now, he realized that even if you had been shattered, you would have pieced yourself back together, sharper than before. Your fragility was not a weakness, nor was your gentleness a flaw. You were strong in ways that defied reason, in ways that made his chest tighten with something he could no longer ignore.

And perhaps, that was what frightened him most of all.

For so long, he had kept his distance, convincing himself that his duty to you was just that—a duty. An obligation. A command from the queen, a role entrusted to him as a knight. He had sworn his loyalty to Elythria, to you, and yet… somewhere along the way, his devotion had begun to shift.

No longer was it just loyalty that tethered him to you. No longer was it just honor that compelled him to keep you safe.

It was something else entirely—something he had refused to name, something he had tried to cast aside, and yet, now, as he gazed upon you, as he tended to your wound with a gentleness he had never afforded another, he realized that denial no longer served him.

His resolve was fraying. His walls were crumbling. And for the first time, he did not know what to do with himself.

His fingers moved before he could stop them. Absentmindedly, without thought, without hesitation, he reached forward, his touch featherlight as he traced along the curve of your cheek. His hand cradled your face, his thumb brushing against your skin with a tenderness he could not put into words.

He had not meant to touch you so freely, had not meant to let his guard slip—but when you stirred, when you leaned into his palm, nuzzling into his warmth as if seeking comfort even in unconsciousness, he felt his heart stutter.

A firm yet measured sequence of four knocks echoed through the quiet of Yunho’s quarters, the rhythm unmistakable. His head lifted slightly, and without needing to ask, he knew who it was. Only Mingi knocked like that—a distinct pattern they had both memorized through years of camaraderie.

As expected, the door creaked open moments later, revealing Mingi’s towering frame. He stepped inside just enough to deliver his message, his voice kept low in consideration of the resting figure upon the bed. “The carriage is ready,” Mingi informed, his gaze flickering briefly toward you before returning to Yunho. “Iʼll be waiting outside.”

Yunho inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. There was no need for further words—Mingi understood. With a nod, the knight turned on his heel and exited, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a brief moment, silence reigned once more. Yunho remained seated at the edge of the bed, gaze settling upon you as you lay peacefully, the rise and fall of your breathing even and steady. But he could not afford to let you rest any longer—not when the night stretched ahead with miles to traverse, not when he had promised to take you far from the suffocating walls of Elythria.

Gently, he reached forward, his fingertips barely ghosting over your shoulder as he gave the lightest of taps. “Princess,” he murmured, his voice a low, steady timbre. “It is time to wake.”

You did not stir. He tried again, this time with a firmer touch. “Your Highness.”

A faint shift. A subtle twitch of your fingers. And then, with the softest flutter of your lashes, your eyes slowly blinked open.

Disoriented, you gazed around, your brows furrowing in confusion as you took in your surroundings. The dimly lit chamber, the unfamiliar weight of a blanket draped over you, the scent of something vaguely crisp and clean lingering in the air—it was different from the suffocating perfumes of the palace, different from the lavender oils your maids often used. It smelled like steel, leather, parchment, and a hint of something distinctly Yunho.

Your eyes found him. He was watching you closely, his expression unreadable yet patient. “You are awake,” he stated, more an observation than a question. “I trust you are feeling better?”

You blinked slowly, as if processing his words, before you found your voice. “…Better than before.”

Yunho nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Mingi has prepared the carriage. We must depart soon.” He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before adding, “I have tended to the wound upon your neck.”

At his words, your fingers instinctively lifted, hovering just above the sensitive skin of your throat. You hesitated before making contact, and when you finally did, you felt the firm press of bandages securing the injury beneath them. The touch made you wince—less from pain, more from the unfamiliar sensation of it being there at all.

“A bandage…” you murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

He inclined his head. “To keep the wound clean and undisturbed.”

You lowered your hand slowly, then glanced back at him, your expression searching. “Where will you be taking me?”

“To Aunvoeir,” he answered without pause. Aunvoeir. The kingdom of the northern highlands—Yeosang’s land.

Your brows knit together slightly, and though you did not question his decision outright, curiosity tinged your voice as you asked, “Why there?”

A faint glint of something unreadable flickered in his eyes, but his answer was simple. “You shall see.”

It was not an answer that satisfied you, but the finality in his tone left little room for argument. You exhaled softly, feeling the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs.

Before you could question him further, he gestured toward the side of the bed. Following his movement, your gaze fell upon a neatly folded set of clothing—a stark contrast to the silken gowns you were accustomed to. A crisp white shirt, a fitted vest, durable trousers. Practical, functional. A stark difference from the opulent attire forced upon you within the palace walls.

“It would be wise for you to don those before we depart,” Yunho remarked, his tone even.

You reached out hesitantly, fingertips brushing against the fabric. It was finely made, sturdy yet comfortable—clearly tailored for movement rather than mere display. You glanced back at him, curiosity once again sparking within you. “These garments… they resemble your own.”

He nodded once. “They were purchased from the merchants of Masreathen just yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I had them made for you with the intent of using them when you became more skilled in combat.” His gaze flickered over you briefly before he added, “I had thought they would be of use to you in time. I did not anticipate you would require them so soon.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the fabric, absorbing his words. “You had these made… for me?”

“I did.” He paused, then added, “One of the maids provided me with your measurements.”

There was something odd about hearing those words from Yunho, something strangely thoughtful beneath the practicality of it. He had planned for this—not tonight specifically, but for the day you would no longer be confined to delicate gowns and ornamental silks. He had prepared for the moment you would stand on even ground, ready to wield strength in place of fragility.

A strange warmth settled in your chest, but you said nothing of it.

Yunho rose to his feet, his presence towering yet never imposing. “I shall take my leave whilst you change,” he announced. “You shall find me just beyond this door when you are ready.”

With that, he turned away, stepping toward the exit. As his fingers brushed the doorknob, he hesitated for only the briefest moment, as if there was something more he wished to say. But whatever it was, he left it unspoken. The door shut softly behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet of his quarters.

—

The carriage rattled softly as it rolled along the dirt path, the sound of its wheels groaning against the uneven terrain blending with the steady rhythm of hooves striking the earth. Beyond the small window, the world stretched endlessly beneath a sky of liquid onyx, where stars flickered like distant beacons, indifferent to the chaos that had unfolded mere hours ago.

Mingi guided the reins at the front, his silhouette barely visible through the thin veil of fabric that separated the driver's seat from the enclosed space within. Though he remained silent, his presence was felt in the gentle yet firm way he maneuvered the carriage, ensuring each movement was smooth despite the road’s occasional roughness.

Inside, you sat still, gaze lost upon the vast expanse of the night, yet your mind was anything but quiet. The weight of your thoughts pressed heavy upon your chest, the echoes of your father’s scheme still ringing through your skull, each detail sharpening into cruel clarity the longer you let them fester.

Perhaps now was the time.

You did not wish to speak of it, did not wish to relive the words that had bound themselves like chains around your ribs. But Elythria—your home—stood on the precipice of destruction, and silence was no longer a luxury you could afford.

With a quiet inhale, you turned away from the window, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your cloak. Your gaze lifted, intent on seeking out Yunho, only to find that he was already watching you.

A faint breath caught in your throat.

He had been staring, his dark eyes unwavering, a depth of unreadable emotion buried beneath their surface. But as soon as your eyes met his, he cleared his throat and shifted slightly, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant for you to notice. He made to look away—but before he could, your hand moved on its own.

You reached for him, your fingers settling atop his own, halting whatever intention he had of retreating into silence. “…Yunho.”

The weight of his name upon your lips was enough to still him completely. His gaze flickered downward, toward the point of contact, where your smaller hand rested upon his, warm and steady. Though his posture remained composed, you did not miss the faint tension that rippled through him, nor the way his fingers curled ever so slightly beneath yours.

He looked back up at you, his voice quiet, yet firm. “What is it?”

For a brief moment, the words tangled in your throat. But you steeled yourself. There was no turning back now. “…I must tell you something,” you began, your voice softer than you intended. “Something I should have spoken of far sooner.”

His gaze remained steady. “Then speak it.”

You hesitated for only a breath before you finally allowed the truth to spill forth.

“It is about my father,” you admitted. “And his plan for Elythria. He—he means to claim Syelviore in its entirety, not through war, but through carefully constructed alliances. He arranged for noble families to swear fealty in exchange for power, and he seeks to secure the remaining kingdoms by means of… marriage.”

Yunho did not move, but you could sense the shift in his presence, the sharp focus with which he now listened. You pressed forward, unwilling to falter now.

“This evening, I spoke with Prince Choi of Tharian,” you continued, voice steady despite the weight of the words. “He came to me with a proposal—an engagement sanctioned by my father. If I accepted, Tharian would have stood beside Elythria. If I refused…” Your fingers instinctively tightened against Yunho’s hand. “…Elythria would be at risk.”

Silence. Then, his voice, quiet and measured. “…And what did you choose?” Your throat felt dry.

“I refused.”

Yunho exhaled slowly through his nose, though whether in relief or anticipation of what followed, you could not tell.

Your grip upon him tightened further. “San did not take my refusal well. He—he grew enraged. He claimed I was throwing Elythria into peril, that I was being selfish, blind to the greater good. And then…” You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the faint sting at your throat. “Then he struck me.”

There it was. The truth, bared raw in the open. At first, Yunho did not speak. He did not move. But you felt it.

Beneath your palm, his hand had gone rigid, the veins upon his skin becoming more prominent as his fingers curled inward, as if restraining himself from something unseen. His jaw clenched, a slow inhale filling his lungs, but no exhale followed—not immediately. It was as if he were holding himself together through sheer force of will, as if any break in composure would send the entire dam shattering apart.

Your voice softened. “Yunho—”

“He hurt you.”

It was not a question. It was a statement. Cold, absolute.

“He sought to claim Elythria by force, and when you denied him, he laid his hands upon you.” His grip beneath yours was tight now—not upon you, never upon you, but upon himself. His free hand had curled into a fist upon his knee, knuckles taut with restrained fury. His voice, though leveled, held an edge sharp enough to cut steel. “And your father was complicit in this?”

Your heart clenched. “Yes.”

A long silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. But despite the storm that you knew brewed beneath Yunho’s exterior, he did not lash out, did not break into anger. Instead, he exhaled—slowly, steadily—before finally speaking.

“You made the right decision in telling me this tonight.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why tonight?”

His gaze flickered toward the carriage window, where the landscape of Elythria was gradually beginning to fade into the distance, the night swallowing the familiar terrain whole. Then, his eyes returned to you, sharp with certainty.

“Because it is perfect timing that we are headed to Aunvoeir.”

Your confusion deepened. “What do you mean?”

Yunho did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his hand beneath yours, shifting so that he was no longer simply resting beneath your touch, but instead, holding onto you in return. His grip was firm, reassuring, grounding.

“Aunvoeir will be the key to diffusing the threat before it escalates to war,” he said at last, voice laden with meaning. “And before your father’s ambitions destroy everything in their wake.”

The weight in your chest grew heavier with each passing second, pressing against your ribs like iron shackles tightening with every breath. The air within the carriage felt thick, suffocating, as though the very fabric of the night sought to close in around you, swallowing you whole.

This was only the beginning.

Defying your father’s rule, rejecting San’s proposal, choosing to flee instead of bend to the will of men who had long dictated your fate—these were not mere acts of disobedience. They were acts of defiance, the first stones cast upon the still surface of a lake, ripples stretching far beyond your own reach. What you had done tonight was not a mere misstep to be forgiven. It was a spark.

And fire would surely follow.

Your fingers curled weakly against the fabric of your cloak, the reality of your actions tightening its grip around your throat. You had been so selfishly considerate of yourself, so naively hopeful that your resistance could be justified. But the truth was far crueler, far colder. Your kingdom was now at risk. Because of you.

The thought struck deep, twisting through you like a blade. You had let yourself believe, even if for a moment, that you had a right to refuse. That you had the right to choose for yourself. But what had that belief earned you? What had it given Elythria? Nothing but war. Nothing but ruin.

“A woman who speaks when she should be silent is a woman who brings destruction upon herself.”

You had heard it all your life, whispered behind closed doors, uttered in warning by those who sought to keep you safe from a world that would never show you mercy. And yet, you had ignored it, believing you were above the very laws that had governed women since the beginning of time.

And now, you had doomed yourself. You had doomed Elythria.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, your vision blurring as your chest tightened painfully. Your hands, once steady, trembled against your lap, and before you could even attempt to rein in the storm, you felt it—the sting of hot tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Yunho…”

His name left you in a whisper, barely audible beneath the rattling of the carriage, but he heard it. He turned to you immediately, his brow furrowing as he took in your trembling form, the barely-contained turmoil spilling from your very being.

“What is it?” His voice, though steady, held an edge of concern, his attention now fully drawn to you.

You swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the knot in your throat. Your lips parted, quivering as the words finally broke free. “I am afraid,” you admitted, voice cracking beneath the weight of it all. “I do not know what to do.”

His eyes remained locked onto yours, unwavering, waiting for you to continue. And you did.

“I feel as though I have damned my kingdom with my own foolishness,” you whispered, each word trembling as it left you. “Had I accepted Prince Choi’s proposal, Elythria would not be at risk. Had I obeyed my father, none of this would be happening. I—I was reckless. I acted out of selfishness, and now my people shall pay the price for my defiance.”

Your breathing grew uneven, your pulse quickening beneath your skin. “All my life, I have been told that a woman’s place is to obey, to be silent, to accept what is given to her without question,” you continued, voice growing weaker.

“Iʼve always wanted to defy that belief. Iʼve always wanted to show the people of Syelviore—from royalty to townsfolk—that women are more than obedient dolls with sewn mouths. That we have the right to stand up for ourselves, that saying “no” must not be something that will push us towards the gates of harm. I thought I had done it tonight… but I was wrong. So, so foolishly wrong.”

A tremor wracked through you, and you clenched your hands into fists in a desperate attempt to still the shaking. “I should have known better,” you whispered, the tears now spilling freely, tracing hot lines down your cheeks. “I shouldnʼt have forgotten the cruel reality—that a woman who refuses a man’s will is a woman who invites ruin upon herself.”

Your body felt cold, your skin prickling as a deep, suffocating dread coiled within you. “Yunho, I—”

Before you could finish, warmth enveloped your hands. Strong, steady.

Yunho’s hands had closed over yours, halting the tremors in their wake. His grip was firm, grounding, his fingers curling over your own with the certainty of an anchor amidst a raging storm.

“Look at me.”

His voice was low, yet resolute, carrying the weight of command without force. And despite the chaos in your mind, you obeyed. Your gaze lifted, meeting his. There was no anger in his eyes. No disappointment, no judgment. Only certainty, sharp and unrelenting.

“You were not wrong to choose for yourself,” he stated firmly. “And do not let a world ruled by men convince you otherwise.” Your breath hitched, lips parting slightly in surprise. But he did not stop.

“You speak as though you have doomed Elythria by acting upon your own will,” he continued, voice unwavering. “As though you have committed some grave sin by refusing to be bartered like a mere possession. But hear me, Princess—this is not your doing.”

His fingers tightened around yours. “Your father’s ambition, San’s violence, the greed of men who seek to claim power through control of others—these are the true culprits of the war that looms ahead,” he declared. “Not you. Never you.”

Your throat constricted, your heart twisting painfully within your chest. “But if I had simply agreed—”

“Then you would have lived in a cage, shackled to a man who sought only to use you as a tool,” he interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of an undeniable truth. “And even then, peace would not have been guaranteed. Power-hungry men do not cease their conquests simply because they have been momentarily sated.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to protest, but no words came. Because deep down, you knew he was right.

Yunho exhaled, his gaze softening ever so slightly. “I will not tell you that the path ahead will be easy,” he admitted. “I will not offer you empty reassurances that all will be well. But I will tell you this—standing against the tide is never wrong. And though you may feel alone in this battle, you are not.”

A pause.

“You have me.”

A bitter laugh slipped past your lips, quiet and trembling, as you lifted your free hand to wipe away the dampness clinging to your cheeks. The other remained trapped in Yunho’s grasp, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold spreading through your veins. You could not bring yourself to meet his gaze any longer, so you turned away, averting your eyes toward the darkened window, watching as the vast, unknown land stretched endlessly beyond the glass.

“You must think I am pathetic,” you murmured, voice laced with self-derision. “No different from what the whispers inject into your ears.”

From the corner of your vision, you saw him stiffen slightly, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What whispers?” he asked, his voice low yet laced with genuine curiosity.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “You know of what I speak.”

His silence told you that he did.

Your fingers curled against your lap as you continued, each word heavier than the last. “I have always been pictured as a delicate flower,” you muttered, the bitterness in your tone undeniable. “A porcelain doll too fragile to withstand even the gentlest touch. All my life, men and women alike have looked at me and seen nothing but fragility. And though I thought I had proven them wrong—though I believed persuading you to become my personal trainer would rid me of that image—what has become of it now?”

You let out a humorless chuckle, the weight of your words pressing down upon you like a crushing tide. “I was foolish to think I could ever be seen as something more. Now that I stand before a real battle, I crumble like the very doll they have always claimed me to be.”

The carriage was silent save for the faint creaking of the wooden wheels and the rhythmic sound of hooves against the earth. Yunho said nothing. Not immediately. But then, a ghost of warmth brushed against your chin.

It was not a touch, not quite. His fingers lingered just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from them, hovering, hesitant yet deliberate. A silent question. A waiting command.

Your breath caught in your throat. Slowly, uncertainly, you lowered your head just enough for your chin to settle against the space he had left open for you. And the moment it did, his fingers closed gently around you.

The touch was not forceful, nor was it demanding. It was careful, considerate—almost as if he feared you might pull away. With delicate precision, he tilted your face back toward him, guiding you until your gaze had no choice but to meet his once more.

His eyes, dark and unreadable in the dim candlelight, bore into yours with a quiet intensity that sent something sharp twisting in your chest.

“How offensive,” he murmured at last, his tone laced with something unreadable. “How utterly offensive it is for you to believe I would see you in such a manner.” Your breath hitched, your fingers curling weakly against the fabric of your dress.

“You believe me to be a man so easily swayed by the murmurs of those who know nothing of you,” he continued, his voice steady, unwavering. “But I know you, Princess. I have seen you. I have witnessed your resolve, your defiance, your strength.”

His thumb ghosted over your skin, light as a feather. “I do not think you are weak,” he said firmly. “Nor do I believe you to be some delicate flower wilting at the first sign of hardship. If anything, you are the storm that dares to uproot the very soil upon which such flowers grow.”

Something in your chest twisted violently, raw and unrelenting. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of his voice—the warmth of his touch—the way he was looking at you now, as if you were not some frail thing to be pitied, but rather something far greater.

And in that moment, your mind betrayed you.

It dragged you back to the very thing that had led you here in the first place. To Wooyoung’s teasing words about your supposed preference for knights. To his assumption that a particular knight had caught your favor. To the moment he had confessed to seeing Yunho watching you from afar, eyes lingering with something unspoken, unreadable.

Your breath shuddered.

Everything concerning Yunho had happened because of you. Because of the mere notion of your affection. And now—now that his hand was upon you, now that he was speaking such words, gazing at you with such quiet intensity—

You did not know what to do.

It was not as though you had forgotten. No, you had never forgotten. Your feelings for him had been lingering for far too long now, buried beneath layers of propriety, hidden beneath carefully measured words and stolen glances.

But you had always known it to be an unlikely pairing—one that the world would scoff at, one that would never be permitted under the ever-watchful eyes of those who dictated your fate.

More than that, you had always been careful. Careful to never let it show. Careful to never allow anyone, not even him, to notice. You had always feared the consequences of your own emotions—not for yourself, but for him. The last thing you wanted was for him to suffer because you could not control your heart.

But now? Now you were far from Elythria. Now, there were no prying eyes, no chains of duty, no unrelenting whispers dictating the rules of your existence. Now, there was only you. And him.

You swallowed, your lips parting slightly, though no words came. You did not know if you could control it anymore. Your breath trembled as you parted your lips, voice so soft it barely reached the space between you. “Yunho…”

His name alone felt dangerous upon your tongue, like a secret not meant to be spoken aloud.

The weight of his touch still lingered against your chin, his fingers careful yet unwavering. The warmth of them seeped into your skin, a silent anchor tethering you to the moment—yet you knew you were slipping. Slipping into thoughts you should not have. Slipping into a desire you had spent years locking away in the deepest chambers of your heart.

A slow inhale, a hesitance that trembled between longing and restraint. Then, your voice, no louder than the whisper of leaves in the autumn breeze. “You make me wish to tread paths I should not walk.”

The carriage rocked gently as it moved along the uneven path, the night outside pressing in, silent but heavy, as though even the darkness itself wished to eavesdrop on what was unfolding within. The dim glow of the lantern cast elongated shadows across the space, flickering across Yunho’s face, highlighting the sharp angles softened only by the way he looked at you.

And oh, how he looked at you. As though you were something untouchable yet within reach. A contradiction he could neither grasp nor turn away from.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, heart hammering against your ribs, though you could not tell whether it was from fear or from something far more dangerous. His fingers still lingered just beneath your chin, unmoving, barely there, a ghost of a touch that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

You should not have said it. And yet, you had.

And now, Yunho was looking at you as though he had seen past every carefully crafted wall, every attempt to conceal what had long since burned beneath your skin. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something far heavier.

You hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, quieter still, “Do not look at me like that.”

His brows furrowed ever so slightly, confusion flickering across his expression. “Like what, Your Highness?”

You clenched your jaw, but it did nothing to steady your trembling pulse. “Like I hung the stars up the sky,” you murmured, gaze flitting away, though you could still feel the intensity of his upon you, “and you are the moon who wishes to grant me a reward for it.”

Silence. You had expected him to scoff, perhaps to shake his head, to dismiss the notion entirely. But he did none of those things. Instead, he simply watched you, the weight of his gaze like the heat of a flame against bare skin. “I did not know the moon was one to grant rewards.”

A breath hitched in your throat. “It is not,” you admitted. “But should it ever… I fear I would be unable to refuse.”

His hand flexed against his knee, his other still hovering near your face, undecided, uncertain, caught in the space between propriety and desire. The air between you grew heavier. Tighter. More suffocating.

“And what is it you seek, Princess?”

Your lips parted. You could not answer that. No—rather, you could. But to do so would mean threading past the line neither of you had dared cross before. To speak of it would mean solidifying something that could no longer be taken back.

Yunho waited, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… they spoke of something else. Something restrained. Something that burned. A thousand words tangled themselves at the tip of your tongue, but only one managed to slip free.

“You.”

The word was barely above a whisper, barely anything at all, but Yunho had heard it. You knew because his grip on his knee tightened. You knew because his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking ever so slightly. You knew because something in his gaze darkened, softened, something unreadable and yet utterly, devastatingly clear.

“Would you have me turn away?”

His voice was steady, as it always was, yet there was something beneath it, something straining, something bordering on a breaking point. You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, your thoughts spiraling, crashing into each other like waves in a storm.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Then, softer still—

“No.”

A flicker of a smirk ghosted his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. “You waver.”

“And you do not?” you shot back. For the first time since this conversation began, Yunho hesitated. It was slight, barely perceptible, but you caught it.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he watched you, searching, as though weighing his next words, as though treading carefully over a thread so thin it could snap at the slightest wrong step.

“I am a knight, Your Highness. It is not my place to waver.”

You scoffed, but it was breathless, almost incredulous. “Then why do you look at me as though you do?”

He did not reply. Not in words. But in the way his gaze fell to your lips, the way his fingers nearly—nearly—brushed against it before pulling back, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever war raged within him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating in the most intoxicating way, drawing you further and further into something neither of you should have been venturing into.

“I should not be feeling this way,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Nor should I.” His voice was just as strained. You exhaled shakily, fingers twitching as if itching to reach for him, but you held yourself back.

“Then why…” A swallow. A hesitation. “Why does it feel as though I would not mind being lit by the fire between us if it meant you would be the one to set me alight?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, Yunho exhaled, long and slow, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening once more, darker, heavier, more tormented than before.

He leaned in—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that the mere thought of leaning forward would close the space entirely.

“If that is the fire,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “then tell me, Your Highness… do you wish for me to burn as well?”

Your heart stilled. He was giving you the choice. He was leaving the decision to you. Because despite everything, despite the tension, despite the unspoken yearning that hung thick between you, he would not cross the line first. It had to be you.

You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palm, your entire body trembling with the weight of your next move. Yunho remained still, waiting, though the torment in his gaze was undeniable. The silence that settled between you was thick—too thick—choking on the weight of everything left unsaid.

Then, after a minute had passed, he let out a sigh. “Your silence tells me everything I need to know, Your Highness,” he whispers, the sound of disappointment so subtly apparent in his voice.

“No—wait.” Your voice came before you could stop it, barely louder than a whisper, yet it sliced through the quiet like a blade. Yunho halted.

Your fingers, light but firm, curled around his wrist, stopping him just as his hand lifted from your chin. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his pulse steady—too steady for a man who had just been staring at you as though you were both salvation and ruin.

His eyes found yours. Searching. Questioning.

You inhaled sharply, heart hammering against your ribs. “There are things I wish to say,” you murmured, voice softer now, almost hesitant, as though speaking them aloud might make them unravel into something you could no longer contain.

“But if you choose to listen, know that you will not be able to pretend these words were never spoken.” Your grip on his wrist tightened ever so slightly, not in force, but in quiet desperation.

And then, you leaned closer, the space between you collapsing once more, your free hand finding purchase on his thigh, a subtle yet undeniable act of seeking something—stability, reassurance, him.

Your fingers barely pressed into the fabric of his trousers, and yet the reaction was immediate. Yunho tensed beneath your touch, a sharp inhale slicing through the silence. His jaw clenched, his gaze dropping, flickering—to your hand, to the space you had closed, to the way your eyes, heavy with something raw, bore into him.

Then, with a quiet, exasperated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers raking through the dark strands in a show of barely contained restraint. You watched him. Watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his shoulders seemed to hold the weight of something unspeakable, the way his entire body remained rigid, as though any slight movement might shatter the last remnants of his composure.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “What troubles you?”

His hand stilled in his hair. A long silence stretched between you, the air thick with something neither of you could name. Then, he exhaled, slow and measured, though there was nothing steady about the way his gaze flicked back to you, storm-dark and heavy with what seemed to be unspoken desires.“You have absolutely no idea what you are doing to me.” His voice was low, edged with something dangerous, something barely restrained. Something curled in your chest, something burning, something desperate, something that only grew when he spoke again.

“Gods, Your Highness.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening, his hand flexing against his knee. “You make composure seem as though it is something impossible to grasp.”

Your breath hitched, fingers twitching against his wrist. “What do you mean by that?” Yunho did not answer. Not immediately. Instead, he looked at you—long, searching, as though debating whether to speak the truth that lingered on his tongue. And then, just as you thought he might answer—

“Tell me what it is you wished to say.”

You frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

His expression remained unreadable. “Let it be.”

You hesitated, your grip on him tightening for the briefest moment. But then—

Then you exhaled, long and shaky, and you let go. Not of him. Not of this. But of the fear that had kept your words at bay for far too long. “I have fought it,” you whispered. “For so long, I have fought it. I have locked it away, buried it beneath duty, beneath reason, beneath every argument I could muster against myself.”

Yunho did not move, did not breathe, did not even blink. But you did not stop. “I have drowned myself in denial, in every rational thought that told me I must not—cannot—feel this way. I have sought distraction, have tried to tame the fire that threatens to consume me whenever you are near.” Your voice trembled, but you did not waver. “And yet, it remains.”

“I have… wanted you,” you whispered, voice breaking under the weight of it all. “Gods, I have wanted you, Yunho. Not just in passing, not just in fleeting moments of weakness. I have wanted you in ways I do not know how to contain. In ways that terrify me. In ways that make me wish I had never known you, for perhaps then I would not have to endure the torment of wanting something I cannot have.”

His breath was shallow now, his entire form rigid, but still, he did not interrupt. So, you continued.

“I have wanted to know what it would feel like to not have to swallow this feeling whole. To not have to keep my hands at my sides when I long to reach for you.” Your fingers trembled against his thigh, but you did not pull away. “I have wanted to know what it would be like to let go. To allow myself to fall, just to see if you would catch me.”

Your voice broke, and still, he said nothing. Still, he only watched.

“I have imagined it,” you admitted, the confession spilling from your lips like something that had long since been aching to escape. “I have imagined a world where I was not bound by duty, where I was not a princess, and you were not my knight. A world where I could love you without consequence.”

“But that world does not exist.”

A silence. A pause. A moment stretched too thin, poised to snap beneath the weight of your words.

“Say something,” you whispered.

Yunho exhaled. And when he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher, filled with something you could not name. “You are cruel, Your Highness.”

Your lips parted, but before you could protest, he continued. “You say these words, you bare your heart to me, and yet you tell me we cannot have it.” His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching where they rested against his knee. “You carve the wound open, yet you offer me no means to mend it.”

Your breath shuddered. “I did not mean to—”

“But you have.”

He leaned in now—closer than before, closer than what was safe. And then, in a whisper, in a breath that barely bridged the space between you—

“Tell me,” he murmured. “If I were not your knight, if you were not bound to duty—would you still hesitate?” Your heart stilled. Because you knew the answer. Because it was the only thing you had ever been certain of. Because hesitation had never been the problem. Not when it came to him.

Not when, in every moment you spent by his side, you felt the battle within you waging war against restraint, against duty, against every rule that had been etched into your bones since birth. Not when your heart, reckless and desperate, had long since abandoned reason in favor of him. Not when the only thing that had ever held you back was not doubt—but fear.

Fear of what it would mean. Fear of what it would cost. Fear of what would be left of you if you allowed yourself to fall, only to find he would not be there to catch you. And yet, as you sat there—his breath mingling with yours, his presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once—you found that fear to be utterly inconsequential in the face of the reality before you.

Because the truth was that you would never hesitate. Not with him. Not with the way his voice sent tremors down your spine, not with the way his eyes devoured you whole, not with the way his mere existence had rewritten the very fabric of your being.

So, you answered.

“No.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. Your fingers curled against his thigh, grounding yourself. “I would not hesitate,” you whispered. “Not if the world did not stand between us. Not if I had the power to choose. Not if the gods themselves descended and demanded that I think twice.”

Your lips parted, trembling, but you pushed forward, voice raw, unguarded, desperate. “I would run to you. I would run to you, Yunho. I would not stop. I would not look back. I would not question, nor falter, nor let a single sliver of uncertainty linger.” Your throat tightened. “I would choose you.”

Yunho let out a breath, uneven and shaky. His hands, which had remained motionless for so long, clenched into fists atop his knees, as if restraining the impulse to reach for you. And for the first time since this treacherous conversation had begun, he looked torn.

As though your words had not only struck him but had shattered something within him entirely. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “You wound me, Your Highness.”

Your chest ached. “Then wound me in return,” you whispered. “If I have sinned in speaking this truth, then let me bear the punishment of your silence. Let me suffer the weight of your rejection. Let me be the only one who carries this burden, if you so wish it.”

Your voice broke. “But do not—” Your breath stuttered, hands trembling as they curled into the fabric of your gown. “Do not look at me like this and say nothing.”

Yunho let out a quiet, broken laugh, but there was no amusement in it. Only agony. “Gods,” he muttered, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, something burned within them—something untamed, something restrained only by the barest thread of control. “You are cruel.”

Your heart ached. “Then hate me for it.”

“Hate you?” Yunho let out a breathless, disbelieving chuckle. “You ask the impossible of me.”

Your pulse thundered. “Then what is possible? Tell me.” You swallowed, searching his face. “What do you want to do?”

Yunho inhaled sharply. For a moment, his gaze flickered—down, just for a second, to your lips. Your breath caught. His jaw clenched. “Do not tempt me.” His voice was raw. “Do not ask of me what I cannot give.”

You exhaled shakily. “And if I do?”

His expression darkened. “Then you will not like the answer.”

A shiver ran through you. “Try me,” you whispered.

Yunho let out a slow, ragged breath, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible, like a confession meant only for the night to hear. “If I were a lesser man,” he murmured, “I would kiss you.”

Your entire body stilled.

“I would throw every consequence into the wind.” His hands, still clenched, trembled at his sides. “I would take what you offer me without hesitation. I would show you exactly what you do to me, exactly how much you have unraveled me, exactly how much I have suffered beneath the weight of this.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. “But I am not a lesser man. And I will not—cannot—be the one who drags you into ruin.”

A sharp pang of pain shot through your chest. “Then what do I do with this, Yunho?” your voice broke, fingers curling into his sleeve. “What do I do with all of this… yearning?”

His hand, hesitant yet firm, reached up to your cheek. His thumb, calloused and warm, brushed along your skin. A touch so light, so fleeting, that it might have been imagined had it not left fire in its wake. His gaze, storm-dark and full of something unreadable, met yours. “You endure it,” he whispered.

You shuddered beneath the weight of his touch. “And if I cannot?”

His thumb brushed your cheek once more, lingering just long enough to make your breath stutter. “Then gods help us both.”

“Then kiss me.”

The words spilled from your lips like a plea, barely more than a whisper, yet carrying the weight of every aching moment spent in restraint. Your fingers curled against his thigh, desperation threading through every fiber of your being.

Yunho froze. His breath hitched, his body going rigid beneath your touch, as though your request had shattered whatever fragile thread of composure he had left. His gaze, wide and dark with something perilously close to surrender, locked onto yours.

“No.”

Your chest caved. Your brows drew together, confusion flickering across your features as your fingers twitched against his leg. The rejection stung—sharp and unforgiving—but before the wound could settle, Yunho exhaled, his own expression twisting with something raw, something pained.

“I wish I did not have to give you that answer.” His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges, like it hurt him to say it as much as it hurt you to hear it. “But this is dangerous.” His fingers curled into his palms, a flicker of torment passing through his gaze.

“You know this,” he murmured. “I know this. I—” His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had quieted to something almost remorseful. “I am the captain of Elythria’s royal knights. If there is anyone who should understand the consequences of these desires, it is me.” Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

“Liar.”

The single word cut through the air like a blade. Yunho’s expression flickered, frustration tightening his jaw. His hands twitched at his sides, his breath coming shallow. “I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupted, voice unwavering, eyes burning with conviction. “Your lips can tell as many lies as they please, Yunho. They can speak of duty, of honor, of restraint—but your eyes.” You leaned closer, gaze never once wavering. “Your eyes never lie.”

His breath stilled. His grip on control wavered. And when he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “And what do they tell you?”

Your lips parted, your heart beating itself into ruin against your ribs. “They tell me,” you whispered, “that you want this just as much as I do.”

He then cursed under his breath.

His throat worked around words that did not come, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. For a fleeting moment, his lips parted as though to protest, to fight back against the truth you had laid before him, but you did not allow him the chance.

Before a single syllable could escape, you lifted a finger, pressing it gently against his lips. His entire body locked into place, his breath caught somewhere in his throat as he stared at you with wide, unreadable eyes.

You leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Yunho barely had time to react before his back met the plush seat of the carriage, his elbows bracing against the surface for support. You hovered over him, close enough that he could count the delicate flutter of your lashes, close enough that your warmth seeped into his very bones.

The air was thick. Electric. A trap spun entirely from longing. For a moment, Yunho could not think. He could only drown in the way you looked like this—gods above, no, you were always beautiful—but something about you now, with the glow of the moon casting hues over your skin, with the weight of yearning pooling in your gaze, with the way your lips parted as though made to fit against his—

It was devastating, ruinous, and a sight that would be etched into the depths of his soul for all eternity.

He had spent his life surrounded by beauty. The flowers that bloomed in the royal gardens. The golden halls of the palace, kissed by morning light. The ethereal glow of Elythria beneath the stars. But nothing. Nothing compared to this.

To you.

No wonder they called you a flower. You were delicate, yet untamed. A gentle thing, yet brimming with the strength to carve paths where none existed. You were soft, yet—somehow—utterly lethal to his sanity. And gods. Gods, he wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to taste every word that had ever graced your lips, wanted to know if they carried the same sweetness as the longing in your voice. He wanted to memorize the way you sighed against him, to feel the warmth of your breath melting into his skin. It was maddening. You were maddening.

And just when he thought he could keep resisting—just when he thought he could hold firm against the fire consuming him, you whispered his name.

“Yunho.”

Soft. Pleading.

It snapped him out of his thoughts like a blade pressed to his throat. His breath hitched, his fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers in a last-ditch effort to anchor himself. But how could he? When you looked at him like that? When you were so close, so devastatingly close that he swore he could feel your heartbeat echoing against his own?

Your fingers ghosted over his thigh, a mere whisper of a touch, but it burned. “Give me an answer,” you murmured.

Yunho swallowed. Hard. “Two choices,” you continued, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Yes or no.” He felt his pulse thunder in his ears.

“If it is a no,” you went on, “then you shall push me away.” A pause. A heartbeat of hesitation before your next words. “And we shall pretend none of this ever happened.”

His jaw clenched. You leaned impossibly closer, your nose nearly brushing his. Your breath ghosted over his lips, igniting a wildfire in his chest. “But if it is a yes…” The air between you was suffocating now. “… then you must do what you so clearly wish to do.”

A sharp exhale left him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers tightening into fists before releasing again, caught in the war between logic and longing. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. And then, Yunho lifted his hands.

Your breath stilled as his palms came to rest on your shoulders, his grip firm yet featherlight. The heat of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of your garments, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. For the briefest second, fear crept into your chest.

Would he push you away? Would he choose duty over desire? Would he pretend none of this ever happened? But then, one of his hands drifted downward. Slowly. Deliberately. Fingertips grazing over your arm, your side, before settling against your waist.

The other lifted, brushing the curve of your jaw before sliding back—gentle, hesitant—until his fingers tangled into the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck gently, making sure he wouldnʼt lay a hand on the bandaged wound at the area.

Yunho inhaled sharply, his grip tightening just slightly—like he was grounding himself, like he was fighting the last remnants of restraint threatening to pull him away. And then, in a voice so low it barely reached your ears, he finally spoke.

“… Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?”

His words were ragged. Frustrated. Desperate. You blinked, caught off guard by the sheer helplessness in his voice. “You make composure feel like something impossible to grasp,” he muttered, his breath warm against your cheek. “You make restraint seem like an illusion.”

Your fingers trembled where they rested against his chest. “You speak of dangerous paths,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the curve of your waist, barely there, yet searing. “But you are the danger, Your Highness.” The title rolled off his tongue like a sin.

“You are the abyss itself,” he breathed. “And gods help me, I would gladly throw myself into it.” A shiver coursed through you, your entire body trembling in his hold. Your next words came out in a whisper, barely audible beneath the hammering of your heart.

“… Then what is stopping you?”

And then, it happened. You saw it—the precise moment Yunho finally let go. The storm in his eyes quieted, not in surrender, but in decision. A decision made not with logic, nor with duty, but with something far stronger, far more reckless. It was the moment he chose not to fight it anymore.

His fingers, which had been resting lightly against the nape of your neck, stiffened—firm, yet trembling, as if he had only now realized just how much he had wanted this, how long he had yearned for it.

His hand in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands, coaxing you downward until your lips met his. The world stopped.

No. The world ceased to exist.

There was no kingdom. No consequences. No title weighing upon your shoulders, nor the duty shackling his hands. There was no war in his mind, no voices whispering restraint, no need to think, or doubt, or breathe. There was only this. Only you. Only the unbearable warmth of his mouth against yours, the way he kissed you like a man starved, like he had been drowning in an ocean of restraint and only now had found air.

The carriage swayed beneath you, but neither of you noticed. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping so tightly your knuckles ached. Yunho's other hand slid from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer, eliminating the last inch of space between you until you could feel every breath, every shudder, every silent confession neither of you had dared to voice until now.

But even as his lips moved against yours, desperate and insatiable, even as his hands roamed, grasping, claiming—it was not enough. It would never be enough. Yunho parted from you just slightly, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between. His fingers trembled where they held you, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Tell me to stop.”

His voice was hoarse, heavy, laced with the remnants of restraint still clinging to him like the last threads of a fraying rope. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

His hand cupped your face now, his thumb ghosting over your cheekbone, as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you beneath his fingertips. Your lips parted, but no words came. He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say the word, and I shall stop.”

“… Don’t.”

Your whisper was barely audible, but it shattered every last remnant of his resolve. His eyes darkened, and a quiet, almost pained sound escaped his lips. “Please,” you added, the word slipping past your lips like a prayer. “Don’t stop.”

A deep inhale.

Gone was the hesitation. Gone was the careful restraint, the desperate attempt at holding back. Now, he was consuming your entire being.

His lips moved against yours with a fervor, his hands grasping at you as if you were something sacred, something he could no longer bear to be apart from. A small gasp escaped you as he pulled you fully onto his lap, his arms encircling you, his hands splayed against your back, pressing you so close you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against your own.

He kissed you like he was unraveling. Like you had reached inside of him and undone every last knot of restraint he had ever tied around himself. Like he had been waiting lifetimes for this.

Your hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, tugging just slightly. The reaction was immediate—a sharp inhale against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening, his fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your gown.

He broke away just long enough to murmur your name, voice low and wrecked. Then his lips were trailing—along your jaw, down the column of your throat, slow and reverent, his breath searing against your skin.

“You will be the ruin of me,” he whispered against your pulse.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders.

“Then let me be,” you breathed.

His hand cupped the side of your face, tilting you back toward him, his gaze burning into yours. His lips were slightly parted, his breath uneven, his pupils blown wide with something unspoken, something raw and desperate and so utterly helpless. There were words in his eyes. Words he dared not say. Words neither of you were ready to speak aloud.

So instead, he kissed you again. And again. And again. Each kiss deepening the hunger. Each touch feeding the insatiable need neither of you had the strength to resist anymore. The world outside continued on. The carriage wheels still turned, the wind still howled through the trees, the distant sounds of the kingdom still echoed in the night.

And then, your lips parted.

A breath, sharp and shallow, slipped past Yunho’s lips as he lingered just a moment longer, his forehead still so close to yours, his hands still cradling you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His body remained tense, like he was fighting some unseen battle within himself—like he knew he had to regain composure, yet loathed the very idea of it.

But eventually, duty won over desire.

With a heavy breath, Yunho closed his eyes, swallowing back whatever war still raged inside him. Slowly, gently, he guided you off his lap, his hands steady but reluctant, like he was afraid you might shatter upon leaving his arms. He straightened you in your seat, smoothing out the folds of your gown with meticulous care, his touch lingering just a little too long at your wrist before he finally pulled away.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. But you saw it. The flicker in his eyes. Was he…?

Your breath caught as the realization struck. His eyes were red-rimmed, shimmering faintly in the dim candlelight of the carriage. He turned away, blinking rapidly, but not before you saw the way his throat bobbed, the way his jaw clenched as if to stop himself from feeling.

“Are you…”

Your voice was barely above a whisper as your hands found his face, cupping his cheeks with the same reverence he had held you with mere moments ago. He stiffened beneath your touch, but did not resist. Gently, you tilted his head back toward you, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“What is wrong?” you asked softly.

For a moment, he said nothing. His lips parted, but no words came. His brows furrowed, and his gaze wavered, as if he was fighting to keep himself together, to hold back whatever was threatening to spill forth. Then, at last, his composure shattered.

“I wish—” His voice faltered, hoarse and thick with something he could no longer suppress. “I wish we were but common folk.”

“I wish we were naught but an ordinary man and woman, free of duty, free of war, free of the chains that keep us apart,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I wish I did not have to look at you and wonder if this moment is to be our last. I wish I did not have to love you in silence, to watch from afar, knowing I can never reach you. I wish we could run away—leave all of this behind and start anew where no one knows our names. Where I do not have to be your knight, and you do not have to be a princess bound to a kingdom that does not deserve you.”

You felt something tighten in your chest, a sharp ache that spread like wildfire through your veins. “Yunho…”

“I am a fool,” he whispered, shaking his head. “A fool for entertaining such thoughts. I know they are naught but a fantasy, and yet—”

“And yet, they do not have to be.”

His breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, and you saw it—the glistening of unshed tears, the flicker of hope he tried so desperately to smother. You smiled softly, reaching up to brush your thumb against his cheek, wiping away the tear that had managed to escape.

“When this is over,” you murmured, “we shall run away. We shall do as you wish. We shall leave this kingdom, find a place where we are free to love without consequence, without fear.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with something you could not name. “This is but wishful thinking,” he whispered.

“No.” You shook your head. “This is hope.” He swallowed hard, his grip tightening against the fabric of his tunic.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “Aunvoeir is our ally. You said so yourself. We are not alone in this fight. The path ahead may be treacherous, but it is not a dead end.” Your voice was firm now, unwavering. “My father and Tharian are formidable adversaries, but they are not invincible. Victory is not as impossible as you believe it to be.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. “And what shall become of us now, Your Highness?”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it. At the quiet vulnerability in his voice, the way he stripped himself of the unwavering knight, the protector, and revealed something far more human. You smiled, brushing your fingers along his cheek once more, grounding him.

“We hope,” you said, voice gentle yet resolute. “We hope for a better tomorrow. And even if tomorrow brings nothing but despair, we shall hope still. For no darkness lasts forever. And someday, tomorrow will be kind to us.”

Unbeknownst to both of you, Mingiʼs ears have caught every word you whispered to one another. Now, he was running the carriage with a small smile on his face, his eyes boring amusement.

“Tomorrow will be kind to both of you, Iʼll make sure of that,” he whispered to himself.

🕰️ — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez angst #jeong yunho x reader #jeong yunho #yunho x reader #yunho ateez #yunho angst #yunho fluff #jung wooyoung #song mingi #kang yeosang #choi san #ateez fic

107 notes · View notes

lividstar · 5 months ago

Text

UN CHEVALIER AIMANT

ㅤㅤㅤㅤChapter II: Better Seen and not Heard

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ < previous | next >

── .✦ masterpost.

── .✦ wc: 9.6k

── .✦ fantasy, knight!yunho x princess!reader, slowburn, fluff, angst, forbidden romance, royal politics, prince!woosansang, knight!mingi, duty vs. desire, power struggles

── .✦ playlist.

In the quiet solitude of your royal chambers, a restless heart yearns for freedom, torn between the delicate chains of duty and a desire to feel truly alive. The weight of your father’s expectations looms over you, while the whispers of an unseen knight pull at the edges of your thoughts. A chance encounter with Yunho in the garden stirs something within—a flicker of something more than mere duty. Yet, the path you walk is fraught with peril, where the delicate balance of royal life and your own hidden desires threatens to unravel. And as you stand at the threshold of something unspoken, you wonder: can a fragile princess dare to dream beyond the walls that bind her?

a/n: i was listening to disney soundtracks earlier and thought “speechless” by naomi scott suited not only this chapter, but the entirety of this story itself—hence the last-minute revision of the title (it is a line from the song). your feedbacks are dearly treasured within my heart, so it would be much appreciated if you were to inform me of them <3

tags: @wolviejex (figured iʼd add you here since you once mentioned youʼd be waiting for the next part :))

The dining hall gleamed under the flickering glow of candlelight, painting a warm sheen upon the long, polished table where you, your father, and a few of his advisors sat in extravagant splendor. Your mother had traveled to the land of Farlvichium—found just right beside Masreathen—where she was to purchase a new set of attire for both you and herself to wear. She would be returning to Elythria later during dawn, hence the absence of her presence. The scent of roasted meats, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine curled through the air, yet none of it stirred your appetite.

You sat adorned in one of your finer gowns—soft silk embroidered with delicate golden thread, shimmering under the dim light. It was a dress you often wore on more casual days within the castle, yet tonight, as you sat among the laughter and self-indulgent celebration of your father’s so-called triumph, it felt like a cruel mockery. A prison spun from gold and silk.

How ironic it was to be draped in luxury, feasting on the finest delicacies Elythria had to offer, while your spirit felt like an old, tattered rag left out in the storm. They all dined with satisfaction, savoring each morsel with ease, unaware—or perhaps simply unbothered—by the suffocating weight that settled upon your shoulders.

Your father, seated at the head of the table, was in high spirits, his deep, commanding voice filling the hall as he conversed with his advisors, speaking of diplomacy, of power, of the inevitable success of his ambitions. Every word he uttered twisted your stomach further.

And then, as expected, he turned to you.

“So, my dear,” his voice, though smooth, carried the sharp edge of expectation. “Tell me, how did it go? What did you and the two princes speak of?”

Your grip tightened slightly around the silver goblet in your hand. You had anticipated this question. Prepared for it. And yet, as his keen eyes settled upon you, it felt as though he could already see past the veil of pleasantries you had crafted in your mind.

Still, you smiled, a carefully curated expression of warmth. “Prince Wooyoung was most charming, as expected. He seems quite… fond of me.”

Your father’s brows lifted with interest, a pleased smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “Is that so?”

You nodded, glancing down at your untouched plate. “He even plucked one of the lilies from the royal garden. He wished to take something with him to Zaule—something to remind him of Elythria.”

The reaction was immediate. Your father let out a satisfied hum, setting his goblet down with a clink against the table. His expression brimmed with triumph, as if Wooyoung’s simple gesture was all the confirmation he needed that his plan was unfolding exactly as he had envisioned.

“Good,” he murmured, mostly to himself, before lifting his goblet once more. “Leaving an impression upon them is the first and most crucial step. If they find themselves longing for another encounter, we have already planted the seed.”

You remained silent, merely nodding along as he took another slow sip of his wine, pleased with the progress. But then, inevitably, he asked, “And what of Prince Yeosang?”

Yeosang.

The prince who saw through you far too easily. The prince who subtly—yet unmistakably—opposed the very foundation of your father’s ambitions.

The moment your father uttered Yeosang’s name, your pulse slowed—not in calmness, but in careful calculation. He was waiting, watching, expecting an answer that would assure him all was proceeding as he had so meticulously envisioned. But what answer could you possibly give?

Yeosang knew.

Of course, he hadn’t said it outright, but he hadn’t needed to. His every glance, his every carefully spoken word had told you that he had seen through the veil of pleasantries and understood the truth buried beneath it. He had read between the lines, deciphered the true intent of the ceremony, and—most dangerously—he had made it clear that he did not stand with your father’s ambitions.

That was what made this moment so precarious.

If you told the truth—if you revealed that Yeosang had seen through the ruse and had likely already informed Aunvoeir’s king—then your father would act. But what would that entail? Would he alter his approach, disguise his intent further? Would he grow more ruthless in ensuring his plan remained intact? Would Yeosang’s kingdom suffer the consequences of simply knowing?

But if you kept it to yourself… if you let your father remain blind to the fact that a crack had already formed in his grand design…

Aunvoeir may take action first.

They knew now. They understood the danger that Elythria posed should your father’s ambitions come to fruition. And if they decided they could not afford to sit idly by… if they chose to strike before your father could—

Your people would suffer.

Your beloved Elythria, your gentle, kind townsfolk, the ones who grew pink lilies in your honor, the ones who greeted you with warm smiles even as they labored under a kingdom built on veiled threats and unspoken fears—they would be caught in the crossfire.

“My dear,” your father’s voice came again, smooth, expectant. “Prince Yeosang?”

You met his gaze, finding only patience in his expression, but patience laced with demand. He would wait for an answer, but he would not wait forever.

A single breath. Then another. And then, finally, you spoke.

“He was…” You forced a softness into your voice, something light, something unassuming. “Reserved. More measured than Prince Wooyoung, but no less respectful.”

Your father hummed, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. “And? Did he express any particular interest?”

Interest. Such a simple word, yet in your father’s mouth, it held an edge sharper than any blade. A pause. A heartbeat. A moment to decide.

Your lips parted, but the words that wished to be spoken—the warning, the truth—remained locked behind your teeth. Instead, you said, “He was intrigued by Elythria’s customs. We spoke of traditions, of history.”

Not a lie. But not the truth, either.

Your father considered you for a moment longer than he had before. You met his gaze, keeping your expression steady, your posture composed, your breathing even. If there was any flicker of doubt within him, he did not voice it.

At last, he leaned back slightly, lifting his goblet to his lips once more. “Good,” he murmured. “Then we continue as planned.”

Your chest remained tight, your stomach twisted, but you only nodded. Your father turned his attention elsewhere, speaking now of trade agreements, of alliances and strategies and matters that should have concerned you more than they did. You let the conversation wash over you, feigning engagement while your thoughts spiraled elsewhere.

Had you made the right choice? Had you condemned your people to danger by remaining silent?

Or had you merely delayed the inevitable?

The feast continued around you, a symphony of indulgence and ambition, of rich flavors and empty victories. But you tasted none of it. You felt none of it. Because no matter what you did, no matter which path you took…

The storm was already gathering.

—

Your footsteps echoed in the silence of your chambers, a rhythm upon the cold marble floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. A caged bird fluttering, desperate, uncertain where to go when every direction was a dead-end in disguise.

You could not sit still. The weight of the evening’s events were heavy as stone, suffocating as a noose drawn ever so slowly. The candlelight flickered upon your vanity, illuminating the untouched sheet of parchment that lay waiting beside a quill, its tip glistening with fresh ink.

Write to him. Tell him. Confide in Wooyoung.

The thought wove itself through your mind, threading its way between your doubts and hesitations. Wooyoung was your friend, your confidant—if there was anyone who could understand the turmoil that burdened your heart, it was him. He, too, was born into the golden shackles of royalty. He, too, knew what it meant to be a pawn in a game far greater than oneself. And yet… Would he understand? Truly?

Or would he, like any ruler, place his kingdom first?

He was the Prince of Zaule, his loyalty bound to his people before all else. If you told him of your father’s schemes, he would listen—yes, he would listen—but he would also tread carefully. He would no longer look at you with the same ease, the same warmth. You would no longer be simply you in his eyes, but rather a liability, a possible danger, a piece on the board he must maneuver with caution.

And perhaps, eventually, he would sever the ties between you altogether.

You would lose him.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temple as if the pressure might force your thoughts into order. You hated this. You hated every moment of it. Every choice felt like walking blindly through a burning corridor, each door leading only to another wall of fire.

You had never wanted any of this.

Not the gilded dresses, nor the suffocating titles, nor the burdens that came with ruling lands and wielding influence over thousands of lives. If it were not too much to ask, if the gods were not so cruel, you would have simply wished to be normal—a girl whose greatest worries were fleeting things, whose hands bore the marks of labor rather than the touch of silk. A girl who could walk the streets of Elythria and live among her people, not above them.

Your knees buckled.

Before you could catch yourself, you sank to the floor, your trembling fingers clutching the fabric over your chest as if you could steady the storm within. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the candlelight, and then they fell—silent at first, rolling down your cheeks in quiet surrender. But the silence did not last long.

A choked sob tore from your throat, muffled as you pressed your hands against your face. Your shoulders shook, your breath hitched, and suddenly, the walls of your chamber felt too close, too stifling, trapping you in this wretched reality you could not escape.

This would not do. You could not stay here, drowning in your own despair, surrounded by nothing but luxury and walls too thick to hear your screams.

With a sharp inhale, you pushed yourself to your feet, unsteady but determined. You cared not for the state of your hair, nor the tear-streaked ruin of your face. You cared not if a maid saw you in such a state or if the knights stationed in the corridors whispered amongst themselves after witnessing their princess fleeing into the night like a phantom haunted by her own existence.

You just needed to run—so you did.

Your bare feet carried you down the dimly lit halls, past the towering columns and the grand staircases that once seemed insurmountable. And when you stepped beyond the palace doors, the night air greeted you like an old friend—cold and crisp, biting at your damp cheeks but not unkind.

The path to the royal garden was no longer a daunting abyss of darkness. Where once you had hesitated, lamps now flickered in a soft, guiding glow, illuminating the way with newfound clarity.

You did not know who had arranged this within a single day, but you were grateful nonetheless. Whoever it was, it had to be someone who knew of your foolish decision to depart and welcome the darkness with open arms the other day—perhaps Mingi, or…

No. Such delusions must be perished from your mind.

At last, you reached the heart of the garden, the place where peace had once felt tangible, where you had once been able to steal moments of solace amidst the chaos of your life. The scent of lilies lingered in the air, sweet yet melancholic, a reminder of the love your people bore for you. It was comforting and cruel all at once.

You sank onto the stone bench nestled beneath the flowering arches, drawing your legs up and wrapping your arms around them, seeking whatever warmth you could find. And then, at last, you spoke—though there was no one there to hear you but the night itself.

“I am tired,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Tired of playing the obedient daughter. Tired of smiling when all I want to do is scream. Tired of carrying a crown I never asked to bear.”

You exhaled, resting your forehead against your knees. “I am not a warrior, nor a ruler. I am not a strategist nor a schemer. I do not wish to play this game of power, to weave words into lies and dance upon a stage where my own heart is nothing more than a piece to be sacrificed.”

“I truly love Elythria,” you continued, voice cracking, “but I despise the choices I must make for it. If I tell my father the truth, it may lead to war. If I say nothing, Aunvoeir may strike first. And if I confide in Wooyoung, I may lose him forever. No matter where I turn, no matter what path I take, I am destined to betray someone.”

A shuddering breath.

“I do not know what to do.”

The night answered with silence. Only the rustling of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the quiet hum of the wind threading through the garden. No answers. No guidance.

Yet suddenly, a voice, deep and steady, sliced through the quiet like a blade through silk.

“You should not be out here alone at this hour, Your Highness.”

A sharp inhale. Your body flinched before your head snapped upward, eyes wide, pulse quickened with startled surprise. You turned swiftly, your tear-streaked face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, only to find yourself met with a figure standing tall against the night.

Yunho.

Of all the wretched moments in time for him to bear witness to, it had to be now—when you sat upon the cold stone bench, disheveled and frayed at the edges, a breath away from madness itself. Your hands, still trembling, immediately moved to your face, hastily wiping at the remnants of sorrow upon your cheeks, though it did little to mask the redness in your eyes, the uneven rise and fall of your chest.

You straightened your dress, your movements deliberate, as though the mere act of correcting your appearance would undo the state he had already seen you in. A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, with a voice made feignedly even, you asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you.” His response came simply, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “You ran off.”

You cast your gaze downward, hands clutching the fabric of your gown. Had you been so careless? So lost within your own turmoil that you failed to ensure no eyes bore witness to your escape? Or was he simply that perceptive, that attuned to every shift in the palace?

A realization then settled upon your shoulders. If he saw you leave… then had he also heard?

Your lips parted, then hesitated. You forced yourself to meet his gaze again, searching, measuring. Yunho’s expression remained unreadable—calm, unwavering, yet there was something beneath it, something just beyond reach.

Your voice softened, slow and careful. “Did you hear anything… of importance?”

“I have not.”

A lie.

The response was too swift, too carefully measured, lacking the natural ease with which he normally spoke. He had heard. There was no doubt in your mind. You exhaled, your fingers curling at your sides. “Enough lies.” Your tone was firm, pressing. “Tell me the truth.”

His lips parted as though he wished to speak, but instead, he pressed them together once more. His gaze, unwavering as ever, held yours, yet there was something different this time. A silent refusal. A decision already made.

At last, he exhaled, shaking his head. “Your words were meant for yourself alone, Your Highness. I have no right to keep them.”

The answer unsettled you more than any interrogation might have.

Had it been another knight, another loyal servant of Elythria, they would have pressed further. They would have demanded to know the weight of your concerns, the nature of your sorrows—because you were the kingdom’s princess, and any unrest within you was unrest within Elythria itself. They would have sought answers, demanded explanations, drawn lines between what you confided in yourself and what must be shared for the sake of the realm.

But Yunho? He let them be.

It was almost cruel, the way he granted you that privacy. As if allowing you to keep your burdens meant he, too, must bear them in silence. And yet, before you could press further, he spoke again, his voice lighter now. “Still… speaking to oneself in the dead of night is hardly the only way to release one’s frustrations.”

You furrowed your brows, looking up at him with no small amount of confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

Yunho then merely lifted something in his hand.

Moonlight gleamed upon the blade of his sword as he unsheathed it slightly from his side, the polished steel catching the pale glow of the night sky.

You blinked. Then, slowly, your gaze flickered between the sword and his expression, realization settling upon you in a few seconds.

Before you could form a coherent response, Yunho spoke once more, his tone neither teasing nor commanding, but resolute. “Your training shall begin tonight.”

Your mouth parted in disbelief. “You jest.”

His brow quirked slightly, amused by your reaction. “I do not.”

Your hands instinctively gathered a portion of your attire, lifting the silk slightly in emphasis. “I am wearing a dress.”

His lips curved—not quite into a smirk, yet something akin to quiet amusement glimmered in his gaze. “Are you not a princess?”

Your brows furrowed as you frowned. “I fail to see the relevance.”

Yunho tilted his head slightly, his grip adjusting on his sword. “You wish to be a princess who knows how to defend herself, should the time ever come. That is what you told me.”

You had said that. But still—

“You expect me to wield a sword in this attire?”

Yunho nodded, as though the thought had never once been questionable. “Training would serve little purpose if you wore armor. You are to fight as you are, beneath the veil of royalty, are you not?”

Your lips parted to argue, to call him absurd, to point out the impracticality of it all—but no words came. Because, truthfully, he was right.

Your training was never meant to strip you of your identity as a princess. You were not preparing to become a knight, nor a soldier, nor a warrior to fight in the heat of battle. You were preparing to stand as a royal who would not be powerless should the moment demand otherwise. To wear armor would be to forsake that lesson entirely.

Your eyes remained locked onto Yunho’s as the weight of his words settled upon you, as if waiting for the final push. He did not give it. He simply extended the hilt of his sword toward you, patient, unwavering, silently offering a path forward should you choose to take it.

The choice was yours.

And you felt as though there was power in that alone.

Your fingers traced the length of the blade with an almost reverent touch, grazing the steel as though it were spun glass rather than a weapon forged for war. The metal, though cool beneath your fingertips, carried an unmistakable weight—one that you could feel even without grasping it in full. Your hands, soft from a lifetime of silks and embroidery, barely pressed against the sharpened edge, yet the contrast between you and the man standing before you was stark.

Yunho held the sword differently.

Where you touched it with delicate curiosity, he wielded it with certainty. His grip was firm, unyielding, and practiced, his calloused fingers wrapped around the hilt as though the blade was an extension of himself rather than an object to be studied. In his hands, the sword was a thing of purpose, honed through years of discipline and duty. In yours, it was something distant, foreign—a thing to be understood rather than wielded.

Yunho said nothing at first. He only observed you, the depths of his gaze unreadable in the dim light. Perhaps he had expected this contrast. Perhaps he had always known that a princess and a knight, no matter how closely their paths intertwined, would always carry the marks of their respective worlds.

There was a vastness between you, one that went beyond the differences in status and duty, one that spoke of experience and purpose. Where his hands bore the stories of countless battles fought and won, yours had never so much as held a weapon with true intent. And yet, here you stood, fingers ghosting over the steel, a princess daring to step into a world that was never meant for her.

Slowly, you rose from your seat, standing tall once more. The weight of your decision settled upon your shoulders, yet before you could even open your lips to speak, Yunho’s voice cut through the silent breeze.

“You recall the conditions I set, do you not?”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback, before nodding slowly.

His gaze did not waver. “You are to heed my every command during combat.” A pause, slight but deliberate. “And only during combat. I see no purpose in placing you under my orders beyond the battlefield.”

His words held weight, a silent reassurance that whatever hierarchy formed between you was not meant to extend past the steel you wielded. He had no wish to command you beyond the realm of necessity, nor did he wish to impose upon you a role that did not belong to you.

Yunho’s grip tightened ever so slightly upon the sword, his gaze never straying from yours. “But know this, Your Highness—these terms are not indefinite. There will come a time when I no longer hold authority over your blade. When I see that you are no longer a creature confined within a cocoon, these conditions shall dissipate. From then on, no longer shall we stand as mentor and student, but as equals upon the field.”

Something in your chest tightened at his words. An equal. Not a princess and her knight. Not a royal and her sworn protector—but two individuals, standing upon the same ground.

A breath you had not realized you were holding slipped past your lips. You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I understand.”

Yunho studied you for a moment longer before he gave the faintest inclination of his head. Then, with practiced ease, he pulled the sword from your grasp, reclaiming its weight as if it had never left him in the first place.

“You will be given a blade of your own,” he said, turning slightly. “For now, follow me.”

And with that, he began to walk.

You hesitated only for a second before falling into step behind him, trailing his silhouette as he moved toward the training grounds. The night air was cool against your skin, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant blooms. The gentle rustling of leaves filled the silence between you, your own soft footsteps nearly swallowed by the far heavier ones of the knight before you. Yet, as you walked, a thought formed in your mind—one that you could not ignore.

Quickening your pace, you skipped forward until you were no longer trailing behind but walking beside him. Your shoulder barely brushed against the gleaming armor at his side, the contrast between your silk and his steel strikingly apparent.

You tapped his shoulder lightly, seeking his attention. Yunho glanced down at you, brows slightly raised in question. You hesitated, only for a moment, before tilting your head. “Do knights ever grow weary of carrying their swords?”

Yunho blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

You pressed on, your expression thoughtful. “You always have it with you, do you not? Even now, even in moments of peace.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the blade in his grasp before returning to his face. “Do you never tire of its weight?”

A beat of silence followed.

Then—

Yunho exhaled, a faint, almost amused sigh slipping past his lips. “A knight does not question the weight of his sword, Your Highness,” he said, his tone laced with something unreadable. “It is simply part of him.”

You frowned slightly, unsatisfied with such a practiced answer. “But does it never become a burden?”

His gaze softened—just barely, but enough for you to notice. “If a sword feels like a burden, it is because the one wielding it has forgotten why he carries it.”

His words settled deep, lingering in your mind long after they had been spoken. You stared at him, lost in thought, before looking down at your own hands. Would a blade ever become part of you? Would there come a day when you, too, bore such weight without question?

The training grounds stretched vast before you, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The air carried the faint scent of damp earth and steel, the silence only broken by the distant rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of crickets. It was a place meant for discipline and toil, where knights forged themselves into warriors under the watchful eye of the night sky. And at its very center, gleaming beneath the pale light, lay a single sword.

Your steps faltered as your gaze settled upon it. It was not an elaborate weapon, nor did it boast intricate engravings or jeweled embellishments. It was simple, unadorned—made for function, not display. And yet, there was something about it that held your attention, something that made your fingers twitch with an unfamiliar urge to reach for it.

Before you could give voice to the question forming on your lips, Yunho spoke.

“It is yours.”

Your gaze snapped to him, eyes wide in the soft glow of the torches. He stood beside you, arms loosely at his sides, his expression unreadable. “To wield?” you asked, though the answer was already clear.

“To wield,” he confirmed.

You turned back to the sword. Something inside you stirred—a mix of anticipation and hesitation. It was one thing to say you wished to learn, to dream of strength that was not merely borrowed from those who protected you. It was another thing entirely to reach out and claim it.

Still, you willed yourself forward, step by careful step. The hem of your dress brushed against the dirt as you lowered yourself, mindful of the way the fabric moved. Your fingers hovered above the hilt for a moment before finally curling around it. The metal was cool against your palm, unfamiliar yet strangely inviting.

You braced yourself, waiting for Yunho to correct you, to tell you that your grip was weak, that you were not holding it tightly enough. But the words did not come. Silence stretched between you.

You glanced up at him, half-expecting to see disapproval or impatience. Instead, you found him simply watching, unmoving, waiting—not with judgment, but with patience.

Your grip tightened instinctively. Slowly, you straightened, lifting the sword with you as you rose to your feet. The weight was manageable, far lighter than the one Yunho wielded. You tested its balance, adjusting your hold, feeling the way the steel shifted with your movements.

“It is lighter than yours,” you observed.

“It is meant to be,” Yunho said, stepping closer. “Tonight, you will learn the foundations of combat—nothing more. The weight will increase with time, as will the difficulty of your training.” His voice was calm. “You will not be thrown into battle unprepared, nor will you be expected to wield a knight’s weapon without first understanding the basics. Strength is built, not bestowed.”

You nodded, absorbing his words. Your fingers adjusted around the hilt once more as you turned the sword slightly, watching how the moonlight glinted off its edge. You had never held anything like it before, had never imagined yourself doing so. And yet, here you stood, a princess with a blade in her grasp.

Yunho observed you in silence, arms loosely crossed over his chest, his ever-disciplined posture unyielding. Yet, beneath the rigid armor of his composure, something unfamiliar stirred—a hint of amusement as he watched you turn the sword in your hands, studying it with the curiosity of one who had never wielded steel before.

You were careful, almost delicate, as though the blade were something precious rather than a weapon designed to wound. Your fingers traced the hilt, adjusting your grip every few moments, your eyes reflecting a determination that seemed almost at odds with the soft elegance that had long defined you.

It was… unexpected.

Yunho had not known what to anticipate when you had first spoken of learning to fight. Perhaps hesitation, fear—a wavering resolve that would break the moment the reality of combat set in. You had been raised among silk and flowers, spoken of in whispers as the most fragile jewel of Elythria, a princess who had never needed to lift a blade because the world bent to protect you.

And yet, here you stood, gripping a sword as though you intended to carve something new for yourself, something untold.

He nearly smiled.

The thought unsettled him enough that he suppressed it before it could reach his lips.

You were a curious contradiction—soft hands gripping a weapon, delicate features set with determination. There was no doubt in his mind that the sword in your grasp would tire you before the night was through, that your body was unprepared for the strain of battle, that your first steps into this world would be unsteady.

But you did not waver.

Yunho had trained many before. He had seen men shrink away from the weight of a blade, had witnessed seasoned warriors succumb to exhaustion, had observed even the most promising knights falter. Yet, as he watched you now, there was something in the way you carried yourself that struck him differently.

Perhaps it was not despite your fragility that you stood here, but because of it.

Perhaps you wished to wield strength not to abandon who you were, but to defend it—to be something more than a mere figurehead of peace, shielded by others.

Yunho exhaled, steadying himself against the thought before it could settle too deeply. It was not his place to wonder about your reasons, nor to dwell on what this choice meant for you beyond the training grounds. He was here to instruct, to mold your stance into something practical, to ensure that when you lifted a blade, it would not be in vain.

Even so, as you turned to him, sword still gripped in your hands, determination clear in your eyes—he found himself watching you with something dangerously close to admiration.

“Familiarize yourself with the weapon first,” he instructed. “Feel its weight, its balance. Learn how it moves with your body. Only then can we begin.”

You nodded, turning your attention back to the sword. Slowly, you tested your grip, adjusting your fingers along the hilt, feeling the way it sat in your palm. The balance was different from what you had imagined—it did not feel unwieldy, but rather, an extension of movement yet to be learned.

Finally, after a moment of studying the weapon, you turned to him, meeting his gaze with a sense of determination. “I am ready.”

He held your gaze for a beat longer before nodding. “Then we begin.”

Yunho stepped behind you, his presence a steady force at your back. The shift in proximity was almost startling, the warmth of him a stark contrast to the cool night air. Before you could dwell on it, his voice cut through the quiet.

“Stand with your feet apart,” he instructed. “One foot forward, the other angled slightly outward. Stability is key.”

You did as he said, adjusting your footing. The earth beneath your soles felt more solid than it had before, as though you were no longer merely standing upon it but grounding yourself with intent. Yunho moved closer, and before you could react, his hands found your arms. The contact was brief, nothing more than a firm yet careful adjustment as he repositioned your grip.

“Relax your shoulders,” he murmured. “Tension will only slow your movements.”

You tried to ease the stiffness in your posture, though the awareness of his presence made it somewhat difficult. He was close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his breath against your ear, close enough that the scent of steel and leather clung to the space between you.

He was a knight—your knight.

And yet, at this moment, he was simply a man guiding you through unfamiliar territory, his voice measured, his touch precise.

He stepped back after ensuring your stance was correct. “Hold the sword steady,” he said. “Raise it just above your waist—yes, like that. The blade should not waver.”

You did as he instructed, lifting the weapon, adjusting your grip. The weight no longer felt as foreign in your hands, though the strain in your arms was already beginning to form.

“Good,” Yunho said, a trace of approval in his voice. “Now, we begin with the first stance.”

The moon bore witness to your training, casting its silver glow upon the field as you stood before Yunho, sword in hand. His voice had been a steady guide through the night, instructing you on the fundamentals—your grip, your stance, the balance required to wield a weapon with purpose. He had been patient, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a steady current, leading you toward something greater.

“Lower your shoulders,” he instructed, stepping to your side. “Tension is your enemy. If you hold yourself too rigidly, your movements will be unnatural. A knight does not fight with mere strength, but with precision.”

You obeyed, adjusting your posture beneath his watchful gaze. But even as you followed his guidance, you could not shake the feeling that something was missing. Every motion felt rehearsed, structured, as though you were merely acting out a role rather than truly stepping into the art of combat.

It was not enough.

Your grip faltered, and you lowered your blade. A frustrated sigh left your lips, causing Yunho to glance at you with a furrowed brow. “What is it?” he asked.

“This will not do,” you murmured, eyes dark with something unreadable.

He did not speak, waiting instead for you to elaborate.

“I wish to fight.”

A beat of silence. Yunho’s expression did not shift immediately, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He studied you as though searching for the true meaning behind your words, as if he could decipher the reason hidden beneath your resolve.

“This is neither the time nor the night for such a thing,” he said at last. “You have yet to learn even the simplest techniques. Entering combat without a foundation is reckless.”

“I know.”

Your voice was quiet but firm, and it was that—your certainty—that made Yunho hesitate.

“I will lose,” you admitted. “There is no doubt about that.” You met his eyes, your own filled with something raw. “But that does not matter to me. I need to fight. I need to—” You faltered, unable to voice the weight pressing against your chest.

This was not about victory. This was not about proving anything to him or to yourself. This was about releasing all that remained pent up within your heart.

Yunho remained silent for a long moment, and then—understanding. He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening, though his voice remained composed when he finally spoke.

“Very well.”

You had expected him to prepare his stance, to meet your reckless demand with the tempered skill of a knight. Instead, he did something that left you momentarily breathless.

He threw his sword aside.

The weapon hit the ground with a dull thud, and you stared at it, brows knitting together in confusion. Your grip on your own sword tightened instinctively. “Set yours down as well,” he said.

You did not move. “Why?”

“You wish for combat,” Yunho answered, his expression blank yet not devoid of emotion—no, never. “Then let it be with nothing but our hands.”

Your breath stilled. Yunho watched you with patience, waiting for your response. He could see the hesitation in your eyes, the way your fingers curled slightly against the hilt of your sword as if searching for something to anchor you.

“This is the best way to release your frustrations,” he continued, his voice steady. “You seek not victory, but release. Then let us fight in a way that allows it.”

Your heartbeat quickened. Slowly, you lowered your sword, the weight of it suddenly feeling unnecessary in your hands. You set it down beside his, your fingers lingering against the hilt for a fraction of a second before you pulled away.

Yunho gave a small nod of approval before taking a step forward. His presence was unwavering, steady as the earth itself. He raised his hands, fingers curling slightly in a ready stance. “Come, then,” he murmured.

The air between you and Yunho was thick with something unspoken, something that neither of you had dared to put into words. The weight of it was heavier than the finest silks draped upon your frame, heavier than the crown your father sought to place upon your head. Your breath came unsteadily, the rush of emotion stirring within you like a storm barely contained.

And then you moved.

You struck first—without thought, without hesitation. Your fists met nothing but the solid resistance of Yunho’s forearm as he blocked your attack with effortless precision. He did not recoil, did not step back, did not so much as blink. His stance was firm, unwavering, like a mountain that would not be moved by the winds that battered against it.

Frustration clawed at your throat. You struck again. And again. And again.

Each movement was unrefined, untrained, a flurry of emotions manifesting in desperate attempts to land a blow upon him. You felt the burn in your limbs, the strain in your muscles as you forced your body to move faster, harder, beyond its limits. Yet Yunho remained steadfast. His arms rose and fell in perfect rhythm, deflecting your attacks with ease.

You could hear your own breathing—ragged, uneven. Every strike that failed to reach him only seemed to fuel the fire within you. This was not about learning. This was not about strength. This was about the unrelenting ache buried within your chest, the suffocating weight of your father’s expectations, the helplessness of being trapped within a fate you never chose.

“Why?” you rasped, barely realizing you had spoken.

Your foot twisted against the dirt as you lunged at him again. A flicker of something crossed Yunho’s eyes—perhaps surprise at your sudden voice—but his expression remained composed. He blocked, as he always did.

“Why will you not fight back?”

Still, he did not answer.

Another strike. Another deflection.

You were not weak. You refused to be weak. You had spent your life bound to fragility, a delicate thing meant to be sheltered, protected, admired from a distance like the flowers in your royal garden. But flowers withered. They bent beneath the wind, crumbled beneath careless hands. You were tired of being something that could break so easily.

Your anger lashed out in the form of a sharp jab aimed at his side, but Yunho stepped back effortlessly, your fist cutting through empty air. “Yunho.” Your voice trembled, demanding an answer. He stood there, his hands still raised in defense, his face carefully neutral. But there was something else in his gaze now—something that made your chest tighten, something so unexpectedly gentle.

“This is not a fight, Your Highness.”

The title upon his tongue only stoked the fire within you. You gritted your teeth, hands curling into fists at your sides. “Then what is it?” you demanded. “A mere lesson in futility?”

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “This is not meant to be a lesson in victory.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration surging through you like a crashing wave. “Then what is the purpose? What is the point of this—” You gestured between the two of you, at the tension thick enough to be tangible, at the battle you waged against a man who refused to fight back.

His answer came quietly, but it struck you harder than any of his deflections.

“This is for you.”

You froze.

The weight of those words settled into your bones, pressing against the deepest parts of you, the places you had tried to keep buried. Yunho’s gaze remained firm, as though he could see through every wall you had built, every fragile defense you had tried to hold onto.

“This is for you to let go,” he said. “To strike, to burn, to break if you must. To free yourself of the chains you cannot escape elsewhere.”

You wanted to be angry. You wanted to argue, to insist that this was not enough, that you needed more, needed to prove yourself in ways that could not be so easily dismissed. But the words refused to come.

Your breath was unsteady. Your hands trembled at your sides. Yunho did not move to comfort you, nor did he step away. He merely stood, waiting, patient as ever. You clenched your fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, willing the shaking to stop—willing everything to stop. The fire in your chest, the ache in your limbs, the storm in your mind that had been raging long before this night began.

You were exhausted, but you could not break.

Not now. Not in front of him.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat to disappear, forcing the tears that threatened to spill to retreat. You would not—could not—allow yourself to shatter before Yunho. He was your mentor, your guide through the path of strength, the very person who was teaching you to be something greater than the fragile girl your father had deemed you to be. How shameful it would be for him to witness you crumble when the purpose of this night was to mold you into something unbreakable.

Your breathing was unsteady, and though you tried to conceal it, Yunho saw through you. Of course, he did. His eyes, sharp yet unreadable, traced the way your shoulders tensed, the way your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements. He was not a man who easily let things slip past his notice.

“Why will you not let yourself fall apart?”

His voice was quieter now, softer than it had been all night. There was no authority behind it, no expectation, only a question—one that left you feeling more exposed than all the strikes you had failed to land on him combined. Your lips parted, but no words came out.

He waited. And when you still did not answer, he took a step forward. “Your Highness,” he murmured, “why do you refuse to let yourself break?”

You inhaled sharply. Your entire body was tense, locked in place as though the sheer force of your will alone could keep the dam from bursting. You could not break, you could not break, you could not—

“I cannot,” you forced out, voice barely above a whisper. “I cannot allow myself to.”

Yunho’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, only watching, waiting for you to continue.

You exhaled shakily. “I have spent my life being caged by my father’s expectations, by the court’s whispers, by the very image they have created for me. I am Elythria’s beloved princess—the flower of the kingdom, delicate and pure.” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “And yet, I am here. I am training beneath the stars with a knight who should not even be entertaining the thought of teaching me such things. And if I break now—if I fall apart before I have even proven myself—I will only confirm what they already believe.”

A bitter laugh left your lips. “That I am weak. That I am not meant for strength.”

Yunho’s expression did not change, but something in his gaze darkened. His arms remained crossed over his chest, his stance relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the way he looked at you. “That is absurd,” he countered.

You blinked, startled by the certainty in his tone.

Yunho tilted his head slightly, regarding you with an unreadable expression. “You believe I expect strength from you simply because I am training you?” He took another step forward, closing the distance between you, though not enough to make you retreat. “You believe that strength is measured by the absence of weakness?”

Your lips parted, but once again, you had no answer.

“Strength is not a title, nor is it a state of being,” he continued, his voice lower now, as if meant only for you to hear. “It is not a thing to be granted or taken away. Strength is not the absence of fragility, nor the ability to endure without breaking.” His gaze bore into yours, unrelenting. “True strength is knowing when to stand and when to fall. When to fight and when to yield. And above all—”

He paused, his voice dropping even further, almost a whisper now.

“—when to allow oneself to be human.”

Something inside you cracked. It was small, barely noticeable, but it was enough. Enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your eyes sting, enough to make the dam you had built tremble at its foundation. Your throat tightened as you tried to speak, tried to push back against his words, but nothing came. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing the tears to retreat, willing yourself to stay whole. But then—

A quiet sob escaped your lips. It was soft, barely there, but Yunho heard it. You knew he did.

And he did not look away.

Suddenly, a sound pierced the stillness of the night. The groaning of iron gates being pulled apart. The heavy creak reverberated through the training grounds, breaking through the fragile silence that had settled between you and Yunho. The sound alone was enough to send a jolt through your body, your breath hitching, your entire form going rigid.

Your mother had returned.

Your mind barely had time to process before instinct took over. Your hands moved swiftly, wiping away the remnants of unshed tears, forcing composure back into place as if it had never wavered in the first place. With practiced precision, you straightened, forcing the exhaustion from your limbs, the trembling from your hands, the emotions from your face.

You could not let her see you like this. Not here. Not now.

Before Yunho could react, you shoved the sword towards his chest, the hilt pressing against the cold metal of his armor with unceremonious urgency. He caught it out of reflex, his fingers closing around the grip just as you pulled away, your breaths still uneven from the weight of everything that had transpired tonight.

“I must go.”

Yunho’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, a glimmer of hesitance, of something akin to concern—but you did not give him time to voice it. You turned sharply on your heel, lifting the hem of your dress with both hands to keep yourself from stumbling as you rushed toward the back entrance of the castle.

“Your Highness—”

His voice followed you, firm yet not demanding, a plea rather than a command. You felt the warmth of his presence shift, the subtle movement of his hand reaching—almost—before it stopped midair, retreating just as quickly as it had risen. He did not hold you back. He did not force you to stay.

Instead, he was left standing amidst the quiet night, sword in hand, watching as you disappeared through the entrance without a single glance back. And then—silence.

Yunho exhaled, slow and measured, his grip tightening around the hilt of your abandoned sword. His eyes lingered on the space where you had stood mere moments ago, the lingering trace of your presence still palpable in the air. His thoughts swirled, a storm of contradictions, each one battling for dominance in his mind.

You were an enigma. A contradiction in its truest form. The princess of Elythria—the beloved flower of the kingdom, delicate in name yet restless in spirit. You were expected to be untouched by the world’s cruelty, yet you stood before him tonight with a fire in your heart, wielding a blade you were never meant to hold. You claimed fragility, yet the way you fought against it—desperately, fiercely—spoke of a strength that was far more terrifying than the absence of weakness itself.

He had watched you tonight. Watched as you tried to swallow your sorrow, as you forced yourself to keep standing even when your body longed to fall. Watched as you struggled against emotions you had been taught to suppress, as you clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your skin. Watched as you tried—tried so terribly hard—to convince yourself that breaking was not an option.

And it was then that Yunho realized—perhaps you did not fear weakness itself. Perhaps what you feared was being seen as weak. The difference was subtle, yet profound.

He had spent years honing his perception, years training to read his enemies before they could strike, years observing the way people carried themselves to discern their truest intentions. And tonight, he had seen more of you than you had likely intended to reveal.

You had stood before him, desperately gripping the edges of your own composure, forcing yourself not to collapse under the weight of expectations you had never asked for. And yet—when you had reached your limit, when your voice had trembled and your shoulders had tensed—your first instinct had not been to seek solace. It had been to run. Run from your emotions, run from the moment of vulnerability, run from him.

And Yunho—who had spent his life witnessing the battlefield, who had seen both the strongest and the weakest fall before his blade, who had stood unwavering against the storms of war—was left with a feeling he could not quite place. A part of him wondered if he had done enough. If he had said enough. If he had reached you at all.

His gaze lowered to the sword in his grasp—your sword. The one you had abandoned in your haste. A sigh left his lips, barely audible beneath the wind that rustled through the training grounds. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them once more, his grip around the hilt firm, resolute. You may have left, but Yunho had no doubt that this was far from the end.

For now, he would wait.

—

The night air clung to your skin as you ran, the fabric of your dress flowing behind you like a phantom. Each hurried step echoed faintly against the stone pathways, your breath shallow, your chest rising and falling with exertion as lanterns that lined the castle’s corridors flickered dimly. You had to make it back before your mother entered the castle.

As you passed the main hall, your heart pounded wildly, threatening to betray your presence. But then—through the grand arched windows, you caught sight of her.

Outside, beneath the soft glow of the moon, your mother stood conversing with Madame Forestier. The latter had likely been waiting for her arrival, ever the dutiful seamstress, no doubt eager to discuss the details of the garments she had procured from Farlvichium. The two women appeared engrossed in their conversation, your mother’s delicate hands gesturing as she spoke, her expression poised, unreadable.

Relief flooded you so abruptly that you nearly staggered.

She had not noticed your absence. She had not heard the clash of blades, the sharp breaths, the raw words exchanged in the training grounds. For now, your secret remained safe—or at least you hope so.

With one final glance, you turned and ascended the staircase as swiftly as your trembling legs would allow, weaving through the empty corridors with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. Each corner you turned, each hall you passed, you expected to hear her voice calling out for you, but none came.

By the time you reached your chambers, your hands were already trembling against the door. You pushed it open hastily, stepping inside before shutting it behind you with a quiet but decisive thud. The moment you were alone, your back pressed against the wooden surface, your legs giving out beneath you as you slid down to the floor.

A shallow breath. Then another. Your hand gripped the fabric over your chest, fingers tightening over the erratic beat of your heart. Tonight was… no different from the nights before.

You had spent countless evenings like this, lingering in the haze of your own mind, drowning in thoughts you could not voice aloud, battling against emotions you did not know how to tame. But there was one thing that made tonight unlike all the others.

Before, no one had witnessed your unraveling. No one had seen the moment you faltered, the moment your strength gave way to exhaustion, the moment the weight of your struggles crashed down upon you.

But Yunho had. Not by your choosing. Not by intention.

Yet there he had stood, watching as your walls cracked, as the tears threatened to spill, as your voice trembled with the force of what you tried so desperately to contain.

What had he thought of it? Had he seen you as pathetic? Had he expected such an outcome from the moment you first gripped the hilt of your sword? Had he thought to himself that this was the inevitable fate of the fragile princess he was sworn to protect? You did not know, and perhaps it was better that way.

Your gaze flickered to your vanity, where the parchment and quill remained untouched, precisely where you had abandoned them before you fled into the night. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped your lips.

You rose to your feet, slow and deliberate, making your way towards the mirror. As you settled into the seat, your reflection stared back at you—a girl disheveled, strands of hair clinging to the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the hem of her dress dust-streaked, her expression a careful balance between exhaustion and something dangerously close to resignation. You had seen yourself in many states, but never quite like this.

You reached for the quill, twirling it idly between your fingers before dipping it into ink. The first few strokes against the parchment were hesitant, your mind piecing together words that could not betray too much, yet needed to be said.

Dearest Prince of Zaule,

Tonight was as insufferable as all the nights before.

The dining hall was cold as ever, though not in temperature, but in spirit. The conversation was measured, the laughter forced. My father, as always, played his role well—the benevolent ruler, the ever-watchful patriarch, the man who commands both fear and obedience with the mere weight of his gaze. I dined. I smiled. I listened. I spoke when spoken to. The evening passed as it always does, each minute stretching into eternity, each word another carefully placed stone in the road I must walk without misstep.

I excused myself early. My father allowed it. Perhaps he saw no need to keep me there any longer once he had assured himself that I remain exactly where he desires me to be—beneath his grasp, beneath his will.

I sought solace in the garden, though I do not think I found it.

You hesitated here, the tip of your quill hovering over the parchment. You had written to Wooyoung about many things—your grievances, your fleeting moments of joy, the absurdities of court life—but this… this was different. And yet, you wrote it anyway.

There, beneath the moonlight, I crossed paths with the knight we spoke of the day you paid Elythria a visit.

You will find this amusing, I am sure of it—I did what we spoke of that time. I asked him to train me. A ridiculous notion, is it not? A princess wielding a sword. A girl raised to be seen and not heard, suddenly yearning to carve out something more for herself, as if she had the right.

I do not know what I expected. Perhaps I believed that if I pushed myself hard enough, if I moved fast enough, struck fiercely enough, I could turn all my frustrations into something tangible. Perhaps I thought that strength could be forged through mere desperation alone.

You told him of the training, though you omitted the truth of why. You described the motions, the techniques, the struggle, but not the breaking. Not the emotions that had surged past your control.

Wooyoung did not need to know that part.

The ink bled smoothly onto the parchment as you continued, recounting the events as if they were mere trivialities of your day, carefully leaving out the moments that had shaken you the most.

And now, I sit here, writing to you, as I always do. I imagine you would be laughing if you were here, calling me a fool for taking this endeavor so seriously, for thinking even for a moment that I could change anything about my place in this world. You would not be wrong. But still…

I think I will return to the training grounds tomorrow.

When you finally signed your name at the bottom, sealing your words with the weight of finality, you leaned back in your seat, exhaling a breath you had not realized you were holding. For now, this would suffice.

For now, the truth of tonight would remain yours alone.

🕰️ — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#jeong yunho #jeong yunho x reader #yunho x reader #yunho #yunho ateez #ateez yunho #ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez fluff #yunho fluff #yunho angst #choi san #jung wooyoung #kang yeosang

71 notes · View notes