#physics lesson note | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovelyhan · 13 days ago

Text

— starcrossed losers ⟢

at age fifteen, you’re betrothed to a prince named jeonghan. at age twenty-five, you’re set to marry him. so when your father gives you a chance to find love all on your own, you immediately take it. now if only jeonghan would stop fucking sabotaging every relationship you’re trying to get into.

★ FEATURING; jeonghan x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 21k words

★ TAGS; princess!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, magic & fantasy, betrayal (not frm jh), angst, minor character death, blood and violence, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; two years... it took me TWO YEARS to write this and post it AJAHDSFJSHFDGDF i am sorry? SO DEEPLY SORRY!?!?!? but that aside, this probably only starts to get more jeonghan-centric at the 10k word mark... OUGH..... i needed to do a lot of worldbuilding AHAHAHAHA BUT I PROMISEE it's for good reason!

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, making out in places where you shouldn't, semi-public sex (that's it for this part unfortunately...)

Your life changed forever on a Tuesday morning.

As a princess, your days were dictated by a perfectly curated schedule. Every hour accounted for, every moment neatly placed in a grid of expectations and duty. It should have felt restrictive for most girls your age. But not for you. You liked the structure. The routine gave your life shape and purpose. You didn’t have to wonder what the day might hold or scramble to meet your obligations. All that was required of you was to show up, shoulders squared, chin high, and play your part in the ever-charming production of royal daughterhood.

Mondays and Wednesdays were for lessons with your private tutor—arithmetic, magical history, the foundations of politics and diplomacy. Tuesdays and Thursdays belonged to physical training. Fencing and archery were your common favorites. Fridays were reserved for etiquette, where you were taught about flawless posture, graceful curtsies, and a hundred ways to say no without ever using the word. Meanwhile, weekends were for socializing, when nobles from Ancarra and beyond paraded their heirs and fortunes before the court like trinkets at market.

On this particular Tuesday, Changkyun’s form was sloppy—left shoulder too low, footwork too eager—and you exploited it mercilessly, driving him back across the mat with a flurry of perfectly timed lunges. He faltered on his retreat, lost his balance, and went down with a sharp oof before the tip of your foil points just shy of his collarbone.

You didn’t smirk, but it took effort.

Flat on his back, your fencing partner let out a groan and flung an arm over his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Master Yesung. He’s turned you into a menace.”

“I’ve always been a menace,” you tell him, withdrawing your foil with a flick. “You’re just slow today.”

From the far end of the training hall, a low, throaty rumble of approval rolled across the floor like distant thunder. You glanced over your shoulder to find Reya lounging on the polished stone, tail twitching like he’s amused with your victory. The massive white tiger regarded you with half-lidded pride, resting his chin on his paws like the king he thinks he is.

Changkyun gave Reya a wary glance. “He still hates me.”

“He hates everyone,” you replied fondly. “Except me.”

You didn’t say the rest: that Reya is more than a pet. That you hadn’t tamed him—you found him, half-starved and snared by a hunter’s trap in the snowfields. That when your magic surfaced and it turned out you weren’t a fire-wielder, or a stormcaller like the other gifted scions of noble houses but simply a girl who could speak to animals: everyone acted like you’d been cursed with the art of babysitting.

That is not real magic, they said. It will never be useful in court.

So you honed your body instead.

Foil. Footwork. Form. You mastered it all, until no one dared question your worth out loud. And maybe Changkyun is the only person who ever looked at you without that shadow of disappointment on everyone’s faces when they thought you wouldn’t notice.

Your fingers brushed as you help him to his feet, and your heart lifts—

—just as Royal Advisor Siwon clears his throat.

The sound snapped through the air like a blade cracking on steel. You and Changkyun jump apart.

“Your Grace,” Siwon said, bowing deeply. His silver-rimmed spectacles gleam in the sunlight. “The king requests your presence. Immediately.”

You blinked. “I’m in the middle of training.”

“I’m afraid this takes precedence, Princess,” he told you with the faintest edge of regret in his tone. He’s always been considerate of your feelings. “The matter is… personal.”

Your stomach twisted at that.

Moments later, you pulled off your gloves, tucking them under your arm beside your training foil. Reya got up from his corner with a huff as he padded silently toward you, his presence at your heel like a silent question.

“I’ll return,” you told Changkyun, though you’re not sure you will.

The halls of the Castle of Ancarra were quiet at this hour, but never truly still.

Morning sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, spilling pools of color across the floor dancing faintly over the stone as if the palace itself breathed. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through open archways from the garden courtyards beyond, clinging to the walls like perfume. Somewhere distant, you heard the faint hum of magic wards being tuned by the royal mages, that soft shimmering sound like glass being struck gently by wind.

You, on the other hand, smelled like sweat.

Each step echoed a little too loudly as you padded down the eastern corridor. Beside you, Siwon walked with his usual glacial calm, every inch the model of a court advisor. Reya prowled silently behind you, massive white paws silent against marble. His fur rippled like snowdrifts in motion, and his blue eyes tracked every passing flicker of movement with the lazy wariness of a predator who knew he had nothing to fear.

You squinted up at Siwon, who maintained his pace without so much as glancing at you. “You know, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to assume I’m dying.”

“I assure you, Your Grace,” he replied without inflection, “you are not.”

“Then I’m being exiled.”

“Also incorrect.”

“Then what is it?”

He gave a patient sigh, the kind adults always gave when they thought you were being childish. (You were fifteen, not five, but that never seemed to matter.) “It is not my place to say.”

You groaned. “That’s what you always say.”

“Because it is always true.”

“Can you at least tell me if I’m going to like it?”

“Some might consider it an honor.”

“...Will you make me one of those snowman figures with your frost magic to shut me up?”

Siwon glanced at you, startled but amused. “I thought you already outgrew those, Princess.”

You huffed, and Reya let out a rumble behind you—his version of agreement, no doubt. You didn’t like the way this was heading. Siwon’s face gave nothing away, as usual, and there’s no way to break through his defenses.

Rounding the corner near the west wing stairwell, you nearly collided with one of the younger palace maids, who let out a startled yelp and nearly dropped her stack of linens.

“Oh! Princess!” she gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re still in your fencing kit?”

You look at her bizarrely. “Yes? It’s fencing day?”

Regardless, she looked horrified. “Your hair is all—your tunic—oh dear, you’re soaked. I-I’ll have the other attendants prepare a bath immediately. Do you want rosewater or lavender? I can call for your blue silks, or maybe—”

“She won’t have time for that,” Siwon interrupted mildly, stepping forward. “Her Highness is expected in the king’s study at once.”

The maid faltered. “Oh. I see. O-Of course.”

You offered a weak smile. “It’s fine. My father’s seen worse. Remember when Reya broke into the aviary and I spent half a council meeting covered in goose feathers? This can’t be worse than that.”

Behind you, your tiger gave a low, pleased chuff. You could feel his smugness. The maid tried to laugh politely but gave up halfway through. She curtsied and retreated with all the urgency of someone fleeing a burning room.

You scratched behind Reya’s ear absently as you continued walking with Siwon. “You’d think they’ve never seen sweat before.”

“You are a princess, Your Grace,” Siwon said. “The ideal princess does not perspire. She glows.”

“I’ll be sure to glow after I’m dead.”

Siwon did not react.

Which, of course, was the worst reaction of all.

He reached the grand oak door at the end of the corridor and knocked twice with the back of his hand, the sound deep and final before opening the door.

“After you, Princess,” Siwon said, and you stepped across the threshold, sweat-streaked and bracing yourself for the sentence that would ruin the rest of your youth.

The scent of ink and parchment greeted you first.

Not the cloying perfume of court scrolls but something plainer. Vellum stacked in rows, ink dried in the well, candle wax crusted in yellow pools on the old wooden desk. A fire smoldered low in the hearth, casting long shadows over the high shelves. A half-eaten plate of bread and cheese sat untouched near the window, forgotten beside a ledger the size of a paving stone.

Your father sat behind the desk, hunched over a thick sheaf of correspondence, pen stilled in his hand.

The King of Ancarra was not a large man, not like the kings in your history books who towered over battlefields in gleaming armor. He was wiry, silver streaking his dark hair while the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened not by age but by long nights and hard decisions. He looked up when you entered, and the tiredness in his face softened.

“Bug,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re here.”

As Siwon left you two your own devices, you bowed because you were expected to. But when you straightened, you didn’t hide the concern in your face. Not even that old, endearing nickname could dispel your unease.

“You look awful.”

He barked a tired laugh and set the pen aside. “Thank you, sweetling. That’s what every man longs to hear from his daughter.”

You stepped forward, Reya padding behind you with the faintest growl of warning. He never liked this room. Maybe it reminded him of confinement, or maybe he just hated the smell of parchment.

“You’re still doing all the ledgers by hand,” you said, eyeing the mountain of work.

Your father didn’t deny it. “Who else would?” His smile was wry. “The ministers mean well, but they’d outsource my soul if I let them. I trust my own hand better.”

You bit your lip. He’d always been like this—stubborn in his solitude, steadfast in his refusal to lean on others. Ever since your mother died, he’d carried everything himself. That day was etched into your life, even though you weren’t old enough to remember it. You were told she passed giving birth to you. That her last words were your name. Your father never married again, never even considered it.

Part of you always wondered if that was loyalty, or guilt.

You moved to stand beside him, your sweat-streaked fencing gear looking very out of place in the quiet glow of his study. “You could have waited for me to change.”

He gave a soft hum. “Didn’t want to waste time. I know how long it takes for you to pick a ribbon for your hair.”

You gave him a playful glare.

And then, his expression changed—just slightly. The weariness didn’t fade, but something settled in beside it. A sort of gravity you’d seen only a handful of times in your life.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The hairs at the back of your neck prickled, but you do as you’re told. Reya let out another disgruntled noise as he curled at your feet, frost blue eyes squared on your father. Shortly after sitting down, you folded your hands and straightened your spine like you’d been taught.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

“...You’ve grown,” Your father’s fingers brushed across the parchment before him, as if searching for the words inside it instead of in his own mind. “Fifteen now. Three years left until you’re given the Dawning Crown.”

That doesn’t quite answer your question.

The Dawning Ceremony was a rite of passage for every member of Ancarran royalty. On your eighteenth birthday, the veil of childhood would be lifted. You’d stand before the court in ceremonial robes, swear your oaths beneath the kingdom’s banner, and receive the Dawning Crown—a silver circlet that marked your right to advise the throne, to lead, to inherit.

But something told you that wasn’t what the king summoned you for today.

“Yes,” you said warily. “What of it?”

Your father looked up at you then. His eyes—tired, kind, and quietly burdened—searched your face as if trying to memorize it before he said something you wouldn’t forgive.

“I’ve arranged a betrothal for you.”

Silence dropped between you like a stone into water, and it rippled in your chest. You blinked, as if you’d misheard. “What?”

“A betrothal,” he repeated gently. “To Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia. The engagement will be announced before the year’s end. You’ll be married once you both come of age.”

Your throat went dry as you sat there stiffly, the rest of your body frozen while your brain scrambled to catch up. Outside, you could hear the distant flutter of birdsong through the windows, absurdly cheerful for the moment. Reya stirred at your feet, sensing your shock.

“But…” You swallowed. “I thought I would— I thought I’d be able to choose.”

Your father’s face flickered with regret, but his voice was firm. “I did what I had to, bug. This alliance is necessary. Seraphia’s port routes feed half our inland trade. And their King trusts Jeonghan to succeed him one day. He’s… he’s a good boy.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to make a sound like a dying bird.

Jeonghan.

You remembered him only in flashes. A diplomatic visit when you were thirteen. A boy with moonlight hair and a smile made of silk and sunshine. All the noble daughters swooned while he bowed and kissed their hands like something out of a storybook.

But you saw it.

You saw the glint of amusement in his eyes when he flattered people just to watch them squirm. The flick of his wrist when he’d “accidentally” stepped on your dress train. The way he’d offered you a honeyed tart, only for you to discover it was filled with chili paste. Your lips had burned for hours.

You scowled. “I would’ve preferred his brother. Joshua at least has a soul.”

The king’s sigh was long and worn, as though he’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head and never found a version where it didn’t end with you furious.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quietly. “But it’s what’s best. For the kingdom.”

You could feel the pressure in your chest start to swell—tight and hot and helpless. You shoved back from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. Reya’s ears flicked at the sound.

“So that’s it?” you demanded. “You marry me off to another kingdom and hope I forget everything I wanted? What about Ancarra? Who do you expect to rule when you’re gone, if I’m stuck in the next kingdom over with a husband I didn’t choose?”

Your voice rang louder than you meant it to, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop.

“Father, I’ve trained my whole life to help you. I’m learning about the laws, the politics, the treaties. I’ve fought and studied and bent over backwards to prove I’m not some fragile little girl just because my magic doesn’t shoot lightning out of my hands!” you sniffled, barely breathing with how much your throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “And now you’re saying it’s all just... for decoration?”

Your father closed his eyes.

For a moment, the silence returned. Not heavy like before, but much more somber.

“You think I don’t want you here?” he asked, and your heart cracked at the roughness in his voice. “You think I haven’t dreamed of the day I’d see you on the throne beside me, crowned and proud, finally free to shape this kingdom with your own hands?”

The king stood behind his desk, and the gesture felt too slow for the weight of what he carried.

“You’ll still rule Ancarra in my place one day, bug,” he said, his voice low with weariness. “But I’ve seen the parts of you that mirror the worst of me. The way you shoulder everything on your own. The way you keep others at a distance, offering only what’s required and nothing more. I know that kind of loneliness. I’ve lived it. And I wouldn’t wish it on you.”

He looked at you then, and the weight behind his gaze was heavier than any crown.

“I’m not trying to chain you to another kingdom. I just want you to have someone by your side. Someone who sees you not as a sovereign, or a symbol, but as a woman. As a queen who doesn’t have to stand alone.”

You turned away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the anger from spilling out again. Just minutes ago, you’d been silently fretting over your father’s terrible habit of grinding himself into the ground—and now he was saying you were the same. That you’d inherited his loneliness like it was part of your bloodline.

Reya brushed against your side, his fur warm and solid as a low huff vibrated in his chest. You’re not alone, he said. I’m still here.

But the comfort didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t make the room feel any less like a cage.

“Please, bug,” he said softly, reaching across the desk to take your hands in his. His grip was warm, steady, and just a little too gentle. “I need you to trust me. Just for now.”

You looked at him—at the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes, the ink smudged into the creases of his fingers, the quiet burden he carried alone because he never let anyone close enough to share it. Your chest ached.

You nodded, once. “Just for now.”

Life went on, as it always did.

Your schedule remained unchanged—lessons, training, etiquette, more training. The castle walls stayed the same shade of honeyed stone, and the banners still rippled with the wind in Ancarran silver. No one treated you differently, but that was the worst part. The servants still curtsied, the guards still bowed, and Siwon still handed you your briefing scrolls with quiet efficiency. As if nothing had changed. As if your future hadn’t just been carved into stone.

But when you walked through the halls, people looked at you a little longer. Nobles smiled a little too kindly. Maids paused mid-task to whisper behind their hands.

Reya sensed the shift, too. He stayed closer than usual, his great striped head brushing your elbow when you walked, his breath warm at your back when you slept. His presence grounded you, but not even he could quiet the nervous churn in your stomach as the ceremonial dinner approached.

The Seraphian royal family arrived two days after the harvest moon. Their procession was the usual fanfare—banners and courtiers, guards in gilded armor, a fleet of pearl-dappled carriages led by plumed steeds. You watched it unfold from the balcony with arms crossed, ignoring the way your heart drummed harder when you spotted Jeonghan stepping out in gold-trimmed robes, his hair ink-black and tied back with a silken cord.

It used to be much lighter, didn’t it? Though there were always rumors about the eldest Seraphian prince—that he changed his hair as often as his wardrobe, either by spellcraft or cosmetics. You weren’t sure which unnerved you more.

The ceremonial dinner was held that evening in the Grand Marbled Hall. Candles glittered in every chandelier. The finest cutlery had been polished to mirror-shine. You were seated at the right of your father; Jeonghan sat directly across from you, grinning like this was all terribly funny.

For the sake of appearances, you were perfect. Pleasant and regal as you should be. You smiled when prompted, clinked your glass when toasts were made, and managed not to stab anyone with your fork. But once dessert had been cleared and the nobles began drifting into smaller pockets of conversation, you stepped away from the main table.

And, of course, Jeonghan followed.

“You’re brooding,” he said, appearing at your side like a shadow. “It’s a charming look on you, truly. Very mysterious, but also very tragic.”

“I’m resisting the urge to toss you into the fountain,” you said coolly, still upset over Reya being barred from the ceremonial dinner. Siwon claimed your tiger would terrify half the guests into fleeing back to their homelands, but honestly? That’s exactly where you want Jeonghan to be.

All of a sudden, Joshua materialized behind him with a sigh. “Brother, maybe you shouldn’t antagonize your future wife during the first dinner.”

The older boy raised an innocent brow. “I’m simply trying to get to know her better. It’s called bonding.”

“It’s called being a smug little shit,” you muttered, turning to Joshua. “Remind me again why they didn’t marry you off instead?”

“Because I’m only thirteen, Princess,” Joshua said with a rueful smile. “And unlike Jeonghan, I can’t talk my way out of anything. Or into it.”

Jeonghan pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

This was what your interactions looked like for the next few years.

Time wore on in polished routines and reluctant familiarity. Your lessons deepened. You traded your fencing foil with a sword. Your council briefings grew longer. And through it all, the shape of your future loomed larger, carved into every careful glance from the court, every politely worded expectation.

Jeonghan visited often enough to fulfill duty, but never more than that. He was cordial in public, infuriating in private. He knew just how to smile at the other noble girls, how to offer a compliment sweet enough to make them blush. But never you.

You weren’t sure when it started to bother you.

He didn’t try to charm you. Didn’t send letters. Didn’t hover by your side during banquets or take your hand when music played. Instead, he teased you, irritated you, challenged you. When you dueled with the court trainers, he’d lean against a post with a smug grin and critique your footwork. When you won a mock debate in strategy lessons, he’d ask if you were aiming for tyrant or empress.

He wasn’t cruel. Just… completely uninterested.

And so, you mirrored him. Distant, cool, and unimpressed.

It was easier that way. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you preferred it like this—that it was better if neither of you cared. That way, when the Dawning Ceremony finally arrived, and the court crowned you with silver and called you queen-to-be, you wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. You wouldn’t hope he was watching. Wouldn’t wonder if he saw more than just a political pawn.

You were eighteen now. The veil of childhood had been lifted. The Dawning Crown gleamed in your reflection like a weight you’d only begun to feel.

The door creaked open behind you. Your stylists fell silent at once—one still halfway through pinning the final clasp on your ceremonial mantle. When they turned and caught sight of who had entered, they dipped into low bows, murmuring deferentially before excusing themselves in a flurry of silks and whispered footsteps.

You met your father’s reflection in the mirror.

He looked tired. Always did, these days. The strain of kingship lived in the soft slump of his shoulders, in the silver threading through his dark hair. But tonight, he wore a quiet pride that almost softened it.

“I still remember when you used to run barefoot through the garden, covered in dirt and insisting you’d seen a dragon in the clouds,” he said, his voice low and fond. “And now look at you.”

You turned to face him fully. The ceremonial robes felt heavier under his gaze—woven from Ancarran silver and river-blue silk, embroidered with threads that shimmered like starlight. The Dawning Crown had been nestled into your hair not ten minutes ago, and already it felt like a permanent weight.

“You’ve grown into a fine heir,” he went on. “The court respects you. The people speak your name with hope. I have no doubt you’ll rule even better than I did.”

The words landed gently, like feathers instead of stones, but you only offered a small nod. “Is that all, or did you come to deliver another surprise engagement?”

He huffed a laugh. “Not today.”

A shape lingered in the hall behind him. You turned toward the figure, and felt your spine straighten when he stepped inside. You recognized him immediately.

Lord Kwon Soonyoung of the River Quarter. Young for a noble, but sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and endlessly frustrating to the older lords who couldn’t keep up. He spoke boldly during court sessions, often to your quiet amusement. Not because he was reckless, but because his suggestions made sense. Because they weren’t rooted in pride or greed or tradition-for-tradition’s sake.

You could tolerate Soonyoung.

More importantly, Reya mirrored the same sentiment. Your beast stirred at your side but made no noise. His tail thumped once against the floor, and when Soonyoung reached out, Reya allowed him to touch his head—without biting or growling or snarling.

You blinked. “He never lets anyone do that. Not even the king.”

Soonyoung smiled faintly. “I bring very expensive jerky to council meetings.”

Your father gave a dry cough that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought it was time you had an advisor of your own,” he said, shifting his weight. “Someone who understands your vision. Who won’t cower, but won’t sabotage you either. You’ll still have access to the council, of course. But from now on, Lord Kwon will report directly to you.”

You glanced back at Soonyoung, one brow arching.

He inclined his head solemnly. “If you’ll have me.”

And despite the crown digging into your temples, despite the pressure mounting outside those palace doors, you found yourself almost relieved for once.

The kingdom held its breath as the sun dipped low behind the peaks of Ancarra, casting long shadows across the capital. From the grand plaza to the marble steps of the palace, thousands had gathered to watch you rise.

The Dawning Crown sat heavy atop your head—woven silver and moonstones, forged centuries ago for this moment. You wore it like you wore the future: unshaking, though it pressed against your every thought.

You stepped forward beneath the carved arch of the Grand Marbled Hall, every bell in the capital chiming at once. Your people stood below. Nobles flanked the raised pavilion. The wind caught your cape and made you look more like a figure from myth than flesh and blood.

Jeonghan, of course, was in the very front of the crowd, cloaked in Seraphian white and gold. His black hair fell loose tonight, ribbon tied lazily at the nape of his neck, and his expression is half amused, half something else. He didn’t look proud. He didn’t even look solemn. That damn prince simply looked like he was waiting for something only he knew the shape of.

You tore your gaze from him as the High Chancellor stepped forward.

His voice carried through the twilight air: blessing your name, your bloodline, your title. You bowed your head at the proper moment.

When it was your turn to speak, you found your voice more easily than expected. You spoke not just as a daughter, but as a queen-in-waiting. You spoke of duty, and legacy, and of your people—of Ancarra’s strength. The crowd answered with a roar.

And just like that, it was over. The stars blinked to life overhead. The music would begin soon. So would the toasts, the dancing, and the procession of noble flatterers lining up to be seen. But first—you slipped from the velvet crush of the crowd and found Soonyoung waiting just off the ceremonial steps, where the torchlight flickered low and Reya prowled like a sentinel in the dark.

He stiffened when he saw your expression. “Princess?”

You pulled him aside, away from the footmen and ladies-in-waiting, and met his eyes.

“You’re my advisor now,” you said, voice low but steady.

He nodded.

“Then this is your first task,” you whispered. “If you cannot stop my betrothal to Jeonghan… delay it. Months, years—I don’t care. Just buy me time. As much as you can.”

Soonyoung blinked. “And if they ask questions?”

“They won’t.” You stepped closer. “Because you’ll be clever. And because no one—not the council, not the court, not even my father—can know that it was me who told you.”

Your advisor hesitated only a moment longer.

Then he smiled, something sharp and wolfish. “Consider it done.”

Years passed like storms over open fields—loud, relentless, and gone before you could catch your breath.

Your title grew heavier with each passing season. Every month brought new scrolls to sign, new decisions to weigh, new nobles testing your patience and pretending not to. But by your side, always, was Soonyoung.

He proved himself more than just a quick wit and a clever tongue. He was tactful when you were tired, bold when you hesitated, and disarmingly good at navigating court politics without letting it twist him. Most importantly, he did as you asked: he stalled. And stalled. And stalled.

Soonyoung often cited economic instability. He sowed polite doubt about timing. He suggested further diplomatic exchanges. And every time the matter of the betrothal crept to the surface, he found a way to push it back under without leaving fingerprints. For that, you trusted him more than most.

Still, no amount of clever maneuvering could keep Jeonghan away.

The Seraphian prince was a constant thorn in your side. Not overtly cruel but sharp enough to get under your skin. He made biting comments over tea with the council. Danced merely once at galas, and always with just you, even if his smile never reached his eyes. He acted the perfect prince in public, all grace and golden formality, but in private he still found delight in teasing your temper and smirking when it frayed.

And you matched him, blow for blow. It was the only way you knew to survive it.

You tried everything else. You proposed policy changes that would jeopardize the alliance. You drafted appeals to dissolve the arrangement. You whispered to other members of court, trying to find a crack in the centuries-old yet unspoken agreement binding Ancarra and Seraphia. But the betrothal endured, untouched, like some ancient curse carved into stone.

You were set to marry each other once you both turned twenty-five, and not even Soonyoung could circumvent the inevitable for longer than he already had.

On the eve of your twenty-fourth name day, you couldn’t bear it any longer.

You found your father in the observatory, where he often retreated these days, away from court noise and council bickering. He looked older now—softer around the eyes, silver threading his entire beard—but still steady, still listening.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” you told him, voice low but urgent. “I’ve honored the engagement. I’ve strengthened our kingdom. I’ve waited. But please…” Your hands clenched at your sides. “Please let me find love on my own. Not in a treaty. Not in an obligation.”

The king looked up at you, quiet for a long moment. And in that silence, your heart thudded so loudly you feared he could hear the break in it.

Your father didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long time, like he was peering through the layers of duty you wore like armor—past the queen-in-waiting, down to the little girl who used to trail behind him with ink on her sleeves and admiration in her eyes.

Then finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wearier than you’d ever seen him.

“If you must,” he said softly. “Then choose. But do it wisely.”

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Soonyoung, ever your loyal accomplice, was the first to act. But your father’s advisor, Siwon, was ten steps ahead. Between them a list was compiled: eligible bachelors from noble families across the continent. Men with good standing, decent lineage, tolerable personalities. A thick folder of names, portraits, court records, and correspondences appeared on your desk within the week.

“You asked for love,” Soonyoung reminded you, lifting an eyebrow. “Not obscurity. We still have to make it look… proper somehow.”

You stared down at the endless sea of faces, all of them smiling too politely. The illusion of choice wrapped in silk and gold. It wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for, but it was something—a sliver of agency in a life that rarely allowed any.

Near the end of the list, a familiar face stopped you cold.

Im Changkyun.

The boy who used to spar with you in the training yard until both your arms gave out. The only one who never pulled his strikes. Who called you “lightfoot” just to get under your skin and laughed when you beat him anyway. He’d left court years ago to pursue something abroad for a few years—you hadn’t heard from him since.

You held his portrait a moment longer than the others.

He looked older now, jaw sharper, eyes steadier. But something in his expression was the same: direct, unafraid. You set the image aside, just slightly, like a card at the top of a deck.

“Considering him?” Soonyoung asked, not even trying to hide the curiosity.

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just tapped the edge of the page and muttered, “He’s not terrible.”

Several days later, you invited Changkyun to the castle.

The back gardens were quiet this time of day—just enough sunlight spilling through the high hedgerows to illuminate the walking path in pale gold. The magnolias were in bloom, their wide petals fluttering in the breeze like fallen silk. You waited near the old stone bench beneath the olive tree, Reya sprawled lazily in the grass at your feet like he didn’t weigh as much as a small carriage.

Siwon and Soonyoung lingered at the archway entrance, trying and failing not to look like posted guards. You’d already told them three times that Reya was protection enough—and given the way the striped beast flicked his tail with bored menace, you were fairly confident no one would get within lunging range without permission.

Still, you appreciated their presence. Just as you appreciated the way the household staff had been strictly instructed, sworn to silence, and double-compensated for their discretion.

No one from Seraphia could know.

You heard footsteps before you saw him—light, careful, and familiar. When Changkyun emerged from the vine-draped path, the first thing you noticed was how tall he’d gotten. His frame was broader, shoulders squared. His hair was longer now too, tied back against his nape.

But then he grinned, and you knew it was still him.

“Well,” he said, stepping into the clearing with a casual ease that made Reya lift his head. “Some things don’t change.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Your taste in terrifying pets.” He nodded at your tiger. “Still looks like he wants to eat me.”

Reya snorted through his nose. You weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t a laugh. “He does. But only a little.”

Changkyun bowed low, more mockery than formality, then straightened and met your eyes. “Your Highness.”

“Don’t,” you said, voice softer than you expected. “Not here.”

His expression eased. “Alright, Lightfoot then.”

You nodded despite the jab, the name fitting better in his mouth than you remembered. And for a moment, standing there in the hush of a secret meeting surrounded by the scent of olive and magnolia, you felt like a girl again. A little reckless. A little hopeful.

“So,” Changkyun said, glancing past you to where the advisors waited in careful silence. “Am I here for tea, or a political inquisition?”

You smirked. “That depends on whether you’re still terrible at fencing.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. “You’re going to beat me again, aren’t you?”

“If you’re lucky,” you said, turning to lead the way deeper into the garden. “If you’re not, Reya will.”

And Reya, as if understanding perfectly, bared his teeth in a lazy grin.

You walked side by side with Changkyun through the garden path, Reya ambling behind like a silent chaperone. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable, just tentative. It had been years, after all. He’d grown into his frame the way trees settle into their roots—steady, grounded, and unpretentious.

You stopped at the far end of the gardens beneath a low-limbed willow, leaves swaying like curtains in the wind. When you turned to face him, the words tangled briefly on your tongue.

Changkyun tilted his head. “You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, grinning. “Same way you used to before you asked to borrow my practice foil. Or when you were about to do something reckless.”

You huffed, cheeks warming. “I’m not here to be reckless. I’m being strategic.”

“Same thing, in your case.”

You gave him a look, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll be frank with you.”

“That’s new.” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

You ignored him. “You’re here because I’m… looking.”

His expression shifted—curious, but not alarmed. “Looking? For what?”

“A husband,” you said quickly, like yanking a bandage off. “Someone suitable enough that my council and court will approve. Someone who could make this kingdom feel less like a cage, and—” You stopped, biting the inside of your cheek. “Someone I could maybe stand.”

Changkyun blinked, taken aback for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “But… aren’t you already betrothed?”

You stilled before carefully saying, “It’s complicated.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not pressing, not even judging, but he did take a moment to read between the lines.

“Right,” he said finally, with a nod. “Complicated.”

You were grateful he didn’t pry further.

Hmph, you thought. If Jeonghan were this thoughtful, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

You immediately wanted to punch yourself. What? No. No. Why in the world—? You shook the thought off like water from your hands. Ridiculous. Completely and utterly—

“I’m flattered,” Changkyun said gently, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “Really. It means a lot that you’d even consider me.” His eyes dimmed just a little. “But I can’t.”

Your heart paused. “Can’t…?”

He nodded, almost apologetically. “There’s someone else. We’ve been together a while now. She’s not from a noble house, so it was never going to be public, but… we’re expecting a baby in the spring.”

It hit you like a brick wall of mortification. “Oh, gods—Changkyun, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in a—”

“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand. “I know you didn’t. You never would have tried if you did. I’m honored you thought of me, but I’ve already made my choice.”

You took a step back, mortified beyond belief. “I just tried to poach a taken man.”

“With a pregnant partner,” he added with a teasing grin. “A bold move, even for you.”

“Stop laughing,” you hissed, trying to suppress the heat crawling up your neck. “This is a diplomatic disaster.”

And of course, when you turned to stalk back to the garden entrance, you saw them—Soonyoung and Siwon, standing just where you left them, whispering like schoolboys and failing horribly at hiding their laughter.

“You both knew, didn’t you?” you growled.

Siwon cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. Soonyoung offered a helpful shrug. “We just wanted to see how long it would take for you to find out.”

“You’re both fired.”

“You’ve said that four times this month,” Soonyoung said cheerfully.

“And it gets less believable every time,” Siwon added.

Behind you, Changkyun laughed again. Reya huffed. You tried very hard not to fling yourself into the hedge and disappear.

You went back to the drawing board with a vengeance.

The wall of your study, once reserved for regional maps and grain forecasts, was now a collage of organized chaos. Pinned parchments fluttered in the breeze from the open window—portraits, lineage charts, summaries of estates and personalities. It looked less like a matchmaking effort and more like a war room. Reya had taken to curling up just outside your door, wisely avoiding the flurry of thrown quills and muttered curses.

Siwon and Soonyoung stood to one side, arms crossed like generals surveying a battlefield. They were your most loyal—yet infuriatingly conniving—advisors, offering unfiltered commentary with the energy of drunk gossip mongers.

“Lord Hwan?” Siwon suggested, tapping one parchment with a silver quill.

“Too stiff,” you replied without a hitch. “He talks like he’s trying to sell me on an insurance scheme every time he opens his mouth.”

“What about the Crown Viscount’s second son?” Soonyoung asked. “Handsome. Educated. Keeps birds.”

“He also believes women shouldn’t sit in council chambers. Next.”

After a while, the portraits dwindled down to just a few names that hadn’t been immediately dismissed. Among them, a new face caught your eye—a boyish nobleman from the southern coast. You remembered him. Soft-eyed but sharp-tongued. He has an earring glinting in his official portrait, a reputation for charity work, and biting courtroom wit.

“Boo Seungkwan,” Siwon said, noticing your gaze. “Heir to the wine barons of Chasan.”

“Isn’t he the one who screamed at the High Treasurer for misappropriating village taxes last winter?” you asked, intrigued. “

Soonyoung grinned. “The very one. Rumor has it the Treasurer nearly cried.”

You plucked Seungkwan’s page from the wall. “I like him.”

“He’s a bit dramatic,” Siwon offered.

“He’s principled,” you corrected, pinning the portrait near the top of the selection board. “And I’ve had enough of spineless men. Give me someone who isn’t afraid to raise his voice when something’s wrong.”

“He also sings,” Soonyoung added helpfully.

“Even better.”

You three stood there a moment, gazing up at the organized chaos—your court of candidates, your silent rebellion. It could be the most brilliant plan in the world, or the one that precedes its impending doom, but you’re more than willing to take a gamble.

It didn’t take long for you to make the journey to Chasan.

You traveled in an unmarked carriage with Soonyoung at your side, no royal banners or official escorts. Siwon had protested—loudly, thoroughly, and with increasing despair—but your father, ever the silent observer of your misery, gave his blessing with one condition: Keep a low profile.

Chasan was warm with early spring, the hills rolling green and gold beneath a sun that glinted off the distant sea. When your carriage pulled up to the modest but elegant estate of the Boo family, no one rushed to greet you. No horns. No footmen. Just a confused stable boy blinking at you like you’d ridden in on a cloud.

You glanced at Soonyoung, who raised an eyebrow.

“Guess no one told them the queen-to-be was dropping by.”

“I did write in the letter that I’d come in person,” you muttered.

One of the household servants scurried out after some frantic internal shouting. “Our deepest apologies, Your Highness, Sir Boo is in the lower vineyards at the moment. We… we weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“It’s fine,” you said, already stepping down from the carriage. “We’ll find him ourselves.”

Soonyoung caught up, eyes scanning the gentle sprawl of grapevines that stretched toward the southern slope. “Maybe you’ll get to see what he’s like in the wild,” he joked.

You shot him a look.

The two of you wandered down narrow earthen paths between sun-dappled vines, boots crunching softly over tilled soil. A few workers paused to bow, but no one made a fuss. Chasan was humble in the way that made you ache a little. No gold plating, no marble archways. Just earth, sky, and the scent of crushed grape skins in the wind.

“There,” Soonyoung whispered, grabbing your elbow and pulling you behind one of the taller vine trellises. You followed his gaze and stopped short.

Boo Seungkwan was farther down the row, partially shielded by the grapes, one hand still gloved in working leathers. He was laughing, light and warm, as he leaned close to the young servant boy in front of him.

And then, without hesitation, he kissed him.

Not a scandalous kiss. Not a stolen one either. But soft, sure, and heartbreakingly tender.

You stared, your heart thudding with a strange sort of… sorrow. Or maybe guilt. You hadn’t meant to intrude. You hadn’t expected this.

Soonyoung gently nudged your arm. “Guess we’ll be checking him off the wall.”

You swallowed and turned away, careful not to make a sound as you whispered, “Let’s go. He deserves to enjoy this moment without a royal shadow looming over it.”

Neither of you spoke again until you were halfway back to the estate, the quiet breeze tugging gently at your cloak.

“…Siwon is never going to stop laughing about this,” Soonyoung said at last.

You sighed. “I know.”

That crushing defeat hit you harder than you thought.

You didn’t speak to anyone for days. Not after Seungkwan. Not after Soonyoung tactfully burned the last of the correspondence in your fireplace while Siwon wordlessly updated the registry of Unviable Matches with a heavy sigh.

Maybe this was your fate. Maybe it had always been. Maybe you were foolish to think you could outrun the gods' ink when the story had already been carved in gold. Betrothed at fifteen. Crowned at eighteen. Wed to Jeonghan by—

You didn’t let yourself think the year aloud.

Your advisors, mercifully, didn’t try to coax you out of your misery. No jokes. No teasing. No “we’ll find another” or “what about this one.” Just silence and quiet presence.

Siwon left your tea in the mornings and your scrolls at dusk. Soonyoung started keeping his sarcasm locked behind his teeth. Even Reya laid his massive head across your lap while you read, his usual restlessness tempered as if he, too, knew your storm was not one that could be barked away.

You went through the motions. Court duties. Decrees. Oversight reviews. But your spirit dragged its heels, worn and brittle. And after nearly a week of going nowhere, you couldn’t take the stillness anymore.

So you left.

No guards or carriages. Only a cloak over your shoulders and Reya at your side, his striped form padding silently beside you as you stepped out into the humming heart of the capital.

The city had always been your balm. Cobblestone streets. Songbirds in the eaves. Familiar chatter from vendors and weavers calling out their wares. The people greeted you with warmth, not fanfare. They knew Reya by sight now—knew his name, even—and parted for him without fear. Children ran up to scratch his ears. Old women offered you candied dates or weathered blessings.

You wandered further through the market square, slowing as a tapestry caught your eye. It looks new, strung between two wooden posts—its threads shimmering silver in the sunlight. A dragon this time, coiled mid-roar and stitched with care and pride.

Before you could move on, a small hand tugged at the hem of your cloak. You looked down to find a boy, no older than ten, staring up at you with wide, serious eyes. In his hands, he held a delicate ring of daisies and chamomile.

“It’s a crown, Your Highness,” he said shyly, holding it out like a secret. “Not the fancy kind, but it feels nice to wear.”

You crouched to his height, gently taking the floral gift with both hands. “Then it’s perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you.”

Thank the stars you hadn’t worn your Dawning Crown. It would’ve felt like mockery now. You slipped the flower ring over your head and straightened. The child beamed. Reya gave a gentle huff of approval, as if to say: See? You still matter to the people.

You exhaled slowly and looked over the rooftops where the palace glittered far above the city.

You weren’t ready to give up yet.

After purchasing some trinkets to bring home to your father and your lousy advisors, your footsteps take you further beyond the market. The flower crown sat a little lopsided on your head, but you made no move to fix it as you settled onto the edge of the city square’s old stone fountain.

Reya laid down beside you with a content grunt, his chin resting on his massive paws as his tail flicked idly across the cobblestones. A warm breeze blew, catching the scent of fresh bread and sun-warmed stone. Pigeons cooed and strutted about the square like they owned it.

One of them hopped closer, cocking its head.

“Well?” you asked it. “I don’t have food but you get conversation. Fair trade?”

The pigeon blinked, unimpressed. You’re not who usually feeds us. Where’s that baker girl with a soft voice and flaky biscuits?

“Hm. She’s got better treats and a softer voice,” you laugh. “You birds have standards.”

Another pigeon joined the first, eyeing Reya suspiciously. Why do you always drag around that oversized tiger? He looks like he eats things like us for fun.

Reya rumbled low in his throat without lifting his head. Keep talking, feathers. I haven’t had lunch.

The pigeons flapped backward in alarm, cooing indignantly.

Savage! Barbarian! You wouldn’t dare—

“Ignore him,” you said, stifling a smile. “He likes pretending he’s scarier than he is.”

Reya huffed again, this time clearly offended.

One pigeon scoffed. He nearly ate one of us the last time you were here.

“And one of you tried to steal his jerky. Actions have consequences.”

You sat there for a few more minutes, chuckling quietly at the birds' gossip—half of it nonsense, half of it accurate enough to be alarming—until you heard a voice behind you. Gentle and familiar in a distant, unexpected way.

“May I join you, Your Highness?”

You turned your head, and nearly gasped.

Standing just beyond the sun-dappled edge of the fountain was a boy you hadn’t seen in years. No—not a boy anymore. He was taller now, broader at the shoulders, his dark hair falling just past his collar. Instead of court finery, he wore a pared-down version of Renxing armor: travel-worn, softened at the edges, the pauldrons stripped away and the gold embroidery dulled by dust and sunlight.

You blinked, almost laughing from the sheer surprise of it all. “Minghao! Stars, it is you.”

“It’s good to see you again, Princess.” He caught your hands when you reached out—steady and familiar.

But before the moment could settle, Reya let out a low growl, rising onto all fours. His ears are pinned back, blue eyes locked on your old friend with unmistakable suspicion.

“Oh, stop that,” you said, stepping in to soothe him with a hand on his head. “Reya, Hao’s a friend. Not lunch.”

Something’s wrong, he growled, muscles coiled beneath your touch. He smells like fire and blood.

You hesitated, fingers buried in Reya’s thick ruff as his growl faded to a low, vibrating hum. His tail didn’t flick, his gaze didn’t waver.

Fire and blood…

Minghao probably did smell like both, even if you couldn’t catch the whiff. Maybe in the way old battlefields did. Burnt magic clung to his clothes like smoke. His hands bore the marks of sword work, knuckles darkened with bruises that hadn't fully healed. Still, he was a fire elemental. And the general of the Renxing army. What else was he supposed to smell like? Roses?

But hostile as he was, Reya had never reacted like this before.

You gave his ear a scratch, more for your comfort than his. “He’s just being dramatic,” you said lightly. “Doesn’t like surprises. Or anyone who’s taller than me.”

Minghao smiled. “I could kneel, if that helps.”

“Don’t tempt him.”

He chuckled, stepping closer with a graceful ease that didn’t match the war-weathered armor. “Did he say anything interesting?”

“No,” you lied smoothly, straightening up. “Just a lot of growling and wounded pride. Why? Worried he’s giving away secrets?”

“Only curious,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not every day a celestial tiger growls at me like I kicked his favorite moonstone.”

“You did once steal a peach tart from my plate. He never forgot.”

“I regret nothing.”

You looked him over, still stunned. The years had sculpted him into something sharp and striking. There’s a faint scar curving along his forearm, and the unmistakable presence of someone used to command. But his eyes… his eyes were exactly the same.

“I didn’t even know Renxing was sending delegates.”

“Technically, soldiers,” Minghao amended. “My father offered support in fortifying your kingdom’s defenses. He sent me and a small contingent to assist in training.”

“That’s the official reason, isn’t it?” you teased.

He chuckled. “You’ve grown sharper.”

“And you haven’t changed at all,” you interject with a beaming smile. “Do you still carry that lopsided bow you used to train me with?”

Minghao grinned. “I retired it years ago. But I remember those lessons well. You nearly took out my eye once.”

“It was one time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “And you moved too close to the target!”

Reya, however, didn’t find this reunion nearly as delightful. He rose behind you, placing himself between Minghao and your side with a deliberate flick of his tail.

You gave him a dry look. “He taught me archery, Reya. If he meant to hurt me, he’s had a ten-year head start.”

“I must’ve offended him in a past life.” Minghao chuckled, giving a short, respectful bow towards the tiger.

“He just doesn’t like being left out of things,” you said, motioning for Minghao to sit with you by the fountain again. Some of the pigeons scattered as Reya circled, settling beside you with an annoyed huff. You pretended not to notice the way he kept one sapphire eye trained squarely on your old friend.

“It’s strange,” you said, watching the breeze stir the trees across the square. “I feel like I should’ve known you were coming. Or that I would’ve felt it somehow. We used to be glued to the hip during all those summer visits.”

“We were children,” Minghao replied gently. “But I remember it, too. I was glad when my father chose me to come here. I hoped I’d see you again.”

You flushed, just a little. “Well… you have. And I’m glad. Really.”

“I’ll be staying at the castle with the soldiers,” he told you. “We begin drills in a few days. Until then, I thought I’d take a walk through the city. See what’s changed.”

You grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not much. The pigeons are still rude.”

A few feet away, one of them let out a coarse squawk. You’re the one talking to birds like a madwoman. Can’t even find a husband.

You lobbed a pebble at it. “You eat garbage.”

Minghao watched in silent amusement as you finished your not-so-private argument with the town’s most opinionated pigeons. When you finally noticed his expression, you offered a sheepish grin.

“I missed this,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You raised a brow. “The pigeons?”

“You,” he said, laughing softly. “You’ve always had a… unique way of handling the world.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“It’s not.” His gaze lingered, warm and thoughtful. “It’s just—very you.”

Reya let out another displeased noise. But you were too caught up in the moment to notice the way his muscles stayed coiled beneath his striped coat, the faint bristle in his fur. He didn’t like this reunion.

But you? You were just happy to see an old friend.

Back at the castle, preparations for your guest had moved quickly. One of the east-facing guest rooms—typically reserved for visiting dignitaries—was swept, polished, and perfumed with lavender water. Minghao’s soldiers were escorted to the royal barracks, where Ancarrian efficiency met them with warm cloaks, strong cider, and a welcome that was formal but kind.

By morning, the dining hall was bathed in golden light, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows. The table had been set with a surprisingly casual spread: flaky breads still warm from the oven, crisp autumn pears, spiced porridge, and thick cream served in polished stoneware.

You were already there, hunched slightly over a steaming cup of tea, still groggy but determined not to show it. Reya was helping himself to whatever lavish breakfast the castle chefs had laid out for him, utterly absorbed in his bowl. From the way his ears twitched with contentment, your tiger was clearly pleased. You only looked up from your own food when you caught the quiet rhythm of approaching boots.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Minghao said, bowing first to your father, then offering you a softer nod. “Princess.”

“You’re early,” you replied, smiling into your cup but it drops the moment Reya starts baring his teeth at your friend again. “Reya. Knock it off.”

Your father chuckled. “He tells me his men were stretching at dawn on the south field. Quite the commander.”

“Discipline is second nature in Renxing,” Minghao said, lowering himself into the seat next to yours with smooth, princely ease. “Though I’ll admit—your lands make it easier. Crisp air. Clear skies. Even my men look taller here.”

“Flatterer,” your father said, grinning. “Careful, or you’ll find yourself a permanent guest.”

“That would be no punishment,” Minghao said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment, light with mischief.

You bit back a laugh and nudged the basket of pastries toward him. “Try the honeyed ones. They’re dangerous enough to make you not want to leave.”

He did, and the way his face lit up made you grin. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Across the room, Soonyoung and Siwon stood with the servants near the door, their posture still and unreadable—save for the way Soonyoung’s brow lifted slightly when you leaned in, listening to something Minghao murmured beneath his breath.

You talked like it had been days, not years. He spoke of Renxing’s northern reaches—wild coasts and glass-shelled beetles that migrated through frozen rivers. Of teaching a recruit to read by bribing him with hawthorn sweets, only for the boy to repay him in river crabs. Your father listened with gentle amusement, but it was you who laughed the most

And then, without warning, the thought crept in like smoke curling under a door.

What if it were him?

The match with Jeonghan had been sealed long ago, your fate marked in ink and crown and ritual before you could even attend council meetings officially. But what if it hadn’t? What if you hadn’t spent your whole life dodging destiny like it was a creature waiting to pounce?

What if love was simple?

A shared pastry. A soft story. Warm hands over tea and morning sun.

You looked at Minghao again—his easy smile, the grace in his posture, the power quiet and controlled beneath the silks and steel. And in that stolen, treacherous heartbeat, you let yourself wonder.

What if it had been him instead?

Before your thoughts could wander dangerously, however, your quiet meal was interrupted.

You noticed the change before you heard it. A flicker of movement by the door. A servant, breathless and wide-eyed, darted toward Soonyoung and Siwon. She was whispering something too fast for you to catch.

Minghao was still speaking beside you, animated as he described a night march through an ancient canyon in northern Renxing where their footsteps echoed like ghosts trapped in a glass cage. His voice was smooth and warm, and you wanted to listen, truly you did—but your gaze kept slipping back to the door.

Soonyoung’s arms were folded now. Siwon murmured something in return to the servant, nodded once, then approached the table with the quiet stride of someone who only ever brought important news. The king glanced up at the shift in mood, and you followed his gaze as Siwon stopped just behind your chair and bent slightly at the waist.

“Your Highness,” he said softly, his eyes flicking toward you, “Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia has just arrived. He’s asked to speak with the princess at her earliest convenience.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Minghao’s story paused mid-sentence. He looked toward Siwon with faint curiosity, but said nothing. Your father gave only a slight nod, an order to let him join breakfast, and returned to his tea as if this were a perfectly ordinary disruption. But your hand, still resting near the plate of fruit, curled into a quiet fist.

Moments later, the doors opened with their usual hush, but somehow it felt louder this time. Jeonghan stepped in, haloed in sunlight through the high windows. He was still draped in Seraphian silks, still unfairly beautiful.

His hair was brown now, swept back with a soft curl falling over his brow in a way that seemed carefully unintentional. He moved with that same effortless poise you had grown up watching and (grudgingly) admiring.

Minghao, ever-so gracious, stood as Jeonghan approached, offering a nod before shifting seats to the other side of the long table. It left the space beside you open intentionally.

Jeonghan slid into the empty chair like he’d belonged there all along. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice dipped in velvet, his smile almost disarmingly warm. “I apologize for the surprise visit. I was in one of my moods and thought—why not go see my future wife?”

You gave him a withering look, but it faltered when he leaned in just slightly and added, “Joshua sends his regards. He’s recently been engaged himself, you know.”

“Oh?” the king said, lifting a brow. “Congratulations are in order.”

“Yes,” Jeonghan said with a calm nod. “The daughter of one of our royal mages. She isn’t of noble blood, but she’s well-versed in magic and negotiations. My brother’s always had a soft spot for strategists.”

“Sounds like he inherited that from someone,” Minghao said mildly.

You raised a brow. Jeonghan only smiled, utterly unbothered. “Hardly. I prefer my companions predictable. Less likely to start a war over breakfast.”

A chuckle moved around the table.

Then Minghao tilted his head and said, almost idly, “And he’s not using magic, still?”

Jeonghan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Joshua,” Minghao clarified with a small smile. “Both of you, actually. Last I heard, neither of the Seraphian princes had taken up their birthright. The royal bloodline in Seraphia is known for its strength in enchantment, no? And yet you keep it buried, still?”

You stiffened a little. Not in shock, but because the question came from nowhere. Your spoon hovered above your tea. Magic was always a strange subject between nations. But the abstention of Seraphia’s recent royalty was somewhat a hot topic among the surrounding kingdoms—Ancarra included.

Minghao, for his part, was infamous across empires as a fire elemental prodigy. The youngest to command a regiment of war mages in Renxing’s history. His aura carried that same warmth now, flickering low like a hearth. Reya, beside your chair, shifted uneasily. His icy blue eyes fixed on the man across from him like a second set of judgment.

Jeonghan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Our magic is not the crown’s priority. Seraphia thrives through diplomacy, not flames.”

Minghao leaned back, folding his hands. “A shame, really. I always wondered what it would look like—royal Seraphian magic unleashed.”

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Jeonghan’s jaw.

And that, more than anything, gnawed at the back of your mind as Minghao took another sip of tea. You sat there in your seat with perfect posture and a polite smile, but the thought slipped into your skull like a splinter.

You’ve never seen Jeonghan use magic.

Never seen him spark even a flicker of it. Never caught a rumor, never heard a whisper. Not even from the palace gossip mill, which had happily speculated about the color of his undershirts once and still hadn’t shut up about the time he laughed too hard at a coronation toast.

And you would’ve asked. You should’ve asked.

But that would’ve required speaking to him longer than a required greeting, longer than the bare-minimum exchange you both had perfected over the years—smiles for the court, ice behind closed doors. You found out about Joshua’s affinity by accident, really. He’d once stopped to admire a hedge maze in your gardens, and when he touched a dying stalk, it bloomed again beneath his hand. Simple and gentle, much like the boy himself.

But Jeonghan?

Nothing.

No elemental surge. No runic marks. No rumors of illusions, or voicecraft, or even basic wards. Either he had nothing—or he was hiding something so carefully, so deliberately, that no one had been able to name it.

And now Minghao was here, a walking blaze of power, and Jeonghan was smiling like none of it even mattered. You reached for your teacup, mostly to keep your hands busy.

You didn’t like mysteries. Especially not when they sit beside you, pretending to be harmless.

The silence stretched just long enough to begin tasting uncomfortable. Minghao’s smile didn’t falter. Jeonghan’s posture remained infuriatingly elegant, but you could tell—if only because you’ve spent years learning how to read him—that he’s ready to change the subject.

It’s your father who spared him the effort.

He cleared his throat and gently set his goblet down. “And how long will you be staying with us this time, Prince Jeonghan?”

You turned slightly toward the head of the table, grateful for the break in tension. Jeonghan flicked his eyes toward the king and answered smoothly, “Just a few days, Your Highness. I was passing through the border en-route from the east and thought it best to pay a visit.”

“An unannounced visit,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath from his post by the door. Siwon nudged him with an elbow.

The king chuckled, brushing past the remark. “It is always a pleasure, no matter how sudden.” Then he glanced toward you. “Perhaps you and my daughter might walk the gardens this afternoon? The roses have finally bloomed this year.”

You almost choked on your tea.

Jeonghan nodded with a faint, serene smile. “Of course. It would be an honor.”

Your spoon clinked against porcelain just a little too hard. Reya emitted a low growl from under the table, whether in protest of the plan or of Minghao’s lingering presence, you can’t tell.

Minghao, to his credit, simply sips his tea again. But his gaze flicks to you, then to Jeonghan, curious. Assessing.

And for the first time in a long while, you can’t tell which prince unsettles you more.

You didn’t get far from the dining hall before your hand shot out to catch Soonyoung by the sleeve, dragging him into the shadowed archway beside one of the tapestry alcoves. Siwon followed of his own accord, arms folded neatly behind his back, expression already knowing.

“I’m asking this plainly,” you whispered, eyes flicking back toward the corridor. “Are we absolutely certain Jeonghan doesn’t know what we’ve been up to?”

Soonyoung blinked. “As in the matchmaking campaign?”

You stared at him.

“Right, yes, that,” he amended. “Then no. I mean yes. As in, he doesn’t know. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Almost?”

Soonyoung’s smile twitched. “Prince Jeonghan is… difficult to read. Cheerful as he is, he doesn’t quite let anyone be privy to his intentions.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What if he’s just biding his time? Waiting until I’m alone before springing some awful, ‘You’ve dishonored our families’ speech and demanding we set the wedding date?”

“Princess,” Siwon said gently, “he’s had nearly a decade to pull such a stunt. And he hasn’t. Don’t start doubting the quiet now.”

You glanced up at him, voice lower. “But what if Minghao's presence stirred something? What if he sensed it, somehow—that I’m searching for someone else?”

Siwon regarded you with the patience of a man who had outwaited a thousand royal tantrums and twice as many council disputes. “Prince Jeonghan is many things. But petty is not one of them. He’d confront you if he had suspicions, not toy with them.”

“Not petty, huh?” you muttered, “I’m not so sure about that…”

Soonyoung scratched the back of his neck. “We did keep the search quiet, Princess. Every servant sworn to secrecy, every meeting arranged through as discreetly as possible. If Prince Jeonghan knows, he’s clairvoyant. Or just very, very nosy.”

You sighed and pressed a hand to your forehead. “This whole morning felt cursed. Reya was uneasy the whole time. I—gods above, I liked being with Minghao again. That’s the worst of it. I liked it, and Jeonghan probably sensed that.”

“So?” Soonyoung said, baffled. “You’re allowed to entertain visiting nobility, especially if they’re your friends. Prince Jeonghan doesn’t own your breakfast companions.”

“But he’s my betrothed!”

“In title only.”

Your shoulders sagged, and you gripped the edge of the column beside you. “I felt like I’d been playing a game I didn’t know the rules of. And everyone else was holding cards I’d never seen.”

Siwon’s gaze softened. “That is the nature of court.”

A sigh escaped your lips. “I’m supposed to walk the gardens with him soon.”

“Try not to trip into the koi pond again,” the older advisor added.

“That was once,” you scowled. “And it was raining.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Still your most graceful fall.”

You shook your head and pushed away from the column. “Pray for me.”

“I’ll light a candle,” Siwon said dryly.

“I’ll start digging a moat,” Soonyoung chirped.

You waved them off and stepped back into the corridor, spine straightening with every step. Whatever awaited you in the garden, you would meet it with dignity.

The royal gardens stretched out before you, awash in morning light where sunlight filtered through the trees that swayed with the breeze. You walked slowly along the mosaic path, hands clasped loosely before you, Reya trotting a few steps ahead. He hadn’t growled once—not even when Jeonghan fell into step beside you like a ghost slipping from a dream.

“It’s been some time since we walked here,” Jeonghan said plainly.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Has it?”

“I suppose not that long,” he amended with a soft chuckle. “But long enough to miss the scent of the roses. Your gardeners have always done them justice.”

You glanced toward the flower bed just ahead—wide as a banquet table and brimming with tangled stems of roses. Their leaves are a lush, lacquered green, buds curled tightly on the branches like secrets not yet told. A few bold blooms had already unfurled—deep crimson, velvet-soft, catching the morning light like drops of spilled wine.

“They’re late in blooming this season,” you murmured.

“Maybe they’re waiting for a sign,” he said. “Something worth blooming for.”

You didn’t respond. There was always something slippery about him—how his compliments wore the face of riddles, how his tone was too gentle to grasp without suspicion. You didn’t trust softness when it came from him. Not when you’d spent half your life bracing against it.

Still, he continued beside you, hands tucked behind his back in perfect princely grace. His eyes scanned the gardens, the trees, the rooftops just beyond the horizon.

“I heard your father’s invited Renxing to join our military councils,” he mused.

You stiffened, just slightly. “He has. Their soldiers arrived yesterday.”

“And Minghao is their prince and general?” Jeonghan added lightly, almost amused.

That makes you pause. “You’ve met?”

“A long time ago,” he said. “I doubt he’d remember it, but he does seem aware enough of my existence to want to pick a fight with me .”

You huffed. “You make it easy for anyone to want to pick a fight with you.”

Jeonghan didn’t deny it—just offered a knowing smile, the kind that curled at one corner of his mouth and made you want to both slap it off and stare a little longer. You walked in silence for a few steps. The wind stirred the trees again, rustling petals onto the stone path, and somewhere nearby, water trickled over the lip of a marble fountain.

Then he said, almost offhandedly, “He likes to speak first. Draw lines before anyone else has a chance to set the terms.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You mean Minghao?”

Jeonghan nodded. “He’s clever. Knows exactly where to place a cut for the deepest bruise.”

“Well, he’s a general. He’s trained for that.”

“He’s also a prince,” your fiancé pointed out, tone light but edged. “Which makes it harder to tell when the blade’s diplomatic.”

You didn’t answer. Not because he was wrong, but because you were surprised he noticed. Still, Jeonghan wasn’t looking at you. His gaze wandered, serene and distant, as if this was just another quiet stroll instead of a conversation tensed on the knife-edge of politics.

“For what it’s worth,” he added after a moment, “I’ve never liked men who think precision is the same as power.”

That caught your attention.

You studied him for a beat longer. His posture, as always, was deceptively relaxed—too smooth, too practiced. But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the fact that Reya brushed gently against his side as he passed, tail flicking once before moving on. Jeonghan looked down at the beast, a faint smile twitching at his lips.

“He’s warming up to me.”

You scoffed. “He’s tolerant, at best.”

He tilted his head with a lazy smile. “Still better than hostile.”

It was. You hated that you agreed.

Days drift by in a hush. You expect tension, expect something grand to stir. After all, two foreign princes now share your roof, both with their own legacies, their own shadows trailing behind them. And yet, the palace breathes as if nothing has changed. No great disruptions, no clashing tides.

The soldiers in the barracks adjust to the presence of Renxing’s warriors with the wary politeness of men trained to kill side by side, and the kitchen staff still sends up too many pastries at tea. Minghao spends most of his days in the training yards or reviewing your kingdom’s defenses with the captains. He is gracious when he joins you at court, always with a smooth word or charming smile. Reya still watches him like a hawk from afar—but the tension has settled into a sort of cold awareness, like two great cats pacing the edge of each other’s territory.

Jeonghan, on the other hand, has made it his personal mission to haunt your every quiet moment.

He never speaks of the conversation in the garden again, but you can feel it hanging in the air whenever he appears. You pass him in the corridor, and he gives you a smile. You leave the solarium early, and he’s somehow in the hall just outside, pretending to admire a tapestry. You ask the cooks to surprise you with something new for breakfast, and he comments idly at the table that you’ve always liked tart things with honey.

It’s maddening.

By Thursday, you’ve had enough.

You marched down to the archery range before breakfast, bow in hand, and jaw set with razor-tight focus. You haven’t had time for this in weeks, and it shows in the tension of your shoulders, the crackle in your spine. You notch your arrow, draw back your arm, exhale—

“Good morning, Your Grace!”

You startled a little too dramatically. The arrow sailed in a wide arc and landed somewhere in the hedges with an unceremonious thwack.

You spun around to find Jeonghan standing at the edge of the range, hands clasped like he’s arrived for a morning stroll. Beside him was Soonyoung, who gave you a guilty, wide-eyed look before mouthing I’m sorry and quickly stepping out of the line of fire.

Your voice came low and clipped. “Are you following me?”

Jeonghan only lifted a brow. “Why, of course not. I was merely enjoying the views that the Ancarran castle has to offer. As your future consort in alliance, I should know the corners of your kingdom, don’t you think?”

Soonyoung took one careful step back, and from his perch under the nearby tree, Reya let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Jeonghan didn’t even bother making himself look like he didn’t purposely startle you at all.

You sighed and retrieved another arrow. Next time, you’ll aim for him.

You notched it, shoulders tight with barely restrained irritation. Behind you, Jeonghan and Soonyoung settled onto the bench near the range like they have every right to be there. Which, technically they do, but that didn’t stop your fingers from twitching with the urge to send an arrow through the wood beside Jeonghan’s ear.

Another shot—closer to the bullseye this time. Still not enough to stop your pulse from thrumming too fast.

“You’re good,” Jeonghan said, his tone easy and observational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Shua and I weren’t trained like this in Seraphia. As you know, our court prefers diplomacy and dance over daggers and bows.”

You didn’t turn, but you heard the amusement laced through his voice. Soonyoung gave a small, sympathetic shrug from beside him. “It’s true. I once saw him faint at the sight of blood.”

“Exaggeration,” Jeonghan replied airily. “I merely swooned with elegance.”

You let out a slow exhale, notched another arrow, and fired. This one landed square in the center of the target. You heard a low whistle from your advisor and—more infuriatingly—a small, approving hum from Jeonghan.

“It’s rather convenient,” the prince mused, crossing one ankle over the other. “My future queen being so fearsome with a bow. I daresay I won’t need to lift a finger. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Princess?”

The arrow you’d just pulled from the quiver snaps between your fingers.

“If I protect you,” you said coolly, “it’s only because I don’t trust anyone else to finish the job of ending your miserable existence cleanly.”

Soonyoung looked away, coughing suspiciously into his sleeve.

But Jeonghan? He beamed like you handed him a bouquet. “How romantic,” he sighed, resting his chin on his hand as if admiring a painting. “You do know how to make a consort feel cherished, after all.”

Your heart pounded, and it’s not from the archery.

The morning was clear the day Jeonghan left.

A soft breeze combed through the courtyard where his carriage waited, draped in the white-gold sigils of Seraphia. The horses pawed the cobblestones impatiently, as if mirroring the mood of the man they wait for—restless and infuriating to the very end.

You stood beside your father beneath the marble archway, cloaked in the formal grays of a diplomatic farewell. The king’s voice was kind when he spoke to Jeonghan, and your fiancé was all grace and bows and eloquent farewells. Even Minghao lingered beside you with an inscrutable smile, hands behind his back like a soldier at ease. You’re aware of the others watching too—Siwon and Soonyoung among the entourage, the guards, the servants—all witnesses to this perfectly polite departure.

It’s nearly done.

But then Jeonghan stepped forward to take your hand in his. He kissed it, gently and reverently, all according to protocol. And then he leaned in too close for comfort.

“I look forward,” the prince murmured into your ear, warm breath brushing your skin, “to the next time I get to ruin your aim.”

You jerked back before the blush could spread to your ears, willing your face into a mask of court-trained calm. Every lesson you endured under the glare of etiquette tutors saved you in that moment—your shoulders straight, your smile pleasant, your tone as composed as a glacier.

“Have a safe journey, Prince Jeonghan,” you said, eyes narrowed in the most ladylike way possible. “Do try not to miss me.”

His smile could set cities alight.

“Oh,” Jeonghan began, stepping back toward his carriage, “I intend to do exactly that.”

You resisted the violent urge to throw something at his head.

He’s gone before you could reply, the carriage wheels rolling across the stones like the closing of a storybook chapter.

Only, you suspected—no, you knew—he’ll be back soon.

By the time Jeonghan vanished beyond the gates, you'd already gathered Siwon and Soonyoung in the war room—not for military strategy, but something far more treacherous:

Court-approved matchmaking.

“We’re at a consensus then,” you said, tapping your finger once against the map of Ancarra. “Prince Minghao is not a viable option. Even if I wanted to—”

“Which you actually do,” Soonyoung cut in with a pointed look.

“Even if I did,” you repeated with force, “it would be a diplomatic nightmare. Calling off an engagement with Seraphia for the prince of Renxing? We’d be lucky if we only lost trade ports and not entire border towns.”

Siwon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re willing to pick the task up again, Princess. You looked… quite dejected after your trip to the Boo Estate.”

You had to pin Soonyoung down with a glare to keep your advisor from saying anything that will raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. “Failure is part of the journey to true love. Hasn’t anyone told you that, Siwon?”

Your father’s advisor hummed, his spectacled gaze skimming the interior list of nobility you’d had scribes compile over the past few weeks. “So the suitor needs to be from Ancarra. Someone who can cause enough gossip, enough scandal, enough public affection to make it plausible you fell wildly in love and couldn’t help yourself.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Which means we need a boy you could realistically kiss in public without gagging. Oh, and someone that won’t run when Reya so much as growls at them.”

You glared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Your advisor raised his hands in defense. “What? I’m just saying—you do tend to scowl at most men like they’ve insulted your bloodline. Same goes for your beast.”

Siwon, ever the calmer tactician, cleared his throat. “We’ll approach this with structure. Let’s narrow the list to eligible bachelors who meet the following criteria: loyal to the crown, reasonably attractive, tolerable by Reya, and—preferably—already a little in love with you.”

You tapped your fingers again, faster this time. “It doesn’t need to be a real romance. Just enough of a performance to convince Seraphia the engagement fell apart because of me, not them. If I’m the reckless one, Jeonghan saves face. Everyone’s happy.”

Soonyoung leaned back, arms behind his head. “You really think Prince Jeonghan cares about saving face?”

“…No,” you admitted, remembering the smirk he wore as his carriage departed. “But Seraphia might. And the court definitely will.”

“Then we manufacture a heartbreak,” Siwon said simply. “We choose someone charismatic, familiar, close to the palace—enough that no one questions why you spent time together. You’ll laugh too loud at the gardens. Leave flowers in his rooms. Maybe even—gods forgive us—write a poem.”

Soonyoung winced. “That’s low.”

“All is fair in love and politics,” you muttered. “Or at least, in fabricated love.”

You glanced out the window, where the sun slipped behind the edge of the tower, casting long shadows across the floor. Jeonghan was gone, and your future hung on the next name you circled with ink and lied through your teeth about.

War you could prepare for. But this? This was treasonous theater. And it didn’t help that the world kept sending you warning signs left and right.

It began with Lord Doyoung of the northern territories—a bookish type with a gentle voice and decent bone structure. You think, Yes, this one might do. But the very morning he’s due to arrive in the capital, his carriage overturned on a clear road with no other travelers. His horse? Spooked by a pigeon. A pigeon wearing what the guards swear was a tiny gold ribbon.

Suspicious.

Then there’s Jaehyun, a second-born noble who helped manage his family’s glasswork business. Intelligent, considerate, and crucially uninterested in politics. You traveled discreetly to a manor on the coast to meet him. However, the moment you arrived, he was gone. Apparently left the day before to pursue an urgent pilgrimage after receiving a mysterious letter from a "reputable Seraphian monastery" asking for his divine insight.

But the worst, the true collapse of your sanity, came when you tried to court a commoner. A sweet, curly-haired apprentice scribe from the capital. You met by accident—he dropped his stack of scrolls, Reya frightened the life out of him, and you ended up laughing like someone in a romance novel. You arranged to meet him again secretly by the statue of the winged lion after dusk.

And guess who’s already there?

Jeonghan leaned against the base of the winged lion like it was a throne carved just for him. The dusk painted him in gold and shadow, and he looked utterly at home—one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely, a single wildflower tucked behind his ear like he’d stolen it from a love-sick dream.

“You’re early,” he said lazily, as if he’d been waiting minutes rather than hours. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

You stopped dead. “You’re not him.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m certainly better-looking.”

“You—” You took a sharp breath, rage tightening behind your eyes. “Where is he?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “The apprentice? I believe he’s having a lovely evening at home. His mother made delicious stew, and he felt it’d be rude to miss it. Or so the note said.”

You stared. “You intercepted him?”

Your fiancé smiled, all teeth and wicked charm. “Technically? I intercepted the opportunity. You never said this was an exclusive audition.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping into the moonlight, that damn wildflower still tucked behind his ear, “you keep trying to replace me with men who don’t know the difference between a sword hilt and a dinner spoon. Truly, you wound me, Your Grace”

You didn’t realize your fists were clenched until your nails dug crescent moons into your palms.

“This isn’t about you,” you hissed.

Jeonghan stepped closer, voice maddeningly gentle. “It always is.”

Your fists were clenched so tightly your arms shook, your breath short and ragged. The statue's winged shadow barely concealed you from the open square, where lanterns were being lit one by one, their warm glow spreading like a slow-burning fire.

And Jeonghan just stood there.

Mocking you with that unbearable calm, his eyes full of all the things you hadn’t said in ten years. The flower behind his ear was ridiculous. His shirt collar was crooked. His entire existence was meant to push you to the edge of insanity.

“You’re infuriating,” you snapped.

He smirked. “Then stop chasing ghosts and—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand fisted his lapel and pulled hard, slamming your mouth against his before your brain caught up with your body. It wasn’t soft or sweet or measured, but raw, full of teeth and fury and years of words swallowed down in silence. You’d meant to shove him, maybe slap him. But somehow, your lips found his instead.

And the worst part—the truly damning part—was how good it felt.

The warmth of his mouth. The way he froze for the barest second, then exhaled against you like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime. And then he kissed you back.

Jeonghan didn’t just return it. He answered it.

His hands slipped to your waist, slow but sure, like he’d dreamed of this and was finally awake. He kissed like he knew every inch of your stubbornness, every sharp edge, and loved the way you cut him open. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your face, deepening the kiss—and it became something molten, dangerous, entirely public.

Somewhere behind you, Reya snarled like a warning. You weren’t alone. The statue’s shadow didn’t hide the way Jeonghan’s hand curved around your hip, the flush in your cheeks, the hunger in the space between your mouths.

You tore away first, panting and wide-eyed as your heart thundered in your ribcage. Jeonghan looked at you all while swiping that tongue of his across his bottom lip.

“Was that part of the act?” he asked softly, lips still red, voice dangerously close to tender.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because if you spoke, you might admit it wasn’t the kiss that terrified you.

It was how long you’d wanted it.

By unspoken agreement, neither of you addressed the kiss behind the statue. Not in words, anyway. But everything afterwards shifted.

Jeonghan began appearing in Ancarra with alarming regularity—always with a perfectly valid excuse. Delivering letters from Seraphia. Attending diplomatic luncheons. Touring agricultural reforms that absolutely did not require a prince’s attention. And every time he stepped through the gates with that lazy smile, your blood pressure spiked.

He was still insufferable. Still poking at you like a child with a stick and a beehive.

“You missed me,” he’d say, voice low in the hallway.

“I was hoping you’d gotten arrested,” you’d reply without looking at him.

“You dreamed about me again.”

“Reya dreamed about biting you. I just watched.”

But no amount of sarcasm could undo the heat that had settled between you like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. And while your verbal battles raged on, your bodies fell into an entirely different rhythm—one of breathless tension and stolen moments.

A quick kiss when no one was looking. A lingering touch at your waist beneath the pretense of helping you onto a horse. A late-night visit to the library that ended with your back pressed against the cold wall of a forgotten corridor, his mouth hot against your throat.

You hated him.

You hated how good he was at knowing when to push you. You hated how you let him.

One day, Jeonghan found you in the west wing solarium—alone, for once, dressed in something plain for the heat. The moment he stepped through the arched doorway, you already knew he was going to do something reckless.

You tried to keep your tone sharp. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” he said innocently, approaching anyway. “I was remembering how you kissed me first.”

“I kissed you to shut you up.”

“Well,” he murmured, stepping behind you, brushing your hair aside to press a kiss just below your ear, “it didn’t work.”

You didn’t stop him when his hand slid beneath the hem of your dress, fingers trailing up your thigh with infuriating patience. You should’ve. You always told yourself you should’ve. But instead, you exhaled through your teeth and leaned back into him, fists clenching the edge of the table as he teased his way higher—his touch maddeningly sure, maddeningly soft.

And when his fingers finally slid inside you, you didn’t even pretend to resist.

Because for all the years of distance, all the fire and anger and scarred memory between you, Jeonghan still knew exactly where to find the weak spot beneath your armor.

“You’re shaking,” the prince murmured against the shell of your ear, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Didn't know you could be so delicate.”

“I will break your nose,” you hissed, breath catching as his fingers curled just right. “Shut up and get it over with.”

He chuckled. “You say that like I’m doing this for me.”

“Gods, I hate you.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

You bit down hard on your lip to stop the moan rising in your throat. His hand moved with a maddening rhythm—confident and precise, like he’d learned you in secret. Maybe he had. Maybe Jeonghan had always known how to find the cracks in your walls, the fault lines in your resolve.

Your knees nearly buckled when he dragged his thumb over your aching clit. The spot that made your vision flicker, made your breath stutter.

He caught you before you fell.

“Oh,” your fiancé said with mock sympathy. “Is this where the princess begs?”

You turned your head, eyes glittering with fury and heat. “You’re so lucky I’m unarmed.”

“Am I?” He dipped his head to kiss the corner of your jaw. “Because right now, I feel like the one being conquered.”

You made a sound—part growl, part gasp—as the pleasure crested higher. You hated how easy it was for him to pull you under, hated how your body betrayed you, trembling at his touch even as your mouth spat venom.

But gods, it felt good.

It felt like revenge, like surrender, like twelve years of wanting something you swore you’d never let yourself need. He played your body like an instrument only he knew how to tune—drawing out every gasp, every tremor, until the fire in your gut finally, finally broke.

You clutched the table edge like a lifeline, moaning his name as each wave of your orgasm shuddered through you. You felt sticky and unclean, and Jeonghan thought it to be a good idea to smear the mess he’s made of your cunt across your inner thighs.

As if to mock you even further, he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You’re going to think about this tonight. When you’re all alone.”

You whipped around and shoved him—half-heartedly, breathlessly.

“Get out before I feed you to Reya.”

Jeonghan grinned, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a knight, of all things. “I’ll come back when you miss me.”

“I never do.”

He was already gone by the time you realized your legs still hadn’t stopped trembling.

Thankfully, Jeonghan left before lunch. That meant you could change your ruined dress and have a meal in the peace and quiet you deserved after that daunting encounter in the solarium.

You sat between your father and Minghao in the smaller sunlit dining chamber—the one reserved for informal meals and less scrutiny. Sunlight poured through the windows, glinting off the crystal decanters and catching in the honey glaze of the roast pheasant. The servants came and went like shadows. Minghao poured you some tea without asking, which you would have appreciated, if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own mind.

“So,” Minghao says casually, “how’s the treason?”

You glanced sideways at him. “Treason?”

He smiled. “You’ve had that look on your face since you walked in. Like someone who just burned a letter and buried the ashes under a rose bush.”

Before you can answer, it began.

The birds.

You heard them before you saw them—three magpies nestled like gossiping witches along the arched windowsill. One of them fluffed her feathers and gasped loud in your skull.

She was scandalous with a man just this morning!

Your eyes widened. No one else reacted. Of course they didn’t. Only you could hear them.

Back in that room again, another cooed. Pressed up to him like a heat-starved mare—

I told you, the third interrupted with a huff, she’s betrothed to him. It’s legal. The king said so. Even if she climbed that prince like a ladder, it would still be state-sanctioned.”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Your father paused mid-sentence. “Something wrong, bug?”

You covered your mouth with your napkin, glaring furiously at the birds. One of them winked.

“Just… feeling a little hot,” you muttered.

Oblivious to your internal unraveling, thye king picks up his fork and says, “We should start finalizing your name-day celebration soon. Twenty-five is a milestone.”

“I vote we skip it,” you said darkly, eyeing the window again. The birds have not left.

Minghao hummed. “You’ll have to get used to celebrations. Especially now that your wedding with Prince Jeonghan is not far behind.”

You hesitated just long enough for him to notice.

“...Unless it’s not happening?” the general asked jokingly.

You didn’t know how to explain it. How every time Jeonghan visits, he kisses you like he wants to ruin you. How your body remembers the curve of his smile before your mind catches up. How you tell yourself it’s a temporary madness—just lust, just unfinished business, just war-born tension—but your hands keep betraying you anyway.

And now the damn magpies were singing it to the skies.

She moaned his name! one of them cackles, beak open wide. She gripped his hair like—

“Excuse me,” you said sharply, standing up so fast your chair skitters back. “I need some air.”

Your father looked mildly concerned. Minghao raised an eyebrow.

“Should I send someone with you?”

“Only if they can shoot birds,” you mutter, already turning toward the hall, cheeks blazing.

Behind you, you heard one final chirp:

Reckless princess. She’ll marry that boy or die trying.

The weeks leading up to your twenty-fifth name-day blur into a storm of brocade, guest lists, and mental breakdowns.

What was once meant to be a modest royal banquet has spiraled into a full-blown spectacle at your father’s behest. The ballroom has been draped in gold silks and strung with imported glass lanterns, and couriers from neighboring kingdoms have arrived daily, bearing gilded gifts and stomach-turning compliments. You’ve had to write nearly a hundred invitations by hand—because of course you did, since your father insisted that nothing but your own pen would do for a celebration of this scale.

Four gowns. Four. In one night. Each more elaborate than the last, all designed by different tailors to reflect “the four faces of the princess.” (Whatever that means.)

And looming behind the lace and laughter and godforsaken gemstone embroidery is the other event everyone is whispering about: your wedding.

To Jeonghan.

You tried to keep a mental list of reasons to loathe him, just to stay anchored. He’s insufferable. He flirts with everything that looks his way. He laughs when you’re mad. He kisses like he owns the air you breathe and gets away with everything because his face is tragically symmetrical.

And worst of all?

You’ve started to imagine what it would be like to marry him and not hate it.

The very thought sent you into a tailspin of self-loathing and denial. But no matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t want this, something traitorous inside you fluttered every time he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said your name like he’s always known it.

By the time your name-day arrived, you’re equal parts exhausted and vibrating with tension. The maids were still pinning the final layers of your first gown—a deep rose silk trimmed with silver thread—when someone knocked at your chamber doors.

“Princess?” one of the guards called. “Prince Jeonghan and Prince Joshua request to see you.”

You nearly groaned aloud, but waved them in. “Fine. But if they mess up a single pin, I’m going to skewer them with it.”

The door opened, and the two Seraphian princes entered like they own the place—Jeonghan with his usual amused swagger, and Joshua with a more subdued grace you haven’t seen in months.

You didn’t rise from your seat as your maids were still halfway through adjusting the fall of your sleeves. but you did narrow your eyes when Jeonghan swept in with a smirk and a flourish. The new color of his hair wasn’t lost on you either—deep burgundy red. You still had no idea how he changed its color like the seasons.

“Happy birthday, Your Grace,” Joshua greeted warmly, offering a polite half-bow.

“Thank you,” you replied, eyes softening. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you’d be too busy planning your own wedding.”

Joshua’s smile flickered, but he was quick to recover. “Ah. Well. Some things are in motion, others… less so.”

You raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, then adds with a small laugh, “But I’ve learned from Jeonghan not to overshare.”

His brother leaned against the wall with a lazy smile. “I’m an excellent role model.”

You snorted. “You’re a warning sign carved into a cliff face.”

Before either man could reply, a footman appears in the doorway, whispering something in Joshua’s ear. The younger prince bowed again before excusing himself, promising to speak with you again before the night is over.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jeonghan eyed the gown you’re still being pinned into with a mock-solemn look. “Do I get to see all four today, or is this one the final form?”

“Don’t act like you care,” you quipped, trying very hard not to shift under his gaze.

“Oh, I care. I’ve always loved watching you suffer.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll enjoy what happens next,” you told him coolly, gesturing for the maids to step back. “Because if you’re going to keep staring at me like that, I’m going to assume you came here to be mauled.”

As if on cue, Reya let out a rumble of noise from where he was being pampered by one of the braver palace maids. Ferocious as he was, he always did like getting his claws clipped, as well as wearing his favorite collar if the occasion permits.

Jeonghan closed the distance between you with infuriating calm, eyes never leaving yours as he flashed a wicked grin. “You look beautiful when you threaten me.”

Your pulse did that annoying thing it always did when he looked at you like that—like you were something worth chasing, even when you were bristling with knives. You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly dislodged the Dawning Crown pinned into your hair.

“And you look like a scandal waiting to happen.”

His grin widened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before you could come up with something scathing in return, Reya padded over, nails clicking softly on the polished floor, his gleaming coat freshly brushed, a ridiculous silk bow tied around his collar. He stopped beside Jeonghan and huffed, as if unimpressed with the theatrics.

Jeonghan crouched smoothly to scratch behind Reya’s ears. “Ah, my true supporter arrives. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from her wrath.”

Reya growled, just faintly.

You smirked. “He’s siding with me, clearly.”

“I’m wounded,” Jeonghan said, rising with mock offense. “Betrayed by beauty and beast alike.”

Then he extended his arm to you. “Shall we?”

You stared at it for a beat, suspicious. But Reya nudged your leg gently with his snout, and you sighed, slipping your hand into Jeonghan’s. “Fine. But if either of you embarrass me tonight, I’m feeding you to each other.”

“Romantic and resourceful,” Jeonghan said with a wink. “You’ll make an excellent queen.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. But as you walked down the corridor, Reya flanking your other side like a silent shadow, the three of you looked like a tableau of something unspoken and inevitable.

The ballroom was a gleaming vision of excess: golden drapes spilling from vaulted ceilings, glass lanterns casting slow-dancing light over a sea of jewel-toned silks and polished marble. An orchestra played on a raised dais, their melody light and sweet, but charged with the weight of spectacle.

You stood beneath the tallest chandelier, Reya sitting loyally at your side despite the sea of legs and perfumes swirling around him. The first toast had long since passed. You’d curtsied, smiled, and performed your gracious-lady routine so many times your cheeks hurt. And then the master of ceremonies called your name.

A hush fell.

Your father approached with a dignity that made your throat tighten. He was dressed in deep blue, embroidered with your kingdom’s sigil, and he extended a gloved hand with gentle formality. You placed yours in it, and let him lead you into the center of the floor. The music swelled.

Your first dance had been rehearsed, of course—weeks of steps and spins and graceful nods. But when he whispered, “You’ve grown into someone I’m proud to call my heir,” you missed a beat. His voice was low, almost shy. “And I know… it’s time to let my little girl go.”

You blinked hard, eyes stinging. “Father…”

“I asked too much of you, bug. Pushing this match before you were ready.” He exhaled, voice heavy but warm. “But Jeonghan… for all his faults, he’s steady in the ways that matter. If you’ve come to accept him, then maybe I wasn’t entirely wrong to hope.”

You didn’t correct him. You couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that—like someone trying to make peace with the things he had broken, and still dared to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

The dance ended in soft applause, and you embraced him tightly before slipping away into the crowd. You barely had time to exhale before another hand reached for yours.

Minghao.

He wore black trimmed with crimson thread, Renxing’s crest gleaming like bloodied gold on his shoulder. His touch was precise, his posture perfect, but his eyes held a steadiness that grounded you. Your heart warmed even further.

“I’ve never liked these things,” he murmured as he led you into the dance. “The court politics. The pageantry. Celebrations of this caliber are rare in Renxing.”

You gave him a dry smile. “And yet you came anyway.”

“I came because I’m loyal to the alliance between our two kingdoms,” he said simply. “And to you.”

That steadiness—his quiet presence, his unwavering calm—had always comforted you. Minghao was the shield between Ancarra and the unknown. For months, his men had trained your country’s footsoldiers and honed them into formidable warriors. You felt safe with him, the way one does with stone walls and drawn blades.

But then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s a beautiful kingdom. Shame what war does to beautiful things.”

You glanced at Minghao, frowning faintly. “We’re not at war.”

“No,” the general said, still smiling. “Not yet.”

The song ended, and he bowed with courtly precision. You blinked after him uneasily. But there was no time to dwell—another partner was approaching.

Of course, it had to be him.

Jeonghan offered his hand with a dramatic flourish, his red hair far too striking to ignore. “May I steal the final dance of the night?”

“Only if you promise not to talk,” you muttered, taking it.

He did not promise. Of course not. He pulled you in with the confidence of a man who knew every beat of your rhythm, every angle of your resistance. His hand rested lightly on your waist, the other guiding you effortlessly into the waltz’s pattern.

“You cried,” he said smugly.

“I did not.”

“You almost cried.”

You glared up at him. “If I did, it was because I had to dance with you.”

His grin softened, just slightly, something real shining through the mischief. “You’re beautiful. Not just the dress. You. I thought you should hear that without a punchline attached.”

You blinked.

It unsettled you more than his teasing ever had.

The song slowed, spiraling toward its final note. For a moment, your fiancé held you still, one breath closer than necessary. The world spun in candlelight and cello strings around you, and you hated the way something in you leaned toward him instead of away.

“I won’t always be an enemy, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, just as quiet. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

After the dances, your stomach practically growled in protest.

Dinner was winding down into a soft haze of candlelight and velvet laughter. The tables glittered with the remains of a decadent feast—glazed meats, sugared fruits, wine-stained napkins folded like petals. Reya lay at your feet, gnawing contentedly on a thick strip of jerky, a gift from Soonyoung (via the royal kitchens, of course). Every so often, his tail thumped against the marble with a low rhythm, as if to remind the room that he was still on guard.

You barely had time to sit between greetings, pulled into conversations and compliments from all sides. There was Yeri, a childhood friend turned court mage, who gave you a vial of bottled starlight as a name-day gift. And Seulgi, the clever young ambassador from the coastal isles, who kept trying to guess which gown was your favorite. You laughed freely for the first time all night, warmed by the company, the flicker of candles, the slow-blooming sense that maybe everything might be all right.

Until it wasn’t.

Near the center of the ballroom, Jeonghan stood facing Minghao. It looked almost casual, but only on the surface.

Then Jeonghan said, loudly enough for the conversation to die around you, “Tell me something, General. How many times have you tried to kill your own father and emperor now? Was it three?”

Minghao’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a bold accusation to make in public, Seraphian.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan replied with unbearable calm, “you haven’t denied it.”

You stood up from your seat, heart jumping to your throat. Minghao stepped forward, his voice still even, but you could hear the warning beneath it. “I serve Renxing with my blood. My father knows this.”

“Does he?” Jeonghan tilted his head. “Or did you send his last stand-in home in pieces, too? Or was that an ‘accident’ like the rest?”

A cold, electric silence followed.

“I’ve seen the way you linger at the map of Ancarra when no one’s looking,” Jeonghan added. “The way your men move when no orders are given. You’re not here to serve the alliance. You’re here to watch it rot.”

Minghao’s hand twitched. Just a flicker. Just enough to make Reya growl.

You shoved back your chair and moved, fast. “Jeonghan, stop—”

Too late.

“I should’ve cut your tongue out the moment I knew what you were,” Minghao hissed.

“And I should’ve told her what you are days ago,” Jeonghan snarled, and without waiting for another word, he punched him. The impact rang through the ballroom like a crack of thunder.

Minghao didn’t fall. Of course he didn’t. But his head jerked back, his lip split—and when he turned back, he looked every bit the general people feared. Cold and murderous. You stepped between them before another blow could land.

“Enough!” you said, chest heaving. “This is a royal banquet. On my name-day. You will not spill blood here.”

Reya pressed his flank to yours, snarling low. Behind you, guards surged forward—but no one dared act before you gave permission. Jeonghan wiped his knuckles on a napkin. “You should tell your father. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. The truth always shows eventually.”

Minghao didn’t speak. But his silence was louder than anything. And just like that, the celebration fractured. Not with a scream, not with blood—but with the breaking of something deeper.

Trust.

It was several hours past midnight when you heard three gentle but firm knocks on the door to your bedchambers.

Annoyed, you stared at the collection of unopened gifts stacked high on your vanity. From delicacies imported from neighboring kingdoms to the most expensive cosmetics in all of Ancarra, your guests had certainly spared no expense in trying to curry your favor. But not even their lavish presents could dispel the pure vexation that had made your blood boil the entire evening.

You didn’t bother to answer the door. Instead, you swept yourself into the plush seat tucked beneath the dresser mirror. There was only one half wit currently residing in the castle brave enough to disturb you in the dead of night, and with how miserably tonight’s festivities had gone, you were in no mood to extend your hospitality to anyone—least of all Seraphia’s exasperating, insufferable, scheming—

“Isn’t it a little too late to be testing out swatches, Your Grace?”

You tried to ignore him. The way his silken dress shirt dangled half untucked from his trousers. The self-satisfied look on his face when he noticed you fumbling with the cherry red rouge you’d been applying to your lips.

But try as you might, you couldn’t ignore Jeonghan when he reached a hand in front of you, nimble fingers wiping off the excess color you’d accidentally tinted just a few millimeters past your lip line.

Not when his smoldering stare held yours captive in the image reflected in your gilded mirror. Not when you couldn’t even find it in yourself to resist when he gently grabbed your chin and forced your gaze to marvel at the man himself.

“Sulking again, Princess?” Jeonghan sneered, and you wanted to hate him for it, but you couldn’t. “I saved you from a man charged with treason three times in a single decade. Why are you pouting at me like I took away the love of your life?”

“Because you’ve made it your life’s purpose to make mine miserable,” you snapped, lacing each word with venom. “Minghao isn’t a traitor. If he was, he wouldn’t become the general of the Renxing army. He wouldn’t even be daring enough to live in our castle for months.”

He sighed, sounding almost sympathetic—but you’d long seen past the ruse. “Poor little thing, still being played like a fool all because you abhor the idea of one day becoming my wife. Tell me, didn’t you find it odd, how persistent he was in pursuing a woman who’s already spoken for?”

“Minghao is not pursuing me, and I am not spoken for,” you hissed, trying not to crumble from the way his thumb dabbed lightly at your lower lip. “Not by you. Not by anyone. Father gave me a choice—”

“Yes, of course. Everyone knows the story of the Ancarran Princess chained to a troublesome foreigner. So troublesome that she had to beg on her knees just to get the king to reconsider,” Jeonghan cooed, his face inching closer to yours.

“But as it turns out, all the other men you’re trying your damnedest to replace me with are even worse fiends than I.”

Your lungs burned as if they’d been set aflame, and Jeonghan was merely fanning the fire. “You’re despicable.”

“And you, Your Grace, are far too gullible,” he chuckled, each breath searing against your skin. “I’d say just give it up and surrender, but you’ve been fighting me since we were children. Ending our relationship in such a boring way wouldn’t make for a good story, now would it?”

You remembered something Soonyoung once told you in passing: how Jeonghan loved deeper than anyone expected. He loved his homeland. He loved his family. He loved his people. And with how tirelessly he kept pulling you back into this engagement, anyone would assume he loved you too.

But how were you supposed to believe that someone like him was capable of love when all he did was thrive off your misery?

“This new rouge you’re testing,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just stomped on your last nerve. “It’s the kind that takes days to remove once it dries, isn’t it?”

“In what way does that concern you?” you gritted out.

The despicable prince simply hummed. “Oh, nothing. I’m just curious about its actual longevity.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop when he closed the distance between you—only a hair’s breadth separating your mouth from his. You didn’t know how it happened, but your fingers were suddenly coiled in the fabric of his shirt. Searching for purchase. For solid ground.

But you should have known better than to anchor yourself to someone as volatile as Jeonghan.

“If someone were to ruin it in the next ten seconds,” he whispered, his voice all heat and danger, “would you be even more furious than you are now? Or would it have the opposite effect? Would you finally melt into their arms? Would you let them tear all your defenses asunder?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, and suddenly, you couldn’t remember how to breathe. His intense gaze pinned you in place no matter how badly you wanted to flee. The scent of expensive champagne lingered on his lips, and to your horror, you found yourself craving a taste.

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t want that. You couldn’t want him.

This was the man who had made your life a waking nightmare for as long as you could remember. The man you’d be cursed to sit beside in the throne room if you didn’t act soon.

You knew these facts perfectly well, and yet…

A scream ripped through the corridor, sharp and blood-chilling.

Jeonghan snapped his head toward the door. The sound of shouts followed, heavy footsteps, the unmistakable ring of steel against steel.

“What was that?” you breathed, your voice brittle with disbelief.

Jeonghan was already on his feet, eyes narrowing as he reached for the dagger he always kept hidden inside his coat. “Trouble,” he said grimly. “Exactly the kind I warned your father about.”

Another cry echoed down the hall—this one closer.

Then the door burst open.

A castle guard staggered inside, crimson soaking the front of his uniform. His mouth opened, a desperate warning hanging on his tongue, but it was too late. A blade sliced across his back, and he fell with a gasp. Behind him came two men clad in obsidian armor trimmed in blood-red. Their faces were obscured by masks, but the crest etched into their chests was unmistakable.

Renxing.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Jeonghan swore violently and grabbed your wrist. “We have to go. Now.”

He yanked you into motion. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he led you out the side passage and into the corridor beyond. Chaos bloomed all around you. Servants scattered, guards fell, and the dark-clad invaders moved with deadly precision through the castle.

“Jeonghan—what is happening?” you gasped, stumbling to keep up with him as he veered toward the grand stairwell.

He didn’t look back. “The Renxing Empire. Minghao. He’s making his move.”

“No,” you said, heart lurching. “No, he wouldn’t—he’s still here, he’s been living here—”

“He’s been watching you. Learning the gives in your defenses. Counting how long it takes for your soldiers to mobilize.” Jeonghan’s voice was hard as steel. “And now he’s using it all against you.”

Around the corner, a blur of motion caught your eye.

Reya came barreling through the hall—his snow-white maw stained crimson. He pounced with his teeth bared, knocking one of the Renxing soldiers clean off his feet, and with a snarl, clamped his jaws around his neck.

You let out a cry. “Reya!”

The tiger lifted his head, ears twitching, and bounded back to you, fur bristling, blue eyes alight with fury. Jeonghan cursed under his breath.

“I knew it,” he spat. “I knew that bastard wasn’t here to play diplomat.”

He grabbed your hand, fingers firm and unyielding. “We have to find the king. Now.”

The three of you sprinted through the castle, Reya leading the charge with a guttural roar. The corridors grew slick with blood. Familiar faces—servants, guards, nobles—lay scattered and motionless. The once-gleaming halls of your home were being razed from the inside out. When you finally reached the king’s bedchambers, the massive oak doors were already ajar. The scent hit you first—metallic and thick. Then you saw him.

Your father lay slumped over the edge of his bed, blood soaking through his embroidered robes, pooling beneath his lifeless hand. And standing above him, eyes cool and unrepentant, was Minghao.

His sword dripped with red.

You stumbled backward in disbelief. “No…”

Jeonghan stepped in front of you, shielding you instinctively. “So this was your grand plan, was it?” he growled, tone deadly. “Cozy up to the Ancarran throne and strike the moment our backs are turned.”

Minghao didn’t even flinch. “You were never naïve, Jeonghan. That was always your problem. But the princess…” His gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “She wanted so badly to believe in goodness. It made her easy to control.”

Your heart shattered. “Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Why do this?”

“Because peace is a lie,” Minghao said, voice cold and resolute. “Ancarra has grown weak. Soft. You live behind silk curtains and delude yourselves with choices you were never truly free to make.”

He stepped forward, sword still glinting in the torchlight. “I came to study my enemy. And now I’ve buried your king. The only thing left to do… is take the rest.”

Jeonghan snarled and drew his blade. And behind him, Reya let out a thunderous roar, low and full of rage. You stood paralyzed between the past and the future, your kingdom falling apart in front of you—betrayed by one you’d defended, protected by the one you’d hated. Your hands shook at your sides. Jeonghan wasn’t a warrior, he’d said it himself. You were unarmed too, but even with your weapons, your down spiral into grief would make it impossible to wield.

A sudden blast of cold tore through the chamber—sharp as shattered glass, singing with elemental fury. The air cracked as a jagged beam of frost magic erupted from the doorway, striking toward Minghao with blistering speed.

He parried it without hesitation, raising his palm as searing fire spiraled out from his fingers. The two magics collided midair, frost and flame meeting in a violent, hissing explosion that shook the floor beneath your feet and bathed the room in blinding steam. You staggered back, stunned—not by the impact, but by the magic itself.

You knew that spell. You’d seen it only a handful of times, in hushed moments of practice behind closed doors. Only one person cast frost magic that way.

Siwon.

The king’s most trusted advisor, robes singed at the edges, his eyes blazing not with panic but with purpose. He emerged from the ruined entrance, frost still crackling at his fingertips.

“There’s no time,” Siwon said, voice hoarse but commanding. “You have to go. The southern gates have already been breached—Soonyoung and Prince Joshua are waiting with a carriage at the old postern tunnel.”

“No,” you gasped, still frozen in place. “I’m not leaving him. I can’t—”

“Princess,” Siwon cut in, harsher now. “The king is gone.”

You shook your head, the burn in your throat rising with each breath. Your eyes remained fixed on your father’s body—his crown toppled, his blood soaking the carpet your mother once chose. It felt impossible. It felt wrong to leave him here alone. But Reya had already made his decision. With a deep growl, your tiger stepped forward, nudging your side with his enormous head. His low whine was almost mournful as he lowered himself to the ground, offering you his back.

“Reya…” you whispered.

He growled again, firmer this time, nudging you harder. And then—miraculously—he allowed Jeonghan to climb on behind you, his tail lashing with urgency. Jeonghan didn’t question it.

“Let’s go,” he said, gripping your waist as Reya tensed beneath you, muscles bunching like coiled springs.

“Don’t let him take the throne,” you whispered to Siwon, your throat raw.

He gave a single nod, eyes heavy with something far more complicated than grief.

And then Reya bolted.

You clung to her as she raced down the blood-soaked halls of the royal wing, Jeonghan’s arms around you, the wind screaming in your ears. Behind you, the flames of Minghao’s betrayal burned hotter than ever, and you knew this was only the beginning.

The wind had long since dulled into a low, steady whistle as Reya carried you through the winding woods beyond the outer citadel. The scent of smoke clung to your skin. The copper taste of blood still lingered at the back of your throat. But you felt none of it. Not until his paws hit the forest floor and slowed, the ground beneath him trembling slightly with the echo of distant explosions. The rendezvous point was just ahead—a small ridge overlooking the secret passage that led to the waiting carriage below.

Reya knelt again.

You slid off his back slowly, your knees buckling the moment they touched the ground. You didn’t cry out. Didn’t speak. Just curled your fingers in the dirt and stared at them like they didn’t belong to you. Jeonghan dismounted after you, quiet for once. He took a step forward, maybe to say something, maybe to steady you—but you turned away, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything you’d tried to keep inside.

The tears came then. Finally. Hot and merciless, carving tracks down your cheeks as a sob tore itself from your throat. “I should have known,” you whispered. “He was here for months. And I didn’t see it. I trusted him. I trusted—”

Your voice cracked, the image of your father’s lifeless body flashing in your mind’s eye again. “Father told me I had a choice. And I chose wrong.”

“You didn’t choose wrong.” Jeonghan knelt beside you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His teasing smile was gone. All that remained in his eyes was something gentler. “You chose to believe someone could be better than the world made him. That’s not a flaw, Your Grace. That’s who you are. It’s why people love you.”

“But the kingdom... M-My father, Siwon—”

You shook your head, overwhelmed with memories of Siwon making ice sculptures for you in secret, of your father lifting you into the air when you were small, telling you that Ancarra would someday be yours. That all the land the sun could touch was worth protecting.

“I was supposed to protect them,” you said, voice raw. “But I couldn’t.”

A rustle in the trees cut the air like a blade. Then another. And another. Jeonghan rose to his feet instantly, hand going to his waist where his blade was sheathed. You scrambled up behind him, Reya growling low in his throat as shadows stepped out from the dark.

Renxing soldiers.

Half a dozen at least, clad in black and red, their armor glinting beneath the moonlight.

“Well, well,” one sneered. “The little princess, right where we want her.”

“You think you’re getting out of this alive?” another added. “You let your kingdom fall from within. You let us in. And now you want to run? After everything?”

Their words twisted in your gut like poison. You didn’t speak. But beside you, Jeonghan went terrifyingly still. And then—you saw it. A glint in his eyes, sharp and inhuman. Something reptilian. Slitted pupils. A golden gleam, cold and ancient. It vanished a second later, but it made your breath hitch.

Before you could question it, Reya stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the soldiers. His tail lashed. His fur bristled. But most startling of all—

Go.

Your eyes widened. Reya never spoke like this—rarely ever with such clarity. But his voice rang clearly in your head, steady and resolute. I’ll hold them off.

“No,” you gasped aloud. “Reya, no—”

He turned his massive head toward you briefly, his frost blue eyes impossibly calm.

Ancarra will never die as long as you live.

Then he charged.

“Reya!!” you cried, arm outstretched, but Jeonghan grabbed you from behind.

“We have to go,” he said firmly—though you knew he hadn’t heard a word your tiger said. Somehow, he still understood.

You stumbled after him, barely able to breathe, heart threatening to break clean in half—but you ran. You ran, tears blurring your vision, Reya’s roar behind you echoing in your bones as you and Jeonghan raced for the ridge where Soonyoung and Joshua were waiting.

You didn’t look back.

Because looking back would break you beyond repair.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

⟢ end notes: oh mein gott... after two years, i finally put this baby out of my system and into existence. HELLOOOOO lovely people of caratblr, i missed you all so terribly!!!!! this story has been camping in the back of my mind the entire time i was gone, and i'm so happy to finally get to share it with you! the entire thing is 40k ish in total, and i've been told tumblr gets EXXXTRA cranky if i even dare to dump everything in one go, so here we are, chopped into two parts :( i will probablee have the next part up next week just to keep you guys on your toes heh. i hope you liked reading this as much as i loved writing it. i miss jeonghan so terribly, and this fic got me to blow off that steam SIGHHH.

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

#seventeen smut #svthub #jeonghan smut #seventeen x reader #jeonghan x reader #svt smut #svt x reader #lovelyhan #full length fic 📚

2K notes · View notes