UHUH HONEY

Choi Seungcheol is the very reason you were hired; to counteract his frankly miserable attitude around the office. Not that he much leaves your shared office; but when he does, he's likely to be glaring at whoever is making the most noise or simply asking him a question that isn't entirely necessary.

He has the world's most severe case of resting bitch face too, which regularly causes issues with clients. So, you were hired to be the pep in client meetings and steer things in the correct direction when Seungcheol is seconds from saying something that could risk the contract, or a trip to HR. Seungcheol isn't the type to fake interest in the personal lives of clients or colleagues; he's just here to work. And honestly, you respect that a hell of a lot. But it also means you shoulder all the small talk and have to look at pictures of people's pets, kids, and holidays that you really could not give less shits about.

And all of that means that, although Seungcheol is a hard worker and you're beyond happy to have a competent partner at your side, he is one of the main reasons for your rising stress levels. Just once you'd like to not have to be the smiling balm to soothe the sting of his harsh demeanour and blunt words.

Alas, Seungcheol isn’t going to change his ways, especially when he doesn't know that you could really do with him pulling his weight in the charm department.

Which is made very apparent on one particular day, with a new client who seems to consistently bump heads with Seungcheol.

The meeting is an hour of Seungcheol's nastiest bitch face and the client's obnoxious attitude flaunting the “customer is always right” motto that the company stupidly prides itself on. You want to tell the client to go fuck himself on more than one occasion throughout the meeting, but you can't seeing as you'd like to be able to keep receiving a pay check.

As soon as the meeting is over, Seungcheol is out of there; no doubt halfway back to your shared office before you can even exit the little conference room, thanks to the client deciding that “you just have to visit the resort I vacationed in. Here, let me show you the site”. So you're stuck pretending to be interested in the fancy foreign resort that the client shows you on his phone for the next handful of minutes before you can finally leave.

After all that, you really need a break. Instead of going right back to your office, you walk straight past it and to the supply room for your floor.

Once inside the small room of shelving unit full of various office supplies, you just stand there, eyes squeezed closed and hands tight on your hips, while you focus on trying to calm yourself down with some deep breathing.

You're so focused that you don't hear the door open a few minutes later. The gentle tap of shoes on the hard flooring has your eyes snapping open and over to where Seungcheol, of all people, is standing with one hand raised to grab a new packet of printer paper, but his attention is entirely on you. He looks bewildered; one eyebrow raised and the other scrunched a little with his head tilted slightly.

You immediately slap on your usual bright smile— entirely fake but nobody has ever noticed that before— and grab a new, empty folder from the shelf near you. “I didn't know we need new paper already, I would've grabbed it myself if I knew,” you chirp, already walking towards the exit, but the room isn't wide enough for there to be enough space around Seungcheol for you to just breeze on by like you want to. And he doesn't step aside either.

“Well, guess everyone's favourite isn't all sunshine and rainbows after all,” he replies with a smug smirk. “I wonder how everyone will react to knowing the truth about you.

“I don't know what you mean, Seungcheol.” You smile sweetly then skirt around him and leave before he can say anything else, so that you can return to your shared office to get to work on the new client file.

You expect Seungcheol to say something when he returns; to try and taunt you and goad you some more, yet, he doesn't say a thing, he just silently refills the paper in the printer and gets back to work.

For a whole week, Seungcheol has you on edge; he keeps smirking at you knowingly, and making vague comments around others in what you know is an attempt to get you to break. But you hold on strong and don't show a single sign that the you who everyone in the office knows, isn't you at all.

It's pretty much a week to the exact minute that you break. Another meeting with that same client, that goes about as well as the first, has you back in the supply room counting your breaths.

You're very certain that your printer does not need more paper already when you look over at the footsteps entering the small room. Seungcheol isn't even pretending to be there for any reason other than to watch you break. He's leaning against the unit on his right with his arms crossed over his chest and a cocky smirk on his face.

And finally, enough is enough.

“You need to fucking stop,” you warn. His face lights up in victory at you not even attempting to put on the higher, friendlier pitch you use at work— your customer service voice that you even use for your colleagues. “Seriously, Seungcheol, stop it,” you reiterate while heading towards the exit.

This time, Seungcheol purposely stands in your path and looks down at you arrogantly. “Are you going to admit that you're not the innocent little sweetheart that everyone thinks you are?”

You take a breath as you stare back at him just so you don't break too far. “You don't even know the half of it,” you retort simply.

Seungcheol stares back at you curiously for a few seconds before stepping aside to watch you go, wondering what exactly that means, and how he can find out for himself.

After that second incident in the supply room, you figure there's really not any point in keeping up the facade with Seungcheol, so when it's just the two of you in your private office, you let the persona drop.

The first time you swear to yourself in complaint over your work, Seungcheol gawps at you in shock until you notice and raise an eyebrow at him. But he says nothing and doesn't react after that time— except for the occasional amused smile to himself as he hears you curse colourfully at much more regular intervals than he ever does.

And Seungcheol lets you see more of the real him too.

The two of you have always met outside of work for the sake of finishing tasks or discussing clients without being confined to the same four walls of your office. You'd get dinner together or he'd come over to your apartment to go over documents in your office for however long necessary. But it was always about work.

Though, now that he knows who you really are, it's not always about work. Your conversations over dinner turn friendlier, enough that you see him smiling genuinely and laughing for the first time. And he doesn't stop either.

A genuine friendship quickly blossoms between the pair of you, allowing you to be yourselves to the extent that, on more than one occasion, Seungcheol has turned big, pleading puppy eyes on you with a pout to convince you to go where he wants for dinner. Or even when he's complaining about his friends and being whiny, the big eyes hit you. And the way they hit you is really not something you think you should think about the man, so you shove the thoughts of pinning him down and telling him what to do, out of your mind.

The friendship between you is noticed by your colleagues too. It's kind of hard to miss the fact that you're the only person who can get Seungcheol to join work dinners, after all. You both know that there's a 'secret' betting pool going around the office about whether you two are secretly dating or not— Jeonghan is not as slick as he thinks at hiding the bet sheet. For fun, sometimes you and Seungcheol will purposely let your fingers brush over one another or let your gazes linger longer than they should, just to watch your coworkers try to not visibly freak out at what they think are moments of you two failing to hide your relationship.

Though mostly, your close relationship means that when one of you is invited to drinks, dinner, or some other activity with colleagues, you'll both turn up. Even if neither of you want to. But you dug a hole with your fake persona and refuse to be buried in it alone, so always drag Seungcheol in to suffer with you.

Which leads us to the day that you well and truly snap.

It's one of those days where if something can go wrong, it will; topped with shitty clients and colleagues who will just not let you have five minutes of peace.

By the end of the day, you're wound so tight that all you want to do is go home and give yourself some good old-fashioned stress relief with one of your favourite toys. But this day doesn't allow you even that.

It's another casual team dinner that you can't get out of; to celebrate Mingyu's birthday, and well, even if you're in a shitty mood, the giant puppy of a man is such a sweetheart that you truly would feel bad about ditching his celebration to masturbate at home.

So, you get into Seungcheol's car like usual after work, go to the restaurant, and sit at his side at the table while silently praying that this won’t be a complete shit show.

Two hours later, you're really at the end of your fucking rope. You really had been naïve to even hope that this team dinner wouldn't be as rowdy and chaotic as all the rest. Your colleagues are a lot on the best of days with nothing to celebrate, so when they have an excuse to drink, they really go for it. You're always surprised when the group isn't kicked out of public spaces, honestly.

The only ones not drinking are you and Seungcheol. Neither of you ever drink at these gatherings; you claim that you just don't drink in general, while Seungcheol flat-out refuses without any attempt at an excuse. Really, you both don't want to risk encouraging the group to invite either of you out for more than just the company-related dinners, so not drinking sort of keeps the team in general at arm's length. Though, both of you do have a few drinks when it's just the two of you and you can let yourselves relax in trusted, comfortable company.

But this is not that, this is you sitting side by side, with Seungcheol blessedly keeping his mouth shut while you try not to break and tell everyone to shut the fuck up before leaving. You do, however, take solace in the bathroom a few times; using the cold water to cool you down before going back into what, tonight, feels like your own personal hell.

On your latest trip out of the bathroom, Seungcheol passes you, heading to empty his own bladder. He smirks at you and murmurs something in your ear as you pass one another. You can't even tell what he says; your brain is so heavy with fuzzy tension that his words don't register at all. But they don't need to, you know he's teasing you about your temper; he's done it before many times. Usually, you'd just joke back at him and point out his own, but tonight, you don't have it in you.

Your gaze turns icy on him in a second, causing him to come to an abrupt stop. You don't linger, don't slow, just turn and settle your expression back to your façade before rejoining the drunken group.

When Seungcheol returns, he timidly slips into his seat on your right silently, in an attempt to not anger you further. Though a few seconds later, the tip of his left pinkie brushes the edge of your right elbow where it's resting on the tabletop, his hand sort of hooked on the edge of the table close to you yet out of sight of your colleagues. You turn your head to look at Seungcheol and find him looking at you with those fucking giant doe eyes, silently asking for forgiveness. But you don't give it, just turn back around to watch your coworkers making absolute fools of themselves.

Yet, your mind is stuck on Seungcheol's innocent expression and timid posture, and all you can think about is how much you'd love to make him squirm and beg under your attention. It's riling you up in a way you usually keep such a tight lid on; but considering how tense you already are tonight, that lid is bowing and shaking under the building pressure, and you know it'll blow soon enough.

For the first time since meeting Seungcheol, being in his passenger seat isn't a very pleasant experience. Neither of you say a word for the entire fourteen-minute drive from the restaurant to your apartment, and that in itself isn't unusual; but usually, there isn't this thick tension hanging between you two.

When Seungcheol pulls up in front of your building, you turn to look at him. He has both hands on the wheel and eyes locked on the space between his hands, with clearly no intention of doing more than just dropping you off at home despite the fact he usually goes straight inside with you to hang out some more.

And honestly, it's probably best if he does go straight home and leaves you to deal with your tension alone. But it's not exactly an option.

“You need to check those documents ready for Monday,” you remind. Seungcheol lets out a reluctant breath but relocates the car to the parking lot in silent agreement.

Once in your apartment, the two of you remove your shoes and jackets to put them in their usual places.

It's kind of insane to you that Seungcheol is at your apartment enough that there is literally space on the low shoe rack for him to leave his shoes, and a gap on the pegs for his work jacket— there's even one of his casual jackets already hanging on the next peg from a previous visit. You don't really have any close friends, nobody you deem worth your time to allow into your life frequently enough to have a usual place in your home.

There isn't anything said between you as you walk through to your office, where you lean over onto the desk to boot up your computer while Seungcheol hovers awkwardly a little behind you.

While waiting for the system to accept your password for the work files, you look over your shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow. He stares back at you dumbly until you give him a look and motion to the chair on your right with a silent tilt of your head.

In seconds, Seungcheol's ass meets the seat, and he stares up at you with big, obedient eyes; his hands laced together and trapped between his thick thighs.

It's all rather dangerous considering how close you are to snapping and overstepping the boundaries neither of you had ever verbally set up between you but are always in place in platonic relationships. Even if you want nothing more than to destroy them right now, and Seungcheol too.

So, you turn back to your computer with gritted teeth, open the relevant documents, and motion to the computer vaguely before leaving the room entirely.

You go straight to the kitchen to down a glass of water as cold as you can stand it, before splashing more on your face; then drag a cold, wet hand over the back of your neck, needing all the help you can currently get to cool down in every sense of the word.

It doesn't work.

By the time Seungcheol is done with the documents and shuffles into the kitchen, you're standing with both hands on the counter in front of you while staring darkly at nothing in particular, jaw tense, and an attempt in your breathing to try and regulate your emotions.

“I finished it, it's all ready to send off,” he informs, coming to a stop a few metres away; not as close as he'd usually stand, but still closer than sensible if he knew the depravity in your mind right now.

“Good,” you return simply without even looking at him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “No thank you?” he jokes, but you can't see the humour at all. Not when you're feeling like this.

“Thank you?” you repeat flatly before turning your dark gaze to him as you straighten and lean off of the counter. He swallows thickly and takes a step back when you take one towards him, prompting him to keep reversing. “Why should I thank you for doing your fucking job, huh?”

Seungcheol's mouth opens and closes with an attempt to try and say something, some kind of a “just joking” explanation, but all he manages are vague sputters of sound that cut off abruptly when his back hits the wall and you're standing right in front of him. He's taller than you by a handful of inches, but right now, he feels so fucking small, and he's surprised by how much he likes it.

"Well?" you prompt, well aware that he has tried to explain himself; his pathetic stammering is very obvious and gives away that you’re intimidating him. Though, based on the big innocent eyes on you, paired with the prettiest of pink tints to his cheeks, you think that perhaps intimidation isn't all it is. And it's just pushing you to keep pushing him until he breaks because you know that he'll break so fucking beautifully.

“I'm sorry,” he finally manages to squeak out.

“You think that's good enough? You think you can just give me empty words and all is forgiven? Oh, baby, you really don't know me at all.” He just stares at you dumbly; mouth dry and pupils dilating further and further with every act you make. 

It's far from the Seungcheol you see at work, and that thought sort of douses you in icy water. This isn't normal for either of you.

Well, it's not unusual behaviour for you with partners at all, but he doesn't know that. Besides, he's your work partner and friend, not a sexual partner.

“Shit.” You sigh and back up a little. “You should go, I'm clearly not in the right frame of mind, and if you stay, I'll go too far.” You try to move even further away to give him space to leave, yet you're stopped by your shirt pulling tight around your back. You look down and find both of Seungcheol's hands gripping the hem of your untucked shirt, his fingers trembling a little. You look back up with a questioning eyebrow.

“I don't want to leave,” he admits quietly as his cheeks darken slightly.

“No?” He shakes his head shyly. “You know what it means if you stay, right? You know what I want to do to you?” you check a little worriedly.

“Uhm...dom me?”

You huff a laugh. “I want to ruin you, baby.” His eyes light with interest. “You want that? Big, scary Choi Seungcheol wants little ol' me to pin him down and make him cry?” you tease while running a finger over his jaw. His mouth opens wider and his tongue appears with the tip pressed against his lip as if reaching for your touch. You don't give it to him, even if you think he'll look precious with your fingers in his mouth. You pull your hands away and cross your arms over your chest. “When I ask you a question, I expect a verbal response, Seungcheol,” your voice is firm and your expression the same as you keep it glued to him.

“Y–yes!” he rushes out. “I–I want you to do that to me.”

“Do what?”

“Use me.” You hadn't said those words yourself, but you like them a hell of a lot. “Push me down and use me to make yourself feel good. Make me cry, ruin me. Please, just...do something,” he's begging by now, not as strongly as he could be, he’s still holding back a lot, but you're pretty sure it's all very new for him.

You need to check though, before anything goes any further. “Have you ever done anything like this before? Subbed?”

He shakes his head a little. “No, it's usually the other way.”

“Figures.” You huff a laugh then reach down to remove his hands from your shirt to take one into your own hand. “Come on.”

You lead him to your bedroom, though let go of him in the middle of the floor to walk over and sit on the edge of your bed. He fidgets when you just stare at him contemplatively; your eyes dark and calculating as you lean back on your palms behind you, with your legs crossed over at the ankles comfortably.

When he starts to fiddle with the hem of his shirt nervously, you speak up, deeming him desperate enough with his cheeks a magnificent dark pink. “What're your limits, Cheolie?”

The nickname is new, but he likes it. It feels fitting somehow.

“Uh.” He has to stop and think for a moment. He isn't sure exactly what his limits are in this situation because he doesn't know what he likes in the submissive role, but there are some things he knows he'll never be okay with, so he starts there. “Bodily fluids outside of spit and cum.”

“So you don't mind being spat on with your own cum?”

“Uh, I mean, I think I'm okay with it,” he offers awkwardly, uncertain, but trying his hardest to be open and honest.

“How about eating it?”

“Uh...I don't know about that.”

“Okay.” You easily accept his response and move on. “What else? Pain?”

“I don't know, I've never received it before. If you want to try it, I'm willing, just… not too intense.”

“Hmm, we'll see. Edging? Overstimulation?” Those options have him hesitating as he genuinely considers them both. And then, he nods slowly, shyly. “I asked a question, Seungcheol.”

“Y–yes, to both.”

“Good, because that's my favourite thing to do to my little ones,” you coo. “Pick a safe word.”

“Uh, can we use the traffic light system? Red for stop, green for carry on?”

“Sure thing,” you agree easily; it’s familiar enough to you after all. “What do you use for uncertain? Some people say yellow, some orange, some amber.”

“Whatever.”

“Pick one,” it's a demand he quickly obeys.

“Amber.”

“Good boy.” He visibly preens a little at the praise, which you make a mental note of. “Are you free of anything contagious?”

“Yes.”

“And that's a recent test since your last sexual partner?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I won't touch you without that confirmation, and luckily, I trust you to be honest, so you don't need to show me proof like I usually demand.”

“You trust me?” he asks softly, awed by the words and the weight they carry.

You hum and nod in confirmation. “More than anyone else.”

“Oh.” He smiles down at his hands happily. “I feel the same about you too.”

“I imagine so, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be willing to do this if you didn't,” you tease.

“Ah, yeah, true.” He chuckles and rubs his neck shyly.

You let him stew in his minor embarrassment for a second before talking again. “Degradation?” He looks up at you at that. “How do you feel about that?”

“I might cry,” he admits honestly, making you laugh a little at the blunt way he speaks the words. “I don't like being called names or looked down on.”

“Okay, baby, none of that,” you assure.

“Thank you.”

“Mm, of course, I have to make this good for you too. And I do love that you use your manners without being prompted. Such a good boy, huh?” His eyes round out again at you, and the semi-casual air between you dissipates with your slightly teasing tone. “Are you going to be a good boy for me, Cheolie?”

“Yes, I'll be good for you.”

“Then strip.” He blinks at you a few times at the abrupt demand; the way your tone changes from light to borderline hard with no room for arguments.

Slowly, Seungcheol's slightly shaky fingers first remove his tie, and then his shirt, exposing his broad, muscle-thick torso to you. He knows he looks good, that his body is worth ogling, but your dark eyes still make him feel shy.

Still, he continues, his top half entirely bare, and moves onto his belt.

Something about the way he opens it and pulls it free from the loops of his slacks is really attractive to you. You can easily imagine him teasing his own sub as he removes his belt before grabbing the ends to turn it on their backside when he bends them over. Maybe you could break for him too, if he turns out to be a good enough fuck this time that is.

For now, you're more than content to watch him open his button and zipper and let his trousers drop to his ankles. He bends down to remove them from around his feet, taking his socks off too, and then he straightens up and looks at you. You can tell he's hesitant to remove his boxers by the way his fingers fiddle with the waistband over his hips for a few seconds.

There's a part of you that wants to let him off easy for now and allow him to keep his boxers on for a little while. But the bigger part of you really doesn't want to do that, so you continue to silently watch him.

Seungcheol lowers his head to look down at his underwear for a second, then he looks at you through his eyelashes, clearly still hoping you'll take pity on him. You don't. So, he looks back down as he takes a long breath in, before he hooks his thumbs under the elastic band and starts to push the material down.

You watch with rapt attention as the final piece of the beautiful, thick-built puzzle that is Choi Seungcheol is revealed to you inch by glorious inch. You have to admit, he's fucking gorgeous, and it does a lot to you. Makes you throb between your thighs as they clench for a second while he's distracted by focusing on removing his boxers from his legs.

And then, he's entirely bare and looking at you shyly, fingers on his right hand picking at the nails of his left in nervous wait.

“C'mere,” you murmur. Seungcheol stumbles over, and when you nod to the floor, he slowly lowers to his knees, letting his hands hover over his rapidly hardening dick. That is like the rest of him; thick and unfairly beautiful.

At this rate, you can't tell who is going to ruin who.

“Don't hide from me.” You unfold your legs just to gently tap at his hands with your socked foot, before settling it flat on the floor beside his left knee.

A little reluctantly, Seungcheol moves his hands aside to place them on the tops of his thighs and allow you the full view of his kneeled form.

“Mm, much better, good boy.” The praise straightens his posture a little. “You're so beautiful, babyboy, don't deprive me of such a gorgeous view, hm?”

“Ah, fuck,” he softly breathes out; a little overwhelmed by the unexpected compliments, which he just knows are genuine from your tone and expression on him. You clearly like what you see, and it makes his dick jump a little against his thigh. You smirk at the visible response; you've always known that Seungcheol loves compliments and praise, but you didn't know just how much.

“Shall we even things out a little?” you suggest, already getting up to your feet in front of him.

He watches you with rapt attention as you open your trousers and shimmy them down. His gaze is too focused on the skin of your thighs coming into sight that he doesn't realise that you've pushed your panties down with your trousers to save yourself time. At least until you sit back down on the edge of the bed when the material is around your knees.

“Off,” you demand. Seungcheol's hands immediately reach out to hook his fingers over the combined waistbands and pull them off of your slightly raised legs. It's when he's setting them aside that he notices the white material inside of the black of your trousers and freezes.

Mindlessly, he moves one hand to pull on the white material and quickly looks at you with wide eyes and his mouth parted. You just raise an eyebrow in return, silently prompting him to snap back to his task and move the material aside entirely, so that he can carefully remove your socks too.

“Good boy.”

Just to tease, you sit there for a good almost twenty seconds with your legs closed most of the way, just the slightest gap between your thighs, but it's not big enough for him to see anything but a dark shadow.

To your surprise, he actually gives in first. “Please?” he begs softly, looking up at you pleadingly. “Please let me see your pussy.”

“Oh, how can I refuse such good manners?” you coo and spread your legs, causing his gaze to drop back down between them. Though he whines when he realises that your shirt is long enough to mostly cover you and shadow the rest. “You make such cute sounds, Cheolie.”

“Don't tease me,” he complains.

“I'll do what I want and you'll be grateful for it.” He presses his lips together, looking fully scolded and stares at you in wait. He's impatient, that's very obvious, but he's doing his best to stick to this new dynamic. Honestly, he's taking to it a lot better than you had expected, or hoped, considering all that you know about Choi Seungcheol; so instead of prolonging it any longer, you lift the hem of your shirt out of the way with one hand.

Seungcheol's lips part when his eyes land back between your thighs and take in the sight of you fully exposed to him. Automatically, his hands lift with every intention of putting them on your thighs to push your legs open further while he leans in licking his lips.

But you stop him with your free hand, a finger pressed to his forehead. “I didn't say you can touch.” You grin amusedly at his dumb-aroused expression; his mouth open and tongue hanging out a little.

“Can I taste?” he requests, putting his hands back on his thighs but not leaning back. Your slightly condescending laugh makes him pout. When you nudge his forehead under your index finger, he leans back into a sulky slouch.

“Your job is to sit there and look pretty for me,” you point out, now using that same finger to trail up your inner thigh. Seungcheol's pout melts away as he watches its path intently. He audibly inhales sharply when it drags through your folds. He groans a little when he sees the shine now on the digit and wishes it was his tongue getting doused in your arousal.

Even though you very much would enjoy an orgasm or two sooner rather than later, you continue to tease yourself with one finger; barely brushing over your clit and circling your hole but never pushing in. It's more to tease Seungcheol, and the squirming of his body perhaps turns you on more than your own actions. Either way, when you do finally give in and plunge your finger inside, you're wet enough that it's more than easy, and honestly, not very satisfying past the initial relief of having something in you finally.

Though, that relief passes very quickly, so soon, you're adding a second finger, and watching Seungcheol chew on his bottom lip hard enough that you think he's going to break skin any second. You really don't want that, so you pull your fingers out and reach towards him. The speed at which he leans in with his mouth opening, genuinely makes you laugh.

“Oh, baby, you are desperate, huh?” you tease and adjust your hand so that your thumb presses against his bottom lip and your slick fingers are not close enough to his mouth to get even the hint of a taste. “You're not getting a taste, I just don't want you to hurt those pretty lips.” The expression he lands on you is utterly heartbroken. “Stop biting or I'll gag you, understand?”

“I...I understand,” he agrees, so you let him go and return your fingers back to yourself, though Seungcheol doesn't lean back. In this position, his head is pretty much between your knees, which you spread a little wider, and he takes as permission to scoot a little closer. You don't mind at all, he'll just be teasing himself more with a closer view after all.

Your intention with fingering yourself isn't to reach orgasm at all, mostly, you just want to tease Seungcheol by showing him what he can't have, though you also want to prepare yourself. When you're able to easily take three fingers, you remove them and get up.

“Wh–where are you going?” he worries, hands lifting from his thighs but only hovering a few inches away from his own body. He wants to reach out and stop you from walking away, but he knows he can't. You still haven't given him permission to touch yet and he really doesn't want to be scolded again, let alone face any kind of punishment you may give him if he disobeys a direct order. He's horny, not stupid.

“I'll be right back, just sit there and wait like a good boy, sweetheart,” your voice is gentle in order to soothe him that you are, in fact, not planning to actually leave and end things here as he fears.

You quickly grab what you want from a case in the chest of drawers before returning. You sit back down and open your thighs again, but Seungcheol's gaze is glued to the pale blue dildo in your hand.

“What do you think?” you muse, leaning down to hold it near to his erection in comparison. “Ah, not quite as thick as you.” You sigh dramatically and straighten back up. “That's a shame; it's as close as I've got though, so it'll have to do.” You pout theatrically as you trace the tip of the silicone toy over your slick folds; it's a little cold and jarring but you do your best to ignore it. Besides, the temperature difference isn't something you're entirely against.

Vaguely, you wonder if Seungcheol would be into temperature play; you've never tried it before, but you've always been interested in both giving and receiving.

Seungcheol wants to make a retort, say that instead of settling for a toy that won't stretch you like his thick cock would, you could just use his. He'd fuck you however you want and probably thank you for it at this point; he's throbbing with need and leaking on his thigh. He doesn't think he's ever been so fucking turned on in his life. But he can't talk, can't say a fucking thing as he watches the head of the toy breach you.

He was wrong before, now he's more turned on than he's ever been as he watches the way the girth of the toy spears you open.

Your breath catches a little, so he looks up at you and once again corrects himself, because your expression is what wet dreams are fucking made of. Your mouth is parted and your eyes are closed, your head tipped back slightly and your cheeks pink with pleasure.

You let out a curse under your breath, so he looks back down and swears in the same fashion when he sees that you’ve entirely embedded the toy within you, just the slightly flared base in your fingers still.

“Fuck,” he curses again when you start to pull the toy out slowly and he sees how you've drenched it. Your eyes open to look down at him with an amused, lopsided grin. He doesn't notice though, he's too entranced by the show less than a metre in front of his face.

Seungcheol doesn't notice the way he naturally moves a hand towards his crotch with the intention of soothing his aching cock, but you do. “Stop,” you demand, stopping your own motions of fucking into yourself slowly— to let yourself get used to the toy's length and girth fully.

“Huh?” He looks up at you confused with his mouth wide open.

“I didn't give you permission to touch your cock, Seungcheol.”

“What?” He looks down and notices the hand inches from his dick. “Oh.” He hesitates but obediently puts his hand back on his thigh before looking up at you shyly. “I–I didn't realise. I'm sorry.”

“Feeling that needy?” You smirk and get back to fucking yourself on the toy. He lets out a sound, a mix between a whimper and a groan, as he looks back down at your pussy. “Answer me.”

“Yes. Yes, I've never been this turned on before,” he admits in a rush of syllables. “Wanna fuck you so much,” he whines, fingers curling into fists, which he presses down onto his thighs almost harshly in an attempt to behave for you.

He wants to be good for you. Wants to be your good boy. But it's so fucking hard when you look so fucking good. Look like your pussy would take him so well and make a fucking mess of him. All he wants is to get up, throw that toy aside, and sink his cock into you; feel your slick, heated walls around him. He's fucking convinced that your pussy would be perfect for him. But he can't, and that's difficult for him to accept and handle when he's usually the one in charge during sex.

“Think you can make me feel better than this?” you taunt a little, and pick up speed, letting your pleasure show through with little pleased sounds that really do not help Seungcheol's self-control at all. He moves a little closer yet doesn't touch either of you the way he wants to. He's obviously trying his hardest, and that, you think, is more than enough, when honestly, you really want his cock in you as much as he wants to put it in you.

“Yes,” there's not an ounce of hesitation in his answer; he's entirely confident in his abilities, in his thick cock.

Usually, you'd roll your eyes and dismiss that confidence from a man, because they're notoriously cocky with nothing to back up their claims. Part of the reason you got into domming is because men don't know how to use their dicks, so you always get more pleasure when you're on top and controlling how your walls are pummelled. But there's something about Seungcheol that tells you that he's not like other men. He can and will fuck you right given the chance. Still, you want to be on top in every way.

“Big talk, little one.” You huff a laugh, most of your breath affected by the pleasure of the toy you're using to hit all of those good spots inside of you with every thrust. You're not being as rough as you could be, as you often tend to be when you feel like this, but you're talking and know that you have no space left in your chest for words when you truly fuck yourself.

“Let me prove it,” he pleads. “Please, just let me fuck you and I promise you'll cum hard.”

“I'll cum hard regardless,” you hum. His expression twists in displeasure, knowing that you are truly dismissing his offer. “Maybe another time,” you counteroffer, not liking that downtrodden expression at all.

He looks up at you with hope glistening his dark gaze. “Yeah?” he asks with a surprised exhale.

“If you do good enough for me this time.” You pull the toy out and point it at him. Seungcheol eyes it and licks his lips. “What? You wanna suck it?” you taunt.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmurs.

“Enough to suck my cock?”

He glances up at you then looks back down and nods, licking his lips again. “Yeah, can I? Please?”

“Seeing as you asked so nicely,” you approve and touch the silicone toy to his bottom lip.

Seungcheol's tongue immediately darts out to pass over the silicone and get his first taste of you. His eyes roll back and he groans before he very enthusiastically starts to drag his mouth over the toy. He moves up the length along every side, not actually putting the toy into his mouth really, but this is absurdly hot enough as it is.

It turns you on much more than you had anticipated, seeing this handsome man pretty much going feral for your taste that he'll messily lave his tongue over the dildo, with his eyes closed in bliss, and constant streams of groans of approval vibrating out of his throat. And when he moves back to the tip and wraps his lips around it, genuinely sucking on the fake-cock, well, that's as much as you can handle. You pull it away without warning, creating a pop, before Seungcheol looks at you; half dazed, half betrayed, with a smidge of confusion.

“Get on the bed,” you demand, getting up and walking around to one side of the bed while unbuttoning your shirt. Seungcheol doesn't even have to think; there's no mental input on his behalf as he jumps up. His legs almost give out under him as the blood rushes back into his limbs after sitting on them in one position for a prolonged period, but he powers through to practically throw himself onto the mattress. “On your back.” He crawls and shuffles until he's on his back with his head on the pillows, and chest rising and falling heavily already in anticipation.

Seungcheol's heavy gaze remains on you as you reveal your body entirely. He lets out a shaky exhale when you're fully bare and climbing up onto the mattress at his left. “You're beautiful,” he says in a tone that is far too affectionate for what’s going on here. It makes you pause for a moment and look carefully at his gaze. He still looks ridiculously horny, but there's something else there now; a touch of fond that genuinely sort of worries you.

Of course, you are fond of Seungcheol, he's a very precious friend to you, but your feelings don't extend further than that; further than platonic and sexual. You really hope that the fondness you see is nothing more than a reflection of your own feelings and nothing more. Him having romantic feelings could certainly complicate matters more than adding sex into the mix will.

Sex you can navigate with your eyes closed, but feelings? That's an entirely different circus.

“Are you going to sit on my face?” his hopeful tone brings you back to reality. He hasn't even noticed your hesitation for what it truly is and just assumes you're teasing him further.

“Not today,” you answer, silently deciding to just give you both what you want right now and have an actual discussion later when you're both not horny messes.

“Oh.” His lips purse into a pout but then you retrieve a condom from the side table drawer and he lights up again. “Oh!” You let out a soft, amused sound at his excited reaction and straddle his thighs while opening the wrapper. “Can I touch myself?” You give him an unimpressed look. “Just to help!” he assures.

“Mm, sure, I'll allow that,” you agree. Seungcheol has his dick in hand as soon as the words are slipping from your lips and holding it upright for you. You notice the way he shudders a little at his own touch on his aching cock, and don't berate him for the subtle stroke he gives himself as he rolls the rubber down his length once you put it at his tip. “Good boy,” you hum, tossing the foil aside carelessly.

“For you,” he answers, wide eyes watching as you move up his body to hover over his length that he's still holding upright. “Please.” He doesn't even realise he says it, but you do and decide you've both waited more than long enough.

As soon as you start to slide down his cock, Seungcheol's eyes roll back and his hands fly out to grip your hips tightly. It feels pretty nice, so you allow it, at least for now; it's kind of stabilising to have his strong grasp centring you while his cock splits you open.

Although it hadn't looked that much bigger than your toy, you can certainly feel the difference in girth now. Plus, the fact that Seungcheol is so fucking hard in you compared to the slight give of the toy, well, you're already so close to an orgasm it's kind of ridiculous.

It takes you both a handful of seconds of heavy breathing to gather yourselves once you're fully impaled on his length and seated on his hips. You don't even try to keep any weight off of him; you're certain he can handle it, and even if you weren't, your legs are already weak enough from the feeling of him stretching you out, even while motionless like this, that you doubt you could hold yourself up if you tried.

You haven't realised that your eyes had closed until you've got some of your breath back, enough to have a mind clear enough to want to look down at him. His eyes are closed; he's struggling more than you, which doesn't surprise you considering how you hadn't allowed him any touch until now.

Carefully, you remove Seungcheol's grip from your hips and lean over to pin his hands up by his head. The new angle has his cock hitting a delicious spot within you and you can't help but grind down against him to gain friction against it. This angle also means that your clit is rubbing against his body with every roll of your hips.

Seungcheol barely manages to open his eyes and look at you before they roll back again with pleasure as you moan over him, fingers gripping onto his wrists with your full weight. He doesn't mind at all, doesn't really register it considering you're so wet, and hot, and tight around him, that he truly cannot focus on anything else. Yet even if he could register it, he wouldn't give a single fuck. You could crush him and he'd be into it right now.

“D–don't cum,” you order when you feel your orgasm right on the brink, eyes opening to peer down at him. His own fly open in pained disbelief. “Un–fuck–understand, Seungcheol?” He whines but nods obediently. The agreement of restraint sends you over. Pleasure shocks through your body, making it jerk a little, mouth open with broken higher-pitched moans coming out. Seungcheol's whole body tenses and his face screws up tightly as you clamp down around him. He's never fought an orgasm before, but you told him not to cum, and he's not going to let you down now.

He's shaking by the time you slump over him, forehead dropping to his shoulder as you fight to suck air back into your lungs, just the occasional tiny twitch of your hips when a fresh lick of pleasure shoots through you with the aftershocks of an intense orgasm.

“Did you cum?” you check another few moments later.

It takes Seungcheol a few attempts to answer, just grunts coming out at first, but you wait patiently. “No,” he manages, while flexing his fingers to give him something else to focus on.

“Good boy,” you praise and press a kiss to his neck. His breath catches at the unexpected action but then you do it again, and again, and again, as you adjust yourself while leaning up to look down at him with your hands now on the mattress and not pressing down against his wrists in a tight grip. You take a look at them and are relieved that there's only slight redness right now, so you're pretty sure he won't bruise. Still, you'll keep an eye on it just in case. “You did so well, Cheolie.” You hum and cup his jaw. His lip trembles a little, eyes so big on you, and soaking in the praise. It helps his shaking lessen as he relaxes from doing his utmost not to cum with the fluttering of your walls around him. “Think you can hold out longer for me, baby?”

“I...ye–yeah.” He isn't sure, but he's sure he'll try his best for you. He really wants to be your good boy. Your best boy.

“Yeah?” You smile softly, pleased. He nods and smiles back a little in a natural reaction to seeing you happy with him. “That's my boy.” You tap his nose, then straighten up to sit on his hips with your hands on his solid abs. “I'm going to ride you now, okay, baby?”

He nods shakily and sticks his hands under the pillow to grip it. “O–okay.”

“Colour?” He blinks at you confusedly a few times. “What colour are you right now, sweetheart?”

“Oh, green,” he answers. “Green.” The repetition makes your lips quirk up. It's oddly endearing that he's assuring you right now considering he's the one missing an orgasm.

“Good, tell me if that changes, okay?” He nods. You let him get away with not verbally responding this time and start to lift yourself up.

Seungcheol's gaze falls to watch his length appear from your dripping pussy utterly mesmerised. Up until you abruptly drop yourself back down, ass smacking down on his upper thighs audibly. A loud, low moan tears from his open mouth as his back arches upwards.

He looks fucking beautiful like this. You have to keep making him do that, so you don't hesitate to lift and drop in the very same way; taking up a punishing rhythm that has his cock dragging against your walls in the most incredible of ways.

Honestly, you're half convinced his cock just being in you has you halfway to a constant orgasm, because that ball in your lower stomach winds up tight so fucking quickly that you barely register it until it's there, urging you over, but this isn't quite enough for you. You need clitoral stimulation but you don't think it's wise to give it to yourself right now with Seungcheol buried within you and his body trembling as he still holds back with everything in him.

At this point, he's babbling a little in amongst his constant stream of porn-worthy moans. You're not quite sure what he's saying really, you're not sure that he even knows what he's saying either.

If you cum with him inside you, you're positive that he will too, regardless of your words, so you pull off of him. His eyes instantly fly open in alarm and he looks at you as he lifts his head up. You just settle down again along his latex-covered cock to grind along the length.

He gasps and shudders, watching his cock peek out through your slick folds. “Please, please,” he begs; his babbles now making sense while he's not overwhelmed with the feeling of you squeezing around him.

This is still a lot for him, but he's much more able to be a good boy for you now. He really wants to make you proud of him. He doesn't want you to think he's a bad boy for cumming without permission, because then you won't play with him again, and he really doesn't want that. He wants to be your good boy. Your only good boy.

You know what he's begging for even if he doesn't voice it. You'll make him say it in a minute. but right now, you're seconds from another orgasm, and unless he says red, you're not going to stop.

Even though the orgasm is yours entirely, Seungcheol moans when you do, as he watches your face contort with utter bliss while your hips jerk over his length a few more times before falling still. It's not quite as powerful as your first orgasm, not when you're empty, but it's still intense and leaves you breathless.

Initially, you had planned to give yourself many more orgasms before letting Seungcheol cum, but you genuinely think if you draw more than one more out of yourself, you'll pass out. You don't know if it's because it's been a while and you've been so pent up that it feels so mind-numbingly incredible, or if it's because of the thick cock pressed up against you.

“Colour?” you pant out when you feel ready to go again, eyes landing on Seungcheol.

He doesn't hesitate to answer this time, but he finally sounds wrecked; voice hoarse and cracking a little with the simple single-syllable response. “Green.”

“Okay.” You push up and gently lift his cock up to line with you, applying as little pressure as possible to try not to give him too much too soon and overwhelm him in the wrong way. “Positive?” He nods rapidly, so you begin to impale yourself again.

His breaths come in one long, juddering inhale, as you slide down his length until he's sheathed inside of you. “Please,” he goes right back to pleading, levelling you with such a begging, wet gaze that you know that this won’t last long at all.

“Please what, baby?” you question, lifting to ride him slowly, now focused on him and him alone, yet not wanting to push him over too fast. He looks too pretty like this; skin blotched with reds and pinks in a way that makes you wish you had discussed marks beforehand so that you could leave some lovebites on his pecs. But you hadn't, and asking for permission at this point is utterly pointless; Seungcheol is too gone to be able to give full consent to anything new. You're pretty sure he'd say yes to anything right now so long as he can cum.

“Lemmecum.”

“Hm? What was that, speak clearly.”

Seungcheol whines and sniffles. “I wanna c–cum. P-please.” He blinks rapidly as the tears gathering in his eyes overflow and spill down his temples onto the pillow under him. “Please–please l–let me c--cum,” he chokes out, close to full-on sobbing.

You give in. You want to make him cry, not sob his poor heart out, after all. “You can cum,” you consent.

Seungcheol freezes for a split second in genuine shock, but then his eyes roll back and his back bows, biceps bulging as he grips the pillow so tight and pulls it up a little with the strength of his orgasm. He almost yells your name he moans so loud in pleasure and relief as the intense climax takes over his body.

You continue to move on him slowly to ride him through it, and then a little out the other side when he flops back against the sheets and raggedly sucks in harsh breaths with only short exhales. You'd continue with the intention to overstimulate him if he wasn't laid utterly boneless and not even reacting to you anymore. It's boring to overstimulate someone with no response, after all.

He doesn't even react when you carefully pull off him and remove the condom to tie off and dispose of in the bin beside your bedside table. You stand beside the bed on weak legs for a second to watch him in wonder and decide that he truly is too out of it right now to even notice your presence, so you dart off to get a large glass of water— and drink some yourself—, and a damp cloth before returning.

Seungcheol is still lying there with his eyes closed, though his breathing is evening out now, when you place the cup on the side table and sit on the bed at his side. You carefully start to run the cloth over his sweat-damp body; a shower is really needed, but that can wait a little. Seungcheol makes a soft noise but doesn't react otherwise.

Finally, he opens his eyes when you return from taking the cloth back to the bathroom to toss into the hamper, where you also clean between your thighs quickly.

“Hey,” you greet softly, laying down on your right propped up on your elbow at his side, to look down at him as your left hand soothes over his chest.

“Hi.” He smiles softly at you, then tiredly rolls over to tuck up against you. You smile at the cute action and turn onto your back to allow him to curl up against your side with his head on your chest, his right arm and leg over you keeping you there. Not that you have any intention to move quite yet.

This is nice.

Your right arm goes around his back and into his hair to play with the strands, while your left hand rubs over his forearm, gentle yet firm enough that he knows you're here and not going anywhere. “How're you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Tired,” he mumbles, making you laugh softly.

“Just tired?” He hums in confirmation. “So you're good otherwise? It wasn't too much?”

“No. M'good,” he slurs a little, signalling that he truly is tired enough that sleep is already starting to claim him.

“Yeah, you are. My good boy, huh?” you tease lightly and press a kiss to the top of his head. You're pretty sure you can feel his cheek bunch up against your skin as he smiles in return.

“Your good boy,” he confirms, voice so thick that you know there's no point trying to get him up to shower or eat, even drink, despite knowing he really should. It'll have to wait until he wakes.

“Mm, yeah, sleep now, baby; we'll talk more later,” you reply, though you're certain he's too close to slumber to really catch the warning.

Regardless, you know that once he's awake, and you're certain that he's still genuinely okay, clean, and fed, you'll have to talk. A lot has changed in such a short time, and hopefully, he will confirm that it's nothing more than sex for him too, because the alternative has dread pooling in your gut.

You can't do this again if it's not entirely equal, and you kind of have the feeling that there's no going back now that you've had each other like this. Yet, if you can't go forward because of potential feelings on his side, then you're well and truly fucked, and not in the way either of you want to be.

Still, that's not something you can discuss right now, so you follow Seungcheol's lead and close your eyes. You just hope that when you open them, everything will be alright.

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-

The night is thick, its air weighed down with silence. A single candle stands in the middle of a desk placed exactly in the middle of the room, its light sputtering weakly, as if the shadows threaten to choke it out of existence. Outside the pavilion, not even an owl croons, frightened to disturb the grave quiet.

A young man sits with his elbows propped onto the desk, wide shoulders hunched, head dipped low in thought. He is a lion of a man, with a thick mane of black hair and a pair of deep, passionate eyes. Despite his visible prowess, he has been made small by grief. He clutches his sturdy palms together to keep them from trembling too hard, a clumsy attempt at prayer.

Opposite him, another man sits straight-backed and rigid. He’s slender in all the places that the first man is broad. His face is slight and delicate, features full and striking, as if the gods took their time in carving him out. Despite his otherworldly beauty, the man’s eyes are stretched wide and cold with fury. Clutched in his pale-knuckled hand is a thin silver necklace, thumb pressed harshly against the oblique pendant, as if attempting to permanently mold the facet into his skin.

This man, too, suffers, but his rage overwhelms his grief. The hairs on his nape prickle, as he sits, frozen in the vacuous moment following words that have been loosened from his tongue carelessly. For both men, the world has been upturned over their heads in the matter of a few days. Still, it’s no excuse to be cruel to his longest, closest friend. He doesn’t even remember what he just said, only the anger and the terrible, sickening release that he felt as the words left his mouth.

“Jeonghan. You’re not the only one who lost someone. My father and brother are also gone.” Seungcheol, the former, says, voice a quiet rumble in his chest.

Jeonghan stiffens, but he doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry, not really, about the words that he spits out in his grief, for he is the type of man who accepts every consequence for his actions, whether it creates or dismantles him, with no remorse. Seungcheol knows all this; they’ve been friends from the cradle. He doesn’t take any of Jeonghan’s frigid anger personally, for Jeonghan had loved the Crown and the older prince as if they were his own family. This, Seungcheol knows with all of his heart, too.

Which is why he doesn’t argue and listens patiently when Jeonghan finally reveals the intent for which he called this midnight meeting and presents his proposal.

-

“Hail, Owl.”

You curl your mouth in distaste, straightening from the slump that you’ve entered the tavern in.

This late in the night, even the chronic drunkards have crawled down the crooked cobblestones their way home, or at least halfway home, and the lights have been diminished down to a single oil lamp. This flame flickers gently, wagging like a tantalizing secret, but the shadows that it throws into the room are long and energetic. The sole occupant, and owner, of The Dancing Spider casts the largest shadow, and you warily eye its movements, languid and graceful, before plucking your hood down from your head and turning to the counter.

“Defeats the point of a disguise if you recognize me immediately,” you crow, not pleased but not unkind either, as you hop up onto a barstool, nodding gratefully as a mug is slid over to you. You grasp it between both palms, letting its hot contents warm your fingers, before lifting the brim to your lips and taking a long sip.

Immediately, the rich, candied flavor of the Kwons’ signature mulled wine coats your entire mouth, sticking to your throat like syrup on its way down. For someone who can’t handle his own liquor, the barkeep churns out some of the best wine in the province.

From the other side of the bar, Kwon Soonyoung grins, like he hears your thoughts. You do your quick inventory. Sunny smile that stretches the corners of his lips to his ears. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes. Slim gray slacks cut right to his ankles, white linen shirt with his sleeves pulled haphazardly to his elbows, a black vest buttoned to accentuate his waist perfectly. He looks just the same as every other night you’ve snuck into his tavern. Undisturbed by your entrance, Soonyoung continues wiping down the counter with a rag in quick sweeps, careful to work around the space that you occupy, before responding to your previous comment.

“Who else would visit me at this hour, if not my dear friend Owl?”

The barkeeper is cheery, as always, and he is the closest thing you have to a friend, but the word makes you wrinkle your nose and curl your lip. There’s no room in your life, cursed as it is, for friends. Just strangers and the occasional acquaintance. You categorize Kwon Soonyoung as the latter in your mind and take another slow mouthful of the wine before wiping your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Well then,” you urge quietly, shifting in your seat anxiously, flicking your gaze over your back as if someone might have crept in, even though you made sure to latch the door behind you. “What’s the job this time?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He stops cleaning and turns his back on you towards the counter lining the wall. You watch the line of his shoulders in anticipation as he works and then narrow your eyes when he returns with a plate of food. A hearty bowl of soup, loaded with chunks of meat and potatoes and other vegetables, and a crusty baked roll, still warm and steaming from the stove. For the three copper coins that you usually pay him for a drink and a meal, he’s feeding you astoundingly well tonight, and you leer, suspicious.

“Are you sending me to my death, Kwon? Because if so, I don’t want any part of it.”

Your stomach growls at the wafting scent of the food, but you force yourself to push off of the stool to stand.

“Hey, wait.” Soonyoung scrambles, lurching across the bar, circling his fingers over your wrist to hold you in place. His grip barely ghosts over you, but the sensation of someone else’s skin touching yours, no matter how fleeting, has you tearing your arm back to your side, as if burned. It’s too ragged of a motion in response.

You burn with shame while Soonyoung stammers an apology out. He manages to coax you back into sitting and pushes the tray of food closer to you, which you accept with a wordless nod, gaze lowered to the wood of the counter. Soonyoung waits until you take a bite, tearing off a chunk of the roll and dunking it into the stew before popping it into your mouth. Instantly, you have to fight the urge to sink into your seat when the flavors hit your tongue. You chew quickly and swallow the mouthful before you can savor it because savoring means remembering and remembering leads to longing.

“There’s a job,” Soonyoung finally speaks, voice hushed conspiratorially, “A big one.”

You contemplate through your next spoonful of stew. “For who?”

“I’m not allowed to say—”

You snort and roll your eyes. He’s worked with you long enough to know that you won’t lift a finger for an anonymous request. If you’re going to be earning dirty coins, you’d rather know exactly who they come from, who you’re soiling your own hands for.

“—but it’s someone in a very, very, very high position. A hundred thousand gold Dragons.”

You drop your spoon into the bowl. Flecks of hot stew splatter up and onto the back of your hand, but you pay the brief sting no mind.

A year ago, you had taken on your biggest job from Soonyoung’s network yet that paid a single gold Dragon. It had required you to take the life of a town magistrate, and riddled by your conscience, you hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for a few moons following. The pay, however, had lasted you the better half of a year, which you rationed out carefully. You’d barely spent a quarter of it on the handsome starsteel dagger that now permanently lived on your hip, and the rest of it had been devoted towards the boarding fee in an inn room that locked and one good, proper meal a day.

You can’t even begin to imagine what a hundred golden Dragons could mean for you, let alone a hundred thousand. Before your thoughts fray with hopeless dreaming, you quickly tamper down the hope, giddy and airy, threatening to lift from your stomach.

“You are sending me towards death, aren’t you?” You squint your eyes, suddenly nervous of the way that Soonyoung’s pupils darken, mouth hardens.

The barkeep crosses his arms over his chest, chews on his lip as he thinks. Finally, he admits lowly, “It may be dangerous. But I wouldn’t tell you about it, if I didn’t think you would be successful.” Lamplight dances over his face, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you think that you read pity in it. “Owl, with that sort of money, you would be free to live your life.”

Ice trickles down your spine. As a child, you always imagined you would live a simple life, doing honest work for a meager pay at your family’s post. Perhaps you’d have your own family with a partner who respected you, maybe even loved you. When everything was razed to the ground, your humble ambitions had gone with them. Now, your life consisted solely of scraping by until Soonyoung’s network spat out another job at you to carry you through a few more days, a week if you were lucky.

A hundred thousand Dragons would last you for the rest of your life, and then some. Your thoughts run with grandiose ideas of your first purchase. Perhaps a new pair of slacks with stronger, lined pockets to hold all of your overflowing coin. Before the logical side of your brain can catch up, your traitorous tongue acts first.

“I’m interested.”

Soonyoung simpers, unapologetic.

“That’s great! Because I already told them that you’d do it.”

-

“Hail, Spider.”

You tense at the appearance of an unfamiliar voice but keep your head bowed, face obscured behind the shadow of your hood and Soonyoung’s shoulder. Despite the icy company you’ve provided him since thundering down the steps into the tavern a half-hour ago, the barkeep is exceedingly cheery in the early morning quiet, shoulders at ease and the grin curling over his lips familiar. He trusts this person, so you make a conscious effort not to bristle.

“Hail, Knight.”

Soonyoung reaches to clasp his palm into the newcomer’s. The man is taller, much taller than the barkeep, broad in the shoulders but lean everywhere else. He wears clothes that are tailored perfectly to his form beneath a long cloak lined with silk. He looks expensive, and in your books, expensive means dangerous. Though he’s not dressed like it, he’s clearly a knight, judging by the sword hanging at his hip and Soonyoung’s title for him. You try not to stare at the weapon and continue your inspection.

The man has a striking but kindly face, with strong brows, a delicate nose, full lips, and the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen, expressive and bright. His mouth naturally curves up, as if always smiling. His body is of a man’s, but the twinkle of his gaze and his grinning mouth reminds you of a boy. His skin, even in the dim of the tavern, is an alluring gold, complemented by the red of his clothing. Even his hair, not cropped short like the common fashion for knights but long enough to curl behind his ears, leans honeyed and not entirely black, as if warmed by daylight. Beloved by the sun, you think, and even without his armor or heraldry, you recognize immediately who this man is.

You bite your tongue hard to stop yourself from cursing at Soonyoung. He’s not only had the nerve to enlist you for a high-profile job without your permission, but also to neglect to tell you that your accomplice in it would be none other than the renowned Sun Knight, one of the Crown’s favorites. Heat prickles up your nape, and your stomach turns anxiously. You make a mental count of the coins in your pocket, rolling each over in your fingers, contemplating whether what you have might hold you over until the next job comes around.

Not a chance. You’d be lucky to make it past a week, and that’s if Soonyoung will continue taking pity on you, even after you tell him that you can’t go through with this job. A hundred thousand. You grit your teeth and lift your head, just as the two men finish up greeting one another.

When he turns to you, Soonyoung has already spied your expression, which you’re certain is nothing short of murderous, and his easy grin grows crooked and sheepish. “This is my good friend, Owl,” he introduces with a quick gesture and an airy laugh. “She’s been running a few jobs a week for some years now. Does great work and I trust her.”

The flattery lands ineffective on your ears. You dip your head to the knight in silent greeting, taking care not to give Soonyoung the attention he seeks from you.

The Sun Knight bows his head, lower than is necessary for someone of your class. When he lifts his gaze, he immediately searches your face, curious.

“Owl. Is that your name?” His voice is deep, rasping but not grating. There’s a hint of a lisp hissing beneath his words, which contributes to his innocuity.

You regard him cooly, half-impressed by the polished decorum he carries himself with. You’ve never met a knight before, but you have had your run-ins with men like him, of high stock and deep pockets. They’d spoken to you in short, clipped phrases, as if they couldn’t be bothered to waste any more of their breath on you and had dismissed you with urgent flicks of their hands, never mind ask you for your name.

“The only name that matters.” You add on dryly, “And do you go by Sir Sun?”

The knight tenses instantly. Uneasy surprise flickers across his face, as he glances from you to Soonyoung, whose own jaw slackens ever so slightly. The two men share a wordless conversation within a single look between themselves, which ends with Soonyoung shaking his head. A strained silence lingers, before the knight shatters it with a resigned sigh.

“I suppose it’s not easy to hide.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth, and his face softens, as if it’s easier for it to be amused than serious. “But please, you can call me Mingyu.”

A given name, not a family name like you’re used to calling down here in the Troughs of the capital. You make a mental note of it and tuck it away, knowing that you’ll never call him by name.

With the introductions completed, you pick up the sack of supplies you’ve brought with you and pull the straps over yourself, one at your shoulder, the other at the opposite hip, tying them into a knot over your chest. When you finally turn to Soonyoung, he’s suddenly unsmiling and grave, watching as you fasten your cloak tighter at the throat and pull your hood down into place.

Your mouth has gone tacky and dry, so you give him a firm nod. Something foreign passes over his face, and for the slightest moment, you think that it looks like doubt. Within the next heartbeat, it hardens into an assurance that’s surprisingly bolstering, and Soonyoung’s pressing a package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine, towards you. It’s warm in your hands, but before you can ask what it is, the barkeep gestures to shoo you out.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Best be on your way.”

The Sun Knight clears his throat, and your chest gives a lurch, having momentarily forgotten of his presence. His boots scrape against the floorboards as he makes for the door. Your heart picks up, as you search for something to say, anything to say, just in case you don’t make it back. At the very least, you should thank Soonyoung, for taking you in that first night on the brink of starving to death, for being kind to you, for considering you a friend.

None of the words come to mind.

In your floundering, Soonyoung seizes the chance to speak first.

“Be smart, Owl.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, before something fond and familiar tugs at his lips. “It’ll keep you safe.”

You grin back, finding and grasping the ounce of courage that you need to jolt yourself into action.

“I am nothing but.”

-

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you as you step outside of the tavern. The loud thudding rattles your bones ominously, as if you’ll leave this place and never return to it again. Hastily, you banish this thought from your mind and catch up to the Sun Knight.

The knight—Mingyu—has cut over to the other side of the well-traveled road, a little up ahead where it forks into two paths. Tied to the wooden post marking the crossroads are two horses: one slight and pale like moonlight, the other sturdier and strong, as if hewn out of umber wood. Horses can only be afforded to be ridden by nobility and therefore are foreign creatures to you, but nothing is as strange as the man tending to them.

Mingyu sweeps a large hand down the brown horse’s massive throat, his own neck crooked down to murmur softly to the beast. His face is too close for comfort to its massive head, in your opinion, but the knight smiles wide as he continues whispering, “Good girl, sweet girl.” The horse only nickers in response, as if she understands human speech.

His ramblings are gentle, affectionate, so much so that your own nerves are nearly lulled into easing up. You quickly catch yourself, shaking your shoulders to snap back into being alert, and remind yourself that you haven’t even embarked on this job that may earn you one hundred thousand Dragons or an early grave. You cross over to the knight and the two creatures.

Your arrival prompts Mingyu to glance up, still relaxed and grinning. You pay him a quick look before minding the horses warily. Now that you’re right up beside them, they’re much taller and broader than you thought. Mingyu is one of the tallest people you’ve ever seen, and even he barely comes halfway up the brown horse’s neck.

At your strange presence, both horses prick their ears and raise their heads from their lazy grazing. Though their eyes are on either sides of their faces, you can’t help but feel scrutinized by the animals and tense. As if he notices your unease, Mingyu reaches up to pat at the brown horse’s nose and coos, “Owl, this is my sweet girl, Summer. She’s all brawn and no brain. Aren’t you, girl?”

Summer chuffs again, sounding pleased at the description of herself. You fight off a grin, still cautious but more amused than wary now.

“Do all knights name their horses?”

Mingyu’s eyes flick up to yours, deep and thoughtful for a moment, before squinting one eye into a wink. “Only the best ones.”

Instantly, the glamour shatters and you scoff, but the knight already steps over to the other horse. Close up, you see now that this one’s an unearthly white color, like the Angel of Death’s pallid mount in the children’s stories you’d grown up with. She’s quiet, eeriely and hauntingly so, but leans into Mingyu’s touch when he strokes his hand down her pale mane.

“This is Snowdrop, on account of her being—”

“White. Got it.”

“I was going to say ‘a beautiful, beautiful girl’, but how clever you are, Owl.”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples innocently, and you desperately have to restrain yourself not to roll your eyes.

“Can you ride?”

At the post, your family would borrow the next door farmer’s mule-drawn cart whenever larger, heavier parcels needed to be delivered. You had learned how to ride and steer that mule from its saddleless back, even before you were four feet off the ground. Surely a trained, saddled horse won’t be too different. You eye Snowdrop carefully, and all she does is blink her large black eyes back at you.

“I can manage, I’m sure.”

Mingyu nods, assured. He gives you a cursory sweep from head to toe, then glances over at the horse.

“Need a hand up?”

“I’m good, Knight.”

Before you can even think to regret it, Mingyu hooks his foot into the stirrup and swings himself atop his great beast with ease. From the added height, the knight’s voice sounds farther away, and that much more aggravating, when he calls down at you.

“It’s a long road ahead of us. I’ll explain what the job is on the way.”

You stifle a sigh and turn your gaze over to the east, where the sun is just breaking over the horizon.

-

“So, why Owl?”

You’ve been on the road for only about an hour, you would guess, judging by the sun’s position in the sky. Already, your lower back aches and your inner thighs chafe against the leather saddle, as smooth and worn as it is, even through the lining of your pants. Most of the journey so far has consisted of easy silence, save for the clicking of Mingyu’s tongue as he guides Summer faster or slower and the steady clopping of hooves against the dirt path.

The sudden sound of his voice has you jerking to attention in your seat, which sends a deeper twinge through your spine. You can’t hide the grimace that follows, and you’re glad that Mingyu leads and that his back is turned to you. The fixed gait of the horses and the constant landscape of rolling grasslands and fields have lulled you into a transient state, so it takes your head a few heartbeats to restart, to run the knight’s words over to comprehend it, and then formulate an answer, without giving away too much.

“My family kept owls when I was a child.”

“Oh. As pets?”

You snort sooner than you can think to hold it in and clumsily hide it behind a dry cough.

“No. We ran the post for our village. My responsibility was to maintain the owlery. They said I spent so much time with the birds that I was on my way to becoming half-owl myself.”

The knight turns his face to the side just enough that you can read his grin. You look away. The memory of your family and the birds quickly turns from fond to bitter.

“The owls. They can be trained to deliver the mail accurately?”

“Of course. They’re not the symbol of intelligence for just any reason.”

Mingyu hums quietly but doesn’t say more. Now that the sun has come out to warm the earth, he has shed his long cloak off and wears only the red linen shirt that hugs his shoulders. You watch the ease with which he rides, the relaxed yet strong line of his shoulders, the perfect posture of his back and waist. He rides so effortlessly that you wonder how young he was when he was first placed onto a horse. You wonder if he wears red because it’s the color of his House or simply because he likes it. You wonder why he named his horse, and why he named her Summer. More curiosities spring to mind, and Mingyu has asked you a question so it’s only respectful to return the courtesy, but everything that comes to you seems too profound for the time that you’ve known him. Lamely, you call out something plain.

“Why are you the Sun Knight?”

Mingyu tips his head over his shoulder again, more fully this time so that you can see his entire face. Beneath the daylight, his eyes gleam molten, and you suppress a shudder at the sight. He smiles again—like he was born to—and gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Knights’ titles aren’t chosen, they’re bestowed,” he answers simply, a little bashfully, and as he speaks, you notice that two of his teeth are especially pointed, like the fangs of a hound. “Perhaps I fight particularly well under the sun. Something like that.”

No, that’s not it, you swallow the words down your throat. Beloved by the sun. The phrase comes to mind again, and you think you understand how exactly his title came to be.

“I don’t mind it, though,” Mingyu continues cheerfully, turning his attention back to the road ahead. “‘The sun loves and gives life’, they say. It’s an honor to be named after it. Do you know that one?”

“Of course,” you grunt back, “The Troughs have nursery rhymes too.”

After that, silence fluidly falls back into place, which you welcome. You shift forward in the saddle to alleviate the pressure in your back and are reminded of Soonyoung’s parcel, when it nudges into your stomach from where you’ve been clutching it close. Curious, you pull it from beneath your cloak and tug carefully to unravel the twine.

Wrapped within the paper are two loaves of perfectly browned bread, no longer hot from the fire but still somewhat warm from your skin. Tucked in between the bread is a tiny scrap of paper, folded in half, and when you open it, there’s a message in Soonyoung’s messy scrawl.

Owl—

I’m sorry for sending you away without your permission. Impulsivity is my greatest sin, I fear. I’m scared that you’ll run into danger and that I was the one who sent you there. I should have told you this in person, but I was even more scared that I might stop you from going. Like I said, I believe in you, and I think you’ll succeed.

You will succeed and come home with more money than you know what to do with. You deserve more than this life. You deserve to be happy.

Eat proper meals. Save the bread for the road. Also, the larger loaf is for you. Give the smaller one to the mutt knight.

Come back alive. I would like not to be haunted by someone as terrifying as you.

Your only friend,

Spider

You swallow hard against the knot that forms in your throat and hide your sniffle by coughing a dry laugh out.

“You and your gods awful handwriting, Kwon.”

-

When Mingyu’s great brown mare gives a whinny, the sun has already begun its descent into the mountains that have appeared in the far distance. The knight clicks his tongue, sharp and high, and both horses respond in an instant, slowing from a trot to a walk. You lift your head wearily and loosen your fingers from the twist that you’ve been holding the reins around. By now, you’ve lost nearly all feeling in your legs, certain that the skin along your thighs have been rubbed completely raw, and when you roll your shoulders back, your spine cracks along five separate points.

“Summer says it’s time to stop for today,” Mingyu chirps happily, “which is just as well. There’s an inn just over the ridge there.” He points ahead, which you nod along to without following, just glad to be in close grasp of respite. You squeeze your eyes tight, barely clinging on as Snowdrop follows their lead, as steady as she had been at dawn.

“Alright, Owl?”

You blink your eyes open, barely acknowledging that you’ve come to a halt, just in time to watch Mingyu slide from his saddle, landing solidly on both feet. He sweeps his fingers through his fringe, which only flops back onto his forehead, a little damp with dust and sweat, but his eyes are bright, as ever, unfettered by the day’s long journey.

Your throat feels like it’s coated in a layer of dust kicked up from the road and you can’t trust your tongue to say anything coherent, so you settle to nod an affirmative response, sluggishly pulling one leg over Snowdrop’s back to dismount. No sooner does your foot hit the ground than your knee buckles beneath your weight, and your heart jumps as you scrabble to find purchase before you fully crumple onto the dirt.

Quicker than you can reach for Snowdrop’s saddle straps, the knight springs forward, reaching to brace you up by the hip. With the sudden proximity, he brings a foreign warmth and the scent of leather and steel and something warm and spicy. You go rigid, first at the closeness of the knight and the recognition of just how tall he is, then at the realization that he’s touching you—not directly, his fingers tighten over the dagger fastened at your belt and presses it into your hip bone, but still touching. You flinch away, the weakness in your knees quickly replaced by the heady rush of bewilderment.

“Sorry,” Mingyu blurts, cheeks flushed, as if he’s done something wrong. One day, you’ll admit to yourself that it was somewhat endearing, but in the current moment, you’re too anxious to dwell much on it. Gratefully, the knight allows you the distance that you’ve created, shuffling away to guide Summer forward by her reins. Before you can do something stupid like think about what just occurred, you quickly reach for Snowdrop’s leads and follow close.

The inn that you’ve arrived at can’t be described as anything more than a shack, but through the windows, you spy a lit hearth and hear the lively chatter of other gathered travelers. You’re wary of the presence of strangers, especially when you still haven’t learned where you’re going and what is required of you to be paid the obscene amount of money promised, but you’re exhausted and shakier than you’ve ever been on your own two feet.

“Before we head in,” Mingyu starts hesitantly, as he gestures for you to hand over Snowdrop’s reins so that he can bring the horses over to the covered shelter, which you comply with gratefully, “I wanted to brief you. We’re to travel under the guise of being married.”

The surprise must be plain on your face because amusement dances over Mingyu’s as he hastily follows up with explanation.

“It invites fewer questions. Fewer people poking their nose into where they're unwanted. We’re traveling up north to visit my younger brother, who’s getting married in a week. That’s the story we’ll stick to.” He offers you a simple smile and a pause to consider it.

Slowly, you roll the words coming to mind over in your mouth before vocalizing them.

“Is that truly where we’re headed? North?”

The knight shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze shifts, cautious, from you to the horses to the inn, which makes you squirm, impatient and nervous.

“You do realize you’re going to have to tell me eventually? I still have not a clue what I need to do for—” You hush your voice into a whisper before finishing, “The hundred thousand Dragons.”

Mingyu’s eyes stretch wide. “Gods. A hundred thousand?”

You scrutinize the knight and find not an ounce of falsity, which then makes you frown, puzzled. “Aren’t you the one paying for this job?”

He splutters, incredulous, and the noise makes the horses behind him shift, skittish. Mingyu turns briefly to coo some words of comfort to the spooked creatures before returning to address your own confusion.

“I’m a knight, not a goldsmith.” He avoids a definite answer and pauses to scratch his nape, muttering to himself more than to you. “Yeah, actually that makes a lot of sense.”

“What does?”

Mingyu breathes a weak laugh with a quick shake of his head. You watch, exasperated, as he doesn’t give an answer, yet again. The knight wrings his hands together, sucks a sharp breath in, and then rolls his shoulders back to straighten his posture.

“I’m starving. Let’s go in, and we’ll talk after supper, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach pangs at the thought of eating. With a quiet huff, you give him a curt nod and make for the entrance to the inn. Before you can reach for the door, Mingyu stops you with an outstretched fist and a quiet murmur.

“Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says, and he drops something, small and light, into your palm. Without another word, he brushes past you and into the inn’s light and warmth.

You look down to find a golden ring, warmed by the heat of Mingyu’s skin, cupped in the center of your hand. You pinch it between your fingers and lift it in inspection, finding it to be a signet ring, much like the ones that the truebred members of the noble Houses wear. On the outer facet, there is a coat of arms engraved into the metal: a simple image of a wolf, reared on its hind legs, stretched upwards as it reaches to snatch a star between its parted jaws.

Something strange and ominous stirs in the pit of your stomach, but you shove the feeling away hastily. You try the ring, crafted for a man’s hand, on each left finger, finding that it fits best on your thickest, before following the knight inside.

By the time you catch up with Mingyu, he’s already leaned over the counter, chin in his hand, propped onto a crooked elbow. The woman on the other side of the bar looks halfway bewitched by the knight already, round cheeks flushed pink and eyes glittering as she hangs off of every word he speaks. When you sidle up beside him quietly, Mingyu tucks his head down to look at you, mouth curled into a languid, feline grin.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, gaze snagging on your newly ringed finger when you brace your hands against the counter to steady yourself on your quivering legs. “Beth here was just getting us situated in a room for the night.”

Beth, to her credit, recovers swiftly from her trance, straightening up as she sweeps her palms over her reddened face. “Oh! Yes!” She chirps, reaching beneath the counter to dig around until she produces a large brass key on an iron hoop and hands it over to the knight, who rewards her with a beam and a wink. The woman returns it with a watery smile, glance sliding from him to you timidly. “It’ll be the farthest room on the right side. Second floor. Anything else I can help you both with?”

“Yes, actually, darling. Two bowls of whatever stew you’ve got tonight, and some bread, please.” Mingyu passes over the key to you, motioning his chin over to the staircase in the far corner of the room. “Why don’t you head up first, love? I’ll be right there with supper.”

You nod, eager to escape this awkward mimicry of marriage. Ignoring the strain in your thighs, you bound up the uneven wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and all but collapse into the room that you’ve been assigned. It’s a small space with only a single window, glass frosted over from a lack of regular cleaning, but the door locks—at the doorknob and the deadbolt—and there are two bedrolls folded up in the simple wardrobe, hewn roughly out of raw, unfinished wood. It’s more than enough to serve you for a night.

You grimace as you lower yourself to the floor. There’s a deep ache that pulses with every heartbeat in your lower joints that you fruitlessly rub at with your fingers. You’ve been sitting nearly the entire day, but even your feet and ankles seem to hurt. For the first time in a long while, you’re so exhausted that your eyes prick and burn with the first signs of tears, but the doorknob turns and you quickly swipe your sleeve over your face to chase them away.

“That was easy enough,” Mingyu hums, pleased, as he kicks the door shut behind him. He carries huge ceramic bowls in each hand and has a loaf tucked between his side and arm, which you reach over to take from him. He offers you a grateful smile, which makes his cheeks dimple, and you avert your gaze away, accepting your bowl of stew through your peripheral vision.

You eat in hurried silence, huffing when impatience leads to a burnt tongue. The stew is nothing profound, just carrots and potatoes and the occasional chicken bone, but it’s hot and bracing, especially when you soak pieces of the bread in it. You only make it through half of your portion before your stomach feels tight and bloated, but Mingyu’s already scraping his spoon down to the last few mouthfuls of his, eyeing your leftovers politely. Without a word, you hand your bowl over to him, and he happily takes it, flashing more of his dimples your way.

While Mingyu finishes his meal, you slip out from the room and amble down the corridor in search of a washing basin. You discover a bucket of water, cold but clean enough, and wash your hands and face with it, scrubbing at the dirt that has caked into the lines of your palms. As you wash, the golden ring on your finger flashes every so often beneath the moonlight filtering through the hallway windows. Aside from your starsteel dagger that you wear permanently on your hip, you’ve never owned something beautiful, let alone jewelry, before, so you take a brief moment to delight at the smooth burnished gold. It’s soft and warm to the touch, nothing like the rings that people in the Troughs get married with, fashioned out of rough strips of tin sheets leftover from repair jobs. It’s beautiful, even despite the image of the wolf swallowing a star, and you almost loathe the thought of having to give it back.

You return to the room and find Mingyu in a crouch at the corner of the room, stoking a fire in the hearth. It’s small, contained, and provides a much needed warmth, but you eye it with caution, all the same. You don’t trust fire, not since it took your parents from you.

The knight has set out the bedrolls with ample distance between the two, gesturing you towards the one closer to the hearth. It’s a kind courtesy that he offers you, but you tremble at the thought of sleeping so close to an unguarded flame. You shake your head and mumble, “You can have that one. I get hot easily.”

Mingyu tilts his head curiously but doesn’t press the matter. You fold your legs and sit onto your claimed bedroll, pulling your cloak from your shoulders to use as a blanket to cover your lap. “So,” you prompt quietly, “Are you going to tell me about the job now?”

The knight chews on his lip, but he can’t avoid the topic any longer. He leans back onto his own bedroll, crossing his legs before him. You wait patiently, twisting the golden ring around and around on your finger, for Mingyu to speak. When he does start, his voice comes low and guarded, suddenly grave and unlike his lively self.

“To answer your earlier question, we are headed up north, yes. At its core, the job requires us to infiltrate a facility and retrieve a…package.”

You lean back onto an arm. Slowly, you consider, “Alright. Infiltration and retrieval. I’m familiar with both tasks; I’ve done them before, for Soonyoung.” Saying the barkeep’s name makes your heart clench painfully. You hold the ache there for a moment and then promptly force it away.

The knight shakes his head. “It’ll be different. Remember, the request comes from a high place—a hundred thousand Dragons, for gods’ sakes.” He hesitates, breath catching several times in his throat, before revealing, “We’re going to break someone out from Taebaek.”

You freeze in place. Nobody truly knows where Taebaek, the most renowed, high-security prison of the kingdom, is located, save for the jailers who are tasked with transporting the residents in. Of course, people in the Troughs love their fables, and you’ve heard enough of them to conjure up an idea of what Taebaek might look like. A giant, sprawling fortress high up in the Northern Mountains, where its silent gray walls stand against frigid and wintery winds year round. Where warmth and sound and hope dies, choked away by the stifling cold.

Even worse than its harsh location and surroundings, you’ve only heard of Taebaek in the context of the most vile, reprehensible crimes and criminals. It’s where kingkillers and kinslayers were locked away, until their breaths stopped, flesh rotted, and bones dissolved. The most recent of rumors claimed that the former queen mother had been banished there after poisoning and slaying her own son and grandson, the late Crown and the crown prince, respectively. Prisoners entered Taebaek; they were never meant to come back out.

Your mouth goes dry. Only now comes the reckoning of what is required of you to be paid a lifetime’s worth of Dragons. You should have known that it would be incomparable to taking the life of a magistrate. You should have known that it would require an impossible feat to be accomplished.

Quietly, you run the numbers in your head. The number of the coins you counted earlier this morning haven’t changed. Maybe you could steal the knight’s coin purse in the night and run off. If you took Snowdrop, that is, if she trusted you enough to let you, you might be able to escape to the next town over and buy some time to disappear. Your gaze catches on the gold ring; you could pawn it off for a handsome price but only if the heraldry wouldn’t be traced back to Mingyu. Doubtful.

Mingyu. He’s a knight—the Sun Knight—for all the gods’ sakes. There’s no way that you’ll manage to escape from him.

Your mind supplies nothing helpful, aside from a string of curses. At this point, your fate lies in either dying while breaking into and out of Taebaek or while running from the Sun Knight. You mouth one of these curses out silently and pray to all the gods that your soul will haunt Kwon Soonyoung in the afterlife.

“Fret not, dear Owl,” Mingyu’s voice, energetic and chipper once more, breaks you from your reverie. “We have a plan, nearly foolproof, and as long as we follow it precisely, you should be walking away with your pockets overflowing.”

You shoot over a glare, too weary to retort. Tomorrow, you’ll tackle your thoughts once more with a clearer head and fresh eyes, but for tonight, you want nothing more than to sit in silence, unthinking, unfeeling.

“Enough for now. We can discuss more on the road.” Mingyu suggests gently, as he reaches for his cloak and starts balling it up. He gives you a sideways glance, mouth twisting as he quips, “Do you stay up all night like an owl as well?”

You snort. “I sleep as much as I need to.”

“And how much is that?”

A heartbeat passes, and you admit quietly, “Not much.”

Mingyu flops down and stretches out onto his back, limbs so long that his feet poke out past the bedroll. He shoves his bundled cloak beneath his head and sighs, loud and exaggerated, “Well, I need plenty. Good night, Owl.”

“Good night.”

You hug your knees loosely, watching the fire as it dances. Within moments, Mingyu’s ragged breathing grows smooth and even, chest rising and falling steadily. Slackened from sleep, the Sun Knight’s youthful face looks even younger, and faintly, you wonder how long he’s been knighted for. Never mind that. You quickly catch yourself thinking and add it to your list of curiosities that won’t matter for much longer.

You stare at the fire, imagining death, wondering if your parents will come find you at the end or if they’re still upset at you over their own, until it dies down into a few smoldering embers and a pile of ash. Only then do you feel relieved enough to rest, curling up on your side. The bedroll is so thin that you can feel every groove of the wooden slats beneath you, but it doesn’t bother you for long, as sleep steals you away in an instant.

-

“Still haven’t made friends, you two?”

The sun has barely started its ascent, hidden mostly by the distant mountains, but Mingyu looks bright-eyed and rested as he joins you out by the horses. He greets Summer with an apple, split into halves, chuckling as he watches you sidestep Snowdrop to access her saddlebags.

“She’s eeriely quiet,” you mumble, conscious of Snowdrop’s ear flicking, as if she might understand your words, “Like a ghost.”

Unlike Summer, who seems to have a personality as large as her owner’s, Snowdrop keeps to herself, watching everything through her huge black eyes. You feel like she’s constantly observing and listening, and you wonder how much of the world she beholds in her beast’s mind.

The knight laughs again. “Her rider requires stealth and silence, and she makes the perfect partner in that regard. She’s plenty sweet, though, you’ll see. Just needs to warm up to strangers first, hm?” He leans over close to offer the other halved apple to the pale horse, who takes it between her teeth gingerly and crunches away.

You peer thoughtfully as Snowdrop chews. She only uses her lips to pick up the pieces of fruit that fall back into Mingyu’s hand and sweeps a large tongue gently over his palm when no more apples seem to appear for her. The knight pokes his own tongue out and mock gags at the slick slide of saliva on his hand, but you can read the fondness plain on his face. It’s remarkable and strange, how someone can have so much affection for even animals. The only creatures you had encountered in the Troughs were massive rats and tiny pigeons, all caked in grime and begging for scraps that you couldn’t afford to give up.

You turn away to rummage through your belongings and pull the larger loaf out from its paper wrapping. Despite Soonyoung’s instructions, you know that the bread will keep for longer when left intact. Better to share a loaf and keep the other whole for as long as possible. You tug your dagger from its sheathe and slice the bread in two, passing over one half to the knight and wrapping your own back up in the parchment.

Mingyu’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “Thanks. That’s a handsome blade. Is it starsteel?”

You nod, affirmative, a little sheepish at being perceived. “It’s the only nice thing that I’ve ever bought for myself.” Even though it belongs to you, you still marvel at the beauty of it, turning it over in your palm and delighting in its perfectly balanced weight. The blade flashes bright, even in the dim lighting of dawn, pale silver that could nearly be white, streaked with blue-black, like veins of midnight ink. The handle itself is simple and ivory, carved out of some creature’s bone and sanded smooth to the touch.

“Hopefully the first of many,” is Mingyu’s light response. His words sound genuine, and his easy optimism is bolstering. You want to believe him, want to hold onto hope that this job will be completed without mishap and that you’ll be able to return home, to The Dancing Spider. “All good blades have a name. Did you give it one?”

You reply softly, “Feather.”

“Owl’s Feather. Clever.”

Mingyu’s cheek is dimpling again, pointed teeth flashing white between his lips, so you resolutely look away to fasten Snowdrop’s saddlebag straps tightly, tuck your dagger back onto your hip, and hook your foot up and into a stirrup. Your joints are still sore from the previous day, but the brief stretch you’d conducted earlier has done you some good. You’d risen this morning and had managed to sit on your bedroll sullenly while contemplating most of your life decisions, wash up, dress, and give your stiffened muscles a good, long stretch, all before the knight even started stirring beneath his covers.

By the time you’re fully lifted up and settled in your saddle without swaying too forward or backward, Mingyu’s in his seat, nibbling at his bread. He cranes his neck from left to right, glancing up to the sky and then back towards the horizon.

“Seems like the weather will be fair today,” he notes, taking another chunk out of the loaf and chewing thoughtfully. “We’re still a few days out from the foot of the mountains, so we should gradually adjust to the temperature and altitude changes. Ready, Owl?”

Your only response is a firm nod, to which he smiles, quick and easy.

Mornings brighten into days, and on and on you travel behind the knight, veering off of the road and towards a tavern or inn only when dusk swarms and chokes out the light. Mingyu’s effortlessly sanguine, humming and whistling, unaware of your own misery. His energy is unflagging, and his bright grins and hearty laughter steadfast against your quiet reluctance to let him in.

By the fifth day, you’ve grown all but silent, made heavy with exhaustion, hunger, doubt. The longer you’re on the road with no end in sight, the more Mingyu’s enthusiasm grates away at your nerves, turning them raw and bare. You nibble at the last husk of Soonyoung’s bread, which has already turned stale and tough, forehead tucked against the back of Snowdrop’s neck in a weary attempt to block the incessant sun out of your face. Even with your hood permanently pulled over your head, your cheeks sting to the touch, burnished by the long days on horseback. Mingyu, of course, looks untouched, and in fact, to your chagrin, the exposure to sun has only deepened the tone of his skin, turning him impeccably gilded.

You think that by now, you’ve somewhat picked up on Snowdrop’s mannerisms and gotten used to what’s normal and what’s not. You peer up, curious, to find that her ears are pricked high and that the previously lax reins in your hands feel heavier. Gnawing at your bottom lip nervously, you reach up to run the back of your knuckles along her mane, but she only flicks an ear in response, impatiently dismissive. Astute as ever, Mingyu tips his head backward to peer over at you struggling to return your mount’s pace to even.

“Ah,” the knight muses, seeming a little contrite for not have noticing whatever the issue is earlier, “She’s just fidgety. We’re moving much slower than she’s used to.”

You consider this and give Snowdrop another regretful pat to the neck, “For my sake, I’m sure.”

Mingyu laughs, one of those airy giggles of his that makes your spine straighten, and gives a shake of his head, which shifts his hair down into his eyes. The sun, bright and warm overhead, makes him glow, and your stomach pangs at the sight.

“If she went at her desired pace, even I would be knocked off of her back, I’m afraid.” The knight grins when you shoot him a look of surprise. Something conspiratorial flickers over his face as he thinks. “Are you a little more confident in your riding now?”

You scrutinize the knight before giving him a careful nod.

Mingyu balls his reins into his left hand and reaches a palm over to Snowdrop, letting the pale horse sniff at his fingers. He pats her nose gently and clicks his tongue twice, to which her ears flick rapidly. Beneath your thighs, you feel the muscles of her back shift and thrum with excitement.

“Press your knees in harder than you have been so far,” the knight instructs in a soft but assured voice. “Snowdrop knows not to push too hard with riders who aren’t her own. She won’t let you fall.”

You grip tight at the reins, squirming in your saddle anxiously. “Truthfully?”

Mingyu nods, firm, gaze molten and certain. “Promise, Owl. On a knight’s honor.”

Before you can dwell too long on it, you close your knees, firm against Snowdrop’s sides. Unlike anything you’ve seen from her in the past few days, the horse darts forward, controlled and precise still. She cleaves through the air, silver mane fluttering back towards you. Briefly, you panic, feeling the rest of the world lurch forth, while your body wants to remain stationary, but you hastily loosen your muscles, sucking in a cold breath to reset your nerves. Like Mingyu said, you can nearly feel the discipline in Snowdrop’s entire being, and you mourn your inability to relieve it for her. Wind rushes at and around you, throwing your hood off of your head and whipping your hair into your face. It’s terrifying and foreign and unsteady, but something giddy bubbles in your stomach and wrenches itself from your throat in the form of a trill, unrestrained and free.

A hearty hoot responds from behind you, pitched high with excitement. You don’t trust yourself to look back, so you grin wide at the road before you until your cheeks ache from the strain.

Snowdrop gallops for a few more yards, then brings herself back down to a moderate trot. You gasp to catch your breath, but only the heightened thrumming of her heartbeat against your legs suggests that the magnificent beast beneath you has exerted any effort.

“How was that?” Mingyu trots up easily beside you, Summer’s hooves neatly clipping along the road as she matches your pace. He smiles as if he knows your answer already. When he turns his face to glance at you, the sun dapples him golden.

You respond, a little breathless now and wholly entranced, “It felt like flying.”

“Closest thing to flying there is,” the knight agrees.

You want it. You desire it so greedily and like nothing before that your stomach aches with longing.

“When I am rich,” you make up your mind, “the first thing I will buy is the ability to fly.”

Mingyu laughs, chin tipped back, corners of his eyes wrinkled. Not mocking, not rude, but unbridled and full of joy.

You stare and stare, near bursting with want.

-

“Handsome lad you’ve got.”

You blink your eyes wide before remembering that you’re meant to be playing along with Mingyu’s disguise. Said lad lingers at the corner of the farmstand, resolutely turned away as he rolls a few apples in his palm, but you’ve been on the road with him for a few days now and you’ve learned what it looks like when he’s pretending not to be listening.

“Ah,” you muse, picking through the basket of shelled walnuts, half of your attention on the vendor, the other half sliding over to Mingyu as you shrug. “If you say so.”

The knight gives a tiny noise, akin to an indignant wheeze, and you smile into the collar of your cloak, shifting to add a handful of walnuts to the basket of fruit he holds. You turn away to duck beneath the tarp, and retreat back outside to where the horses are, leaving Mingyu to try, and fail, to haggle. He’s much too nice to be any good at it.

Both mounts lift their heads at your exit. Summer snorts and dips her snout back down to mindlessly nibble at the grass when she realizes that you aren’t Mingyu. Snowdrop, on the other hand, keeps her eyes trained on you as you approach, stare pinned to where you hide your hand behind your hip.

“Clever girl,” you muse, pulling out a pear that you snagged off the stand and into a pocket while the vendor spent her sweet time ogling Mingyu. Snowdrop’s soft nose tickles your palm as she takes the fruit into her mouth, and you breathe a laugh at how gentle she is, even as she promptly crunches away at her favorite snack. Summer has noticed, and she regards you ruefully, with as much distaste as when she realized you weren’t her rider, if not more. “Don’t tell him I’m playing favorites,” you whisper to the pale horse, just as Mingyu makes his appearance from the tent.

He wears a scowl. Unsuccessful yet again, it seems.

“Any luck?” You tease.

“Oh, whatever. Let’s get a move on.”

Ten minutes from the farmstand, the road crooks towards a grove of thick, gnarled trees. The cluster has grown so densely that you can barely see ahead through the shadows. Snowdrop’s certain gait slows a bit, ears flicking nervously, which does nothing to still your own roiling stomach. Mingyu and Summer, though similarly tense, continue forth, so you follow.

You’ve barely made it past the edge and fully into the grove, when the shadows shift with the motion of others. Your eyes, still adjusting to the lack of light, rove rapidly, catching sight of people. All men, judging by their builds. All starving bandits, judging by their dark, tattered clothing. Summer comes to a halt, Snowdrop quickly copying, when a handful of men spill out of the darkness and onto the path ahead.

Mingyu clears his throat softly. His head tips loosely to the side, bluffing curiosity, but you can read from the line of his shoulders that he has instantly shifted into caution. He slides down from his seat, landing silently on his feet. There’s a sudden feline shape to his movements, graceful and elegant and lethal, as he straightens his spine and swivels his head to sweep his sharpened gaze over the men from one end to the other. You watch, captivated, as you realize that this must be the famed training of Crownsland knights in action.

The bandits, though not as analytical as your eyes, must notice that there’s something different, something dangerous about him. The biggest man who has taken up the lead is a head shorter than Mingyu but just as wide and even burlier. He rolls his own shoulders back and tips his head back in a forced swagger.

“Yer a knight, aren’t ya?”

Mingyu’s mask of polite confusion nearly slips, as a twitch catches his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tall, sturdy man like yerself,” another of the men takes a few bold steps forward, scarred mouth pulling into a smile that looks more like a sneer. “You’d be wasted on anything besides knighthood.”

Mingyu laughs, genial and smooth, voice like warm velvet. He softens his tongue to roll his syllables, lets his lisp come off stronger to feign innocence. “You’re much too kind. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m only a stablehand. My master has kindly allowed my wife and me to borrow some horses to travel for my brother’s wedding.” For the past few days, he’d been traveling covertly with his sword tucked away into his saddle sack; you wonder how quickly he’ll be able to get to it. You watch with a trained eye as he steps closer to Summer, who has become restless and anxious, smoothing a palm over her throat while simultaneously flicking the saddlebags open with a hidden hand. The sphere pommel of his blade pokes out tantalizingly. “We best be on our way, if we’re to make it there by tomorrow.”

The big man at the front drops his smile, snake’s eyes flicking from you to Mingyu with a malice so cold and sudden that an involuntary shiver runs up your nape.

“Sure. But you best leave us yer horse. Big one you’ve got there.”

A slow, quiet breath escapes between Mingyu’s gritted teeth. Though the knight maintains his courtly facade, the kindness has faded. The bandits are clever enough to notice, perhaps not the anger that has started to twinge at his jaw but at least the palpable shift in the air, and they shuffle their weights onto their opposite foot, hands anxiously twitching in the direction of their weapons. This, however, they are too clumsy to obscure.

You take stock of it all. They carry tools as makeshift weapons; kitchen cleavers, cattle prods, furnace stokers. They’re clearly not men meant for killing, just men driven by desperation to do it. There’s a strange buzz at the base of your skull as you realize, you are not so different from these bandits.

A rare flutter of empathy has you tipping over the side of Snowdrop to drop to your feet. You reach to circle your fingers over Mingyu’s arm. There’s a tension that pulses in his bicep that you can feel against your fingertips, even through the layers of his clothes. You play your part of a frightened wife faithfully, with a soft murmur, “Come, dearest. The horse isn’t worth our safety.”

The pet name comes off your tongue clumsily, but you hope that the stumble over your words and the tremor in your throat can be attributed to anxiety over the situation. You hope that these men are desperate and nothing more. That they will leave you alone once they have what they want. Already, your mind stirs with the skeleton of a plan to retrieve Summer back. You can let them walk away with her, and then trail after them, steal her back under the cover of night. Please, you think the word as loudly as you can, hoping that it will be heard by the bandits.

Your hope dies as quickly as it had risen, when you watch the man’s thoughtful gaze spoil into something vile.

“Leave the knight. Maybe we can sell ‘im for ransom. Looks important enough for good pay.”

“Certainly pretty enough,” one of the ugly men from behind sneers, which makes the whole brood of bandits chuckle in gravelly unison.

You shift your feet beneath you silently, fingers already itching towards your belt, when the giant man’s mirthless gaze turns to flint as it lands back on you. There’s a moment of contemplation that hardens into distaste.

“Kill his whore.”

The heavy scrape of starsteel against its scabbard is the only permission you receive from the knight before you launch forward. Feather settles into your grateful palm, its weight practiced and comfortable and ready, as you reach the bandit closest to you. His dark eyes light up with alarm only as you pull your blade from his neck slickly, swivelling to seek out the next. By this point, most of the others have roused from the surprise and are pulling their own weapons, with the quickest already in motion.

A glance confirms that Mingyu’s holding off most of the biggest men on his own. He twirls away as the bandit he just cut down collapses towards him, then effortlessly connects his movements into skewering another by the stomach. He fights like he’s dancing, having made even the act of killing into something beautiful.

Your throat aches. Tearing your gaze away from the knight, you dip into a crouch, scarcely avoiding the swing of a club aimed at your head, then use the momentum to kick off the ground, dagger aimed at the assailant’s throat. You end up leaping a bit higher than anticipated, and Feather lodges into the soft bit right beneath the point of the man’s chin. He chokes on his own blood.

You continue, on and on, like this, dodging and lunging. Your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your stomach hurts. You move, terrified that if you stop, you’ll be cut dead. Exhaustion catches up in no time, like a persistent shadow. The beast inside your head roils, fighting to keep the adrenaline dialed at its highest, to survive. The mortal restricted to your body falters, panting raggedly to suck in breaths that don’t come, won’t come.

“Was that the first time you’ve killed?”

It takes a moment to realize, past the ringing in your ears, that Mingyu is speaking to you. Another few heartbeats to pass until you realize that the danger is no more. He stands tall and broad and strung tight with the lingering haze of battle but no longer in motion. With his left hand, he flicks his sword in an attempt to shake the slick sheen of blood clinging to the edge onto the grass below. It’s made of starsteel, the blade nearly your dagger’s larger twin.

All around the both of you are men’s bodies, crumpled and lifeless like forest litter. You count seven in total, two of which you add to your list of stolen lives. The men felled by Mingyu are in rougher shape than your own. Despite the shiver prickling up your nape at the thought of Mingyu’s artful killing, you’re more than grateful that he was here with you.

You suck in air, hiss it out through your teeth, repeat this a few times until your lungs remember how to breathe again without thinking about it. Only when you catch your breath, you shake your head in response, gaze catching on your palms, still trembling, slick with blood. It’s always haunting to realize how bloody fighting with a dagger gets.

Mingyu nods. You notice him staring for a prolonged time and wonder what he seeks from you. Finally, he sinks to a crouch beside one of the dead men and bows his head, lips forming a string of silent words. You watch as he remains in his stance for a few moments before realizing that he’s praying.

“You pray?”

Mingyu lifts his head, eyes still shut as he answers, “Only for the dead. They’re meeting the gods to receive judgment now; they’ll need all the prayer they can get.”

You don’t respond. The knight clears his throat and rises back onto his feet. Once fully straightened, he turns your way and closes the distance, pausing only a few steps before you. The feline tension bleeds away, leaving only the man, eyes creased with unease. Mingyu reaches to hold his hands out, bracketing yours without touching.

“You’re shaking, Owl.” He murmurs, not mocking, just quietly concerned.

“Yeah,” you grunt, curling your fingers into your palms. Even balled into fists, your hands tremor incessantly. “Yeah, this happened the first time, too. Lasted for days.” More to yourself than to him, you mumble, “It’ll pass.”

Mingyu considers this silently. When you steal a quick look at him, his brow is furrowed, lips twisted into a steely frown. It’s an incompatible expression on his usual smiling face. Faintly, you add this to a list of things that you hate. There’s a heavier set to the knight’s shoulders and the line of his mouth, though you’re not sure if it’s because of the bandits or because of you. He looks like he wants to say more, but there’s no time to dither.

The two of you scour through the bodies, Mingyu for gear and tools that look untouched enough, you for coin purses and other shiny things. Despite your quivering hands, your work is quick but meticulous. Within heartbeats, your pockets have swelled exponentially. Within the next hour, you’re back on the road, making scarce of the dark forest, riders and mounts both silent with fading adrenaline and heightened vigilance.

Hours later, the horses stop sweating, breath crystallizes into vapor, and your fingers start to stiffen at the knuckles. The horses’ hooves clomp louder, sharper against the hard, packed earth, and the ground is layered with snow that sticks and doesn’t melt. From ahead, you watch Mingyu slow Summer’s gait as he tilts down to pull a wolfskin cloak from his saddle sack. He hums, content, as he fastens it around his shoulders. They pick their pace back up.

You shift anxiously, as the cold begins to seep into your own clothes. This is the farthest north you’ve ever been already, and the coldest air you’ve breathed yet. All you can do is pull your gloves from your pocket, the deerskin pair that you pilferred from a particularly obnoxious marketplace merchant a few years back. They’re worn from use and meant for work more than for warmth, but they keep your hands covered against the immediate chill. You hunker down in your saddle and pull your hood higher, gripping your cloak by the worn hem and pulling it tighter against yourself to block out the wind.

“Alright back there?”

Your shoulders stiffen, straight as a rod. Mingyu’s still riding easily ahead, but he crooks his chin over his shoulder to puzzle at your disgruntled slump. The world up here is brighter from the snow blanketing everything, the colors more vivid. The knight’s eyes gleam chestnut, his skin golden, the velvet of his doublet crimson, and the fur of his wolfskin midnight. He keeps his sword on his hip now, favoring caution over stealth. For the briefest of moments, you see him as a knight out of stories, valiant and heroic, haloed by the sun like a prince among soldiers. The type of stories that your father would recite you to sleep with and your mother would sing about as she tended to the owlery. The type of stories you once believed in.

Mingyu’s brow furrows at your lack of response, and you hurriedly jerk your chin into a nod.

“Fine, Knight.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, mouth pursing as if he itches to debate, but turns back around to the road ahead. You stare hard at his back, before relaxing once you’re no longer under his scrutiny. You ride for several more silent moments, gritting your molars together to keep them from chattering.

“Stubborn Owl,” Mingyu’s grumble rouses you from your misery, and it’s only then that you realize that Snowdrop has stopped walking. Barely ahead, Summer stamps her hooves in place, huffing from the cold, as her rider rummages through her bags again. Mingyu pulls another pelt, creamy white in contrast to his, and leans backwards to reach it over to you.

Without protest, you accept the cloak, near hissing with relief at the warmth that it immediately brings. You tug it over your shoulders and fasten the clasp, scrunching your nose as the soft furs tickle at your jaw.

“Thank you,” you breathe, too relieved for shame.

Mingyu nods. Then, frustration tugs at his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, you know.”

You shut your eyes with a quick shake of your head.

“Yeah. I’m working on it.”

-

Exactly one week after leaving The Dancing Spider, you arrive at your final rest stop before Taebaek’s gates. Mingyu doesn’t call it so explicitly, but you can tell from the decreased speed with which his jokes come through, from the crease at the corners of his mouth that now frowns too much. He slows into an approach, slides off of Summer with a curt, stifled grunt. He only looks at you through fleeting sweeps of his troubled eyes, as if guilty of something.

There’s no inn this high up the mountains, only a dugout of snow that has piled up taller than Mingyu himself, sheltered by sparse, dying trees.

You work quietly beside one another; Mingyu digging a hole that can house a fire, you tying the horses up nearby and offering them water and fruit. The cold weighs your limbs down, making you move sluggishly. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, as you linger at Snowdrop’s side, pressing your forehead against her mane that smells strongly of earth and faintly of sunlight and lavender, like a happy memory. Silent as ever, she doesn’t even shift as she lets you cling to her to retain any semblence of hope and warmth.

When you return to the dugout, Mingyu sits in front of a living fire, shadows flickering over a pensive frown. It leeches the youth from his face, leaving only a foreign, solemn knight, hewn of cold steel. You hate the sight of it.

“I think Snowdrop thinks of me as a friend now,” you try to call lightly, pushing your lips sideways into a quirk.

Mingyu looks up but doesn’t say anything. Just hands over a few sticks of dried meat that he’s been holding over the fire to warm them. He watches warily as you accept them and find a dry spot to sit across from him, far from the edge of the fire but close enough to feel the warmth of the flames. You pull your legs up and hug them to your chest, chin tucked up onto a knee.

“We reach Taebaek tomorrow,” the knight’s voice catches in the middle of his throat. There’s a slight quiver in his breath as he draws cold air in. “I need to make sure before I tell you the plan. You’re still willing to do this?”

You choke on a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “We’re at its gates. Do I have a choice this far in?”

Something regretful darkens his gaze. You don’t have to hear an answer to know what he thinks. You shrug and lift a stick of jerky to gnaw at it absently.

Finally, Mingyu bolsters himself, hands clutched together above the fire, as if in prayer. You can almost imagine him at the head of a war table, brow knitted together in thought as he discusses strategies with other great knights. You want to imagine him as the Sun Knight, in full armor with his proper colors and heraldry. Instead, all you can see is a husk of the Mingyu that you’ve come to understand, drained of all mirth and clinging to hope and faith. You try not to recall that he only prays for the dead. You look away, heart bleeding, to stare at the flames instead.

“We’ll come to the gates under the guise as the Sun Knight and his prisoner. You’ll go in as an inmate. There is a man named Angel inside. He’s the package that we’re meant to retrieve.”

This much, you already suspected. You tuck the name safely away in your mind. “What does he look like? How will I know who he is?”

“There will be a code exchange to confirm one another’s identity. I cannot give you anything more than that. My orders were to tell you as little as I can. It’s the only way we can ensure that the plan will be successful while protecting you as much as possible. The less you know, the safer you are. Your only instructions are to memorize the exact path that you’re taken inside by the guards, so that once he’s ready, you can lead Angel out. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

Mingyu hesitates. He unclasps his fingers to pick nervously at his nails. “There’s no room for failure.”

You jerk your chin up, fiercely defiant. You’ve been living a life that gave you no room for failure. “I forget nothing.”

Only then does Mingyu’s creased mouth soften into a fading memory of a smile. “Good. Soonyoung told us that. That’s why he recommended you.”

The sudden mention of your friend threatens to unravel your resolve. Swiftly, you tuck the flare of emotion away, squaring your jaw to insist instead, “Hit me.”

“What?”

You would laugh at the pitch that Mingyu’s voice reaches and the size that his eyes widen to.

“Hit me,” you repeat. “Aren’t I supposed to be your prisoner? I’m in too pristine of a state for that to be believable.”

Mingyu snorts, incredulous, and remains in his seat. “Knights do not harm the innocent. We protect them.” He says this gently, like a reverent mantra.

“Even if you’re given a reason to?” You rise to your feet and cross over to the other side of the fire, letting your fingers dance over Feather for show. “And I’m not innocent. Harm away.” A moment of doubt flickers past you, so you quickly add on, “Leave me my teeth, please.”

“There’s no need for all this.” Mingyu climbs to his feet too and shuffles a few steps backwards, away from you. He chuckles lightly, but his brow twinges, uncomfortable. “Just take the wolfpelt off and rub some dirt on your face.”

“I’m risking my life for this job. We’re doing it thoroughly. This job has become everything to me. We can’t risk failure, not now, when we’re this close. I won’t go back to begging for scraps.”

“You wouldn’t have to—”

“Or else what? I go back to leeching off of Soonyoung’s kindness for the rest of my life? You, the Sun Knight, will sponsor me, a nobody from the Troughs?” Your words fly off of your tongue, furious and frantic now. “People like you will never understand what it’s like. It’s easy for you to be happy and hopeful because it’s all you’ve ever known in your life. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall asleep praying every night that the gods will have mercy on me, so that I won’t wake up in the morning and can finally be rid of it all.”

You finally understand why despite his size and his intelligence and his capabilities, Mingyu still seems like such a boy to you. He carries a boundless idealism for the world, despite all of its faults. His eyes gleam with childlike wonder, especially when the light catches his face. You wish—gods, you wish—that you could have even half of the same optimism, but that chance for hope has died for you, that same day that your world burned up at your hands.

“Besides, you’re the one who said that there’s no room for failure. Don’t act timid now, Knight.”

You don’t mean it, not really, and Mingyu doesn’t deserve any of these terrible words, but your voice continues to ring off of the surrounding cliffs, even as the fight bleeds out from you. You can’t bear to look at him anymore, so you avert your eyes lower, to his hard, frowning mouth.

Mingyu’s nice. Too nice. How can a person be too damn nice? People in the Troughs don’t have room for being kind or generous. It’s disarming. You don’t know how to respond. So you give his chest a weak push with both palms, hissing without venom. He doesn’t even budge.

“Hit me.”

You close your eyes, just before his fist meets your jaw.

-

When light hits Feather’s blade at just the right angle, the silver turns into a mirror.

You hold the dagger up at eye level now, turning it this way and that in inspection. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve fallen into the habit of not staring at reflections for too long, always scared that you’ll find your mother’s or father’s face in your own, even more terrified of seeing and not recognizing them.

Mingyu has done good work, though he has turned sullen and sulks from the opposite side of the dugout as you. Your bottom lip weeps blood steadily from where it got split against your teeth, and there’s a large welt burgeoning over your left cheek bone. Your face throbs along with your heartbeat, and your jaw clicks every time it opens and closes.

Satisfied, you move onto the final thing on your mental list of preparation. You sheathe Feather, unclip your dagger from your belt, and tug the ring off of your left hand. Wistfully, you sweep your fingertips over Feather’s smooth bone handle and dip your thumb into the divot of the wolf ring. You’re reluctant to part with the two beautiful treasures that you’ve been honored to wear on your body, but you know that they’ll be kept safe in your absence. Before you can grow hesitant, you cross over to Mingyu and hand both to him, savoring the perfect heft of Feather in your palm one last time.

“I bequeath the blade to Soonyoung,” you murmur, staring up hard at Mingyu to confirm that he hears and understands. “If something were to happen to me.”

Something dark and thunderous flickers over his face, but he presses his mouth into a tight line and nods, firm. He takes both items from you; first, the ring, which slides onto his littlest finger, then Feather, which he handles with such reverence and care that you think he might love the blade as much as you do.

To your surprise, Mingyu produces something from his pocket and holds it out towards you. It’s another piece of jewelry, a tiny circular pendant wrought of silver on a thin chain. When you regard it, puzzled, all the knight offers is, “A talisman. For protection. The warden allows in whatever you wear on your body.”

You take the necklace. It weighs practically nothing, a thin slip of silver, but there is an etching of a bird—an owl, you recognize—with two tiny amethysts set into place as its eyes. Your nose burns as you blink rapidly down at it and sweep your palms quickly over your eyes in the same fluid motion as pulling the chain over your head.

“Thank you.”

For tonight, you’ll keep the white wolfpelt, devote the silken touch and its cloying warmth and the delicate lavender scent to memory to bring with you into the fortress. This small comfort you allow yourself.

Hours later, as midnight settles into its dominion, you hunch beneath your cloaks, minding the fire while stargazing, sat with your back against one of the tree stumps, head tilted up against the bark.

“I think I know why they call you Owl.”

You glance down, startled by the sudden voice.

From his end of the shelter, Mingyu’s no longer feigning sleep, turned over onto his side to look at you past the dying embers. The night is so black that it appears cobalt, but overhead, the moon glows, swollen with light. For once, the sky bathes Mingyu in silver and blue, the colors of the world you’d known before all this, the colors of your world. Fascinated, you stare, wordless for a moment longer than is expected. You think you much prefer the red and gold on him.

When you stir to your senses, you lean back onto your palms, curling your fingers into the cold dirt. You tip your head with a quiet retort, “I told you exactly why they call me Owl.”

The knight’s lips tug with tired amusement. “Maybe. But it’s only half the reason.”

You consider this, consider his mouth, full and carved and always twitching in mirth. What you’d do to trace the lines of them with your fingertips, if only to feel the craftsmanship of the gods. It could very well be your last days in this life, you think, bemused. You might as well do whatever you’d like.

Instead, you ball your hands, taking large fistfuls of dirt into them. Traitorous, ruinous hands that have only known how to steal and hurt and kill.

“Well, what’s the other half of the reason?”

Mingyu smiles, as if pleased to have been indulged. “Because when you’re watching the stars, especially on a night like tonight, I can see the moon rise in your eyes.”

-

“May I?”

You nod once, voice stolen away by anxiety.

The morning is as gray as the air that hangs low in the dugout. You’d found little to no sleep that night, so Mingyu had risen first, rousing you from the half-doze you’d managed with a gentle hand over your shoulder. When you jolted into sitting up, breath catching halfway up your throat, he’d shushed you gently, brows knitted together in concern. Without words, he’d handed you a mug of hot water and a halved apple, the last of your stores remaining from the farmstand, before retreating away to tend to the horses. He had returned with his sword fastened to his belt, carrying a spool of twine.

Head dipped, you watch quietly as Mingyu reaches for your arms, holding both wrists in one hand, using the other to loop a length of rough twine around them. He leaves no slack, winding and knotting the rope so tight that it leaves deep indents where it lies against your skin. Once he’s done, he ghosts his fingers over the backs of your hands as he pulls away, which you try not to shiver at.

You shift your weight, ready to turn away back towards the road, when Mingyu takes a half step closer, shortening the distance between. He doesn’t touch, only hums a short note, so that your attention snags upwards, towards his face. Mingyu’s gaze burns as it flits over your eyes, the bruise on your cheek, the split in your lip. He reaches a hand up, hovering it just beneath your jaw in silent question.

It could be the last day of your life. So you answer, tilting your head just slightly so that your cheek brushes his palm, warm and calloused. It makes your pulse stutter clumsily. Something fierce begins to bleed into Mingyu’s expression, shifting his solemn despair into a bright devotion.

“Be brave, Owl.”

It’s the last you feel of his warmth. You walk the rest of the way in silence as icy as the terrain around you. Mingyu leads you by a length of rope fastened around your restraints, and you follow faithfully, eyes trained onto his back. In the final stretch of the way up to the gates, you watch as his gait turns purposeful, each foot placed intentionally, and he slides back into that feline warrior you’d witnessed against the bandits.

Finally, Taebaek, northernmost fortress and living grave to the most wicked transgressors of the kingdom appears, nowhere at first and then suddenly looming above you, in a jagged black silhouette that you can barely make out from the swirl of cloud and fog and snow above you. Compared to the severity of the ramparts ahead, its gates are plain and insubstantial, manned only by a single guard at its center.

You don’t realize that you’ve paused to stare, until Mingyu gives a rough tug to your leash and you stumble shakily to your knees. The knight doesn’t even look behind him as he pulls again, until you shove yourself back onto your feet. It’s a facade, you know this, but your stomach roils uneasily and your eyes sting with unshed tears.

“Hail,” Mingyu calls out to the guard. Even his voice is foreign, edged with a threat and growling out from his throat, instead of rumbling in his chest.

“Hail, good Sir. Please state your title and your business.”

Mingyu reaches behind to grasp you by the nape, tender fingertips leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, before they tighten into a claw. He shoves you forward and down onto your knees again, head bowed before the oppressive terror of Taebaek.

“I am the Sun Knight of the Lion’s Pride, Mingyu of House Kim, of the Wolves. I bring before you a criminal, befitting of Taebaek’s eternal embrace.”

-

You’re brought into the stronghold, wrists and ankles and throat shackled by iron. The guard’s touch stings like acid, and he drags you along like a chained beast. Mingyu trails behind you, like a silent shadow, and though you’re endlessly bolstered by his presence, you suddenly wish that he wasn’t here to see you like this. The holding room that you pause within is vast, as wide as a nobleman’s feasting hall and endlessly tall. You steal glances around and find yourself surrounded by massive statues of personified beings that you recognize as the five gods: Sun, Moon, Earth, Sea, and Sky. With a dry swallow, you try to cover the laugh that itches at your throat at the irony of religious symbols in such a godless place.

The guard shoves you back onto your knees. He speaks in a voice as toneless as the air in the room.

“Name your crimes.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu step forth, ready to deliver whatever he’d planned on professing, but before he can speak, the guard interrupts.

“Pardon, Sir, but here at the fortress, the prisoners are required to offer their sins up in their own voices beneath the gods’ gazes.”

“I was not made aware of this principle.”

“Forgive me, Sir. It is a newer policy that has been created by the High Warden.”

Mingyu shifts his weight, boots scraping the stone beneath anxiously. Whatever script he had created has now dissolved into ashes. No matter. For once in this entire voyage, this is something that you have been prepared for. You keep your head bowed, fettered by the weight of the iron collar, shutting your eyes as you recite the words that you’ve been practicing, every night since you were eight years of age. The prayer that you’ve silently rolled over on your tongue to devote to memory, preparing—in case the gods were real—for the day you would meet judgment.

“I am a kinslayer. My mother and father both perished in a fire of my design. They protected me first, told me to run for safety, not knowing that I was the one who caused the fire. I watched as they choked on the smoke, as they screamed from the flames. I did nothing to help them.”

Now that you’ve spoken the truth out loud, formed them into words and uttered them in your voice, it finally feels real. You had lived all these years blaming the sun, the drought, and the dry heat, but deep down, you had known that there was no other than yourself to blame. It was your fault that your parents and the owls and your home burned into ashes. Everything that came afterwards had been your punishment to bear for making it out alive alone. Though you barely lift your eyes, you can feel the imposing presence of the five gods’ statues, as if their spirits live within the carved stone. Kinslaying alone cannot be sufficient enough to warrant Taebaek’s eternal cold embrace, so you continue.

“I have lived for money. I have looted and stolen and killed others in exchange for coin. Worst of my crimes, I underestimated a knight, the Sun Knight, and thought that I could swindle him. I am only sorry that I got caught doing it.”

Satisfied, the guard who greeted you at the gates grips your chains and yanks hard. You lurch forth, led by the wrists, and swallow away the yelp that forms when the edges of the iron cuffs bite into your arms.

“We’ll take it from here, Sir. Thank you for your escort.”

You can’t even turn to glance one last time at Mingyu before you’re being wrenched forward again.

They lead you down what feels like a thousand corridors, at times taking immediate turns, walking straight for minutes at others. You’re weary, weighed down by your restraints and the frigid, thin air of the mountains, but you take Mingyu’s orders to heart and study each step that you take deeper into Taebaek. Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, left, straight at the gate with a tattered red flag marker. You encode every new direction in your mind and devote it to memory.

You arrive at your cell abruptly. It’s the first holding in a line; you can’t see into the others, but it seems that all of the cells are occupied, judging by the latched doors. The guard who holds your leash shoves you through the gate and slams it shut even before you and your chains have finished crashing down onto the stone floor. Unceremonious and callous.

You wince and pick yourself up to crawl into the cot placed against the far back wall of the cage. The cot can barely be called one, made up of a thin padded sheet that barely blocks the chill from the floor beneath. Nearly every inch of your body aches now, from your untrained legs to the cosmetic beating you’ve received from Mingyu. You long to drift asleep, for just a moment to gain your bearings and regain some strength.

“Hello, new neighbor. Welcome in. I sure hope that you manage longer than the last one. I’m so bored, and the lad on my other side is just so sullen that I fear he might be simple minded.”

A languid voice croons out from the cell to your right. You can’t see who it belongs to from where you are, as only the front half of the shared wall has been set with iron bars, the latter half blocked with gray brick. You’re keen on ignoring them, exhausted and cold, but push yourself up and off of your cot to crawl over to the front of your cell. You kneel, wincing when even the stone’s chill cuts straight through your clothes and into your joints, and grip at the bars to peer into the neighboring cell.

The prisoner occupying it is stretched out onto their own cot but at your rustling turns to glance your way. For a moment, your breath is knocked out of your lungs, as you behold one of the most beautiful people you have ever seen. You had thought that traveling with the Sun Knight had all but immunized you against beauty, but where Mingyu is boyishly handsome, this stranger possesses a delicate, otherworldly elegance. Without a doubt, this is your Angel. You silently thank all of the gods for the fortune they’ve granted you in putting you into this cell. Without hesitation, you forgo all introductions, muttering over the code, an excerpt of a poem, that Mingyu has given you.

“The lion basks, but the sunlight is cold.”

Angel shoves himself to sit up on both arms. He freezes for a moment, glances from you to the wall on his other side warily. The man picks himself up to stand, and when the blanket falls from his lap, you notice his willowy limbs, thin wrists and ankles. There’s a gaunt edge to his cheeks that you’re certain wouldn’t have existed outside of this place, and you wonder how long he’s been imprisoned here for.

He gracefully floats into sitting on his side of the bars, hands brushing the cropped inky hair at his temples back as if he’s used to it being longer and then folding neatly in his lap. This close up, you see that his eyes nearly take up half of his face, vast with something archaic, like wisdom, and something blistering, like rage. It both fascinates and frightens you. Angel observes you as intensely as you do him before he completes the code back to you.

“Burn the clouds and shadows away to bring him warmth.” You watch as the man sweeps his calculating gaze over you. “Hello. I’m Angel.”

You dip your head into a careful nod. “The Sun Knight brought me here. You can call me Owl.”

Angel doesn’t smile—he doesn’t seem like he smiles easily, like Mingyu does—but something disarming and soft curls at his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Owl. How was your journey with our dear Knight?”

“Long. Exhausting. He talks a lot and is infinitely optimistic about everything.”

Angel does laugh, though, in the form of a quick puff of breath that instantly crystallizes. Amusement pulls at his sharp cheekbones, which lasts only for a fleeting moment, before his gaze snags onto your neck where the silver pendant lies in the hollow of your throat.

“Your necklace.” Angel nearly lurches into the dividing wall, thin arms poked between the bars into your cell. You jump and lean back, just barely out of reach from Angel’s hands. At your bewilderment, despite his jerky movements, he explains calmly, “That locket belonged to my little sister. The owl is the symbol of my family, and the amethysts are for the purple of our house colors. Please.”

With the newfound reckoning, your face burns. Of course it had been another facet of the plan and not a piece of Mingyu’s protection to bring in with you. You suddenly feel like an insipid child, stupid and tiny. If Angel notices your hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it, only holds out his hand patiently. You tug the chain up and over your head, passing it over, and with it, all of your lingering thoughts of the Sun Knight.

“Thank you,” Angel breathes, throat warbling, and for a moment, something wet and wistful passes over his eyes. He closes his fist around the locket, clutches it tightly to his chest. When he glances back up, none of the emotion remains, only a hard set to his jaw and a burning, rageful gaze. “The beginning of the end starts now.”

Better for you to know as little as possible, Mingyu had said. Now, as you rot in this tiny cell, you wish that you had even the slightest inkling of Angel’s plan.

Days pass by in a neverending, monotonous blur. You blink awake from restless slumber to the guards rattling their weapons against the barred doors. Shivering, you hunch on your cot, clutching the single blanket you’ve been given as tight as you can to preserve what little heat you produce. Twice a day, they come by with a bowl of cold, gray slop and a cup of water that’s mostly ice. You pick at the food and chew at shards of ice until your teeth chatter so violently that you can no longer.

Angel, despite his emphatic greeting on your first day, has grown withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Whenever you glance through the shared wall, he’s laid on his side, curled towards the far wall so that you can’t even see his face. You stare and stare at his back, waiting for action, waiting for any movement that signals that the plan is in motion. He doesn’t even stir once. He doesn’t even speak a word.

The hope that had been building and rising within you dies. Like a weak flicker of light, dashed out by an avalanche. You think of Soonyoung and the Dancing Spider, of Snowdrop and flying, of Mingyu and his sunkissed face. All things that had seemed too good to be yours forever.

You shut your eyes and try to rest. It seems you have the time now for all of the sleep you’d forgone in the Troughs. Sometimes you fall into black, dreamless naps and wake, even more exhausted than before. Sometimes you dream of golden knights and silver mares and wake with tears clinging to your lashes.

When you wake next, there’s a wild screech, as if metal is being torn apart. You jerk to your senses and push yourself up on your cot, just in time to see that your cell door has been forced open. The two guards that shove inside the already cramped space wear black cloth over their faces, revealing nothing of their identities except for their dark, beady eyes. Even this you barely have the chance to consider, before they reach you, ripping you from the blankets and winding chains around your wrists and ankles. A scrap of fabric that reeks of sweat tightens over your face, stealing your vision away. They yank you forward by the chains, dragging you along the rough stone, knees and elbows scraped as you tumble and fold in disoriented commotion.

“Heard there was a new kinslayer. Heard that it burned its family alive,” one of the men growls, voice tinged with disgust and hatred, “Didn’t think it’d be a tiny little bird. You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

A different voice rasps, higher pitched and mischievous, “It’s always the unassuming ones who are the worst. What’s the punishment for this one, boss?”

A quiet hum starts up as the first man considers. There’s a feigned thoughtful note that you can hear straight through. “Eye for an eye seems apt, eh? Bring me the torch.”

Agitation curdles into panic.

“No, no,” you thrash against your bindings, pleading blindly to anyone who might hear, “No fire, please!”

Something harsh and grating meets your ears, and a moment passes before you realize that it’s a cacophony of the guards’ mixed cruel laughter. “Do you think that’s what your mother and father thought in their last moments? No! Please, no! No fire!” The second man mocks loudly.

Your blood runs cold. For once, there’s nothing that you can think of that might get you out of this, nothing clever. Fear grips your heart within icy talons, rendering you powerless and defeated. You slump weakly against your restraints, staring at the black of the blindfold in hopes that the moment will pass quickly.

“Oh,” the first guard rasps, and you can hear his feet scuffing the stone as he shifts his weight. “That’s it, that’s a good little bird. No fire, since you’re behaving so well. You’re lucky that it’s me, you know. I don’t delight in tormenting little birds like some of the other guards here do.”

For a moment, your heart lifts with hope. Then, the screech of metal sliding against metal meets your ears. You barely recognize that something has happened, that something has changed, until you catch a waft of smoke and cooked flesh, like meat on a spit. The backs of your eyes flash with the explosions of a million tiny stars as a white-hot touch kisses your skin, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. It burns, so intensely, that for a moment, it feels like ice.

By the time that you recognize the sound of your own voice, keening and screaming and begging for it to stop, your mind is already distant, shoving away as far as it can manage. You nudge the part of you that feels the pain to the edges of your mind, letting something else fill it wholly. Vaguely, you recognize more jeering, more snickering.

Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, you recite faithfully, mouthing along to the words so that you don’t lose your place. Red flag in tatters.

You’re still murmuring the directions to yourself when they shove you back into your cell. They only let the blindfold fall once the door shuts behind the guards, but it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen their faces. You’ve heard their voices, and you’ll never forget them. You lie there, curled on the filthy stone, devoting the cadence and the rasp and the hatred of their words to your memory.

To your right, motion flurries as Angel appears at the shared wall. He curls his fingers around the bars, brow furrowed above eyes wide and black. “Owl,” he calls, “I’ll end it all, soon. Soon. I’m sorry.” He whispers fiercely, voice soft but brimming with fury, silver owl’s pendant gripped tightly in his fingers, “I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

You blink away tears, watching as the man called Angel turns into the image of a vengeful demon.

“Tomorrow, we get an hour in the yard. I’ll come find you there.”

-

“Yer a bottom feeder, aren’t ya?”

You peer up to a voice that sounds like stones scraping against each other. You had found and hunkered down in a far corner of the bare courtyard that they’d led the prisoners in your cell block out to, hoping to avoid any encounters with anyone but Angel. Not much luck there.

The voice’s owner is as ugly as it is, frame withered beneath a fashion of tattered rags and mouth pulled into a permanent sneer to show crooked and broken teeth. His greasy hair falls in sparse, limp clumps from a nearly bald scalp, pocked with scars and other blemishes. Despite his own terrible state, he manages to peer down his nose at you, airs shockingly condescending.

“What does it matter to you?” You bite out, pulling your legs closer to your chest and looping your arms around your knees. “We wound up in the same place in the end.”

The man’s snarl turns into a grin, which somehow makes him even uglier. “Knew it. I can sniff out a rat no matter where I go.” He tips his head to the side and makes a slow, careful appraisal of your face, which makes you feel filthy, even without being touched. “Though yer a pretty little rat, aren’t ya?”

You quiver and tuck your chin away, wincing when the motion pulls at the wound on your collar. The man starts to say something again, in that terrible, grating voice of his, when another interrupts him icily.

“Rancor, piss off.”

Just behind the withered man’s shoulder, Angel has appeared, as silent as a shadow. His eyes burn hot, but his voice comes clipped and as frigid as the mountain air.

Rancor’s attempt at a smile wipes away. “Oh? The pretty princeling can speak!”

Angel only flickers his dark gaze over to you. “I said. To piss off.”

“I’m just makin’ friendly chit-chat, is all. What’s it to yer royal sweetness?”

Before the man can continue, Angel dips his head just before Rancor’s ear to whisper something that you can’t catch. You watch as Rancor’s derision turns into fear. The withered man scampers away as quickly as he’d appeared before you, and you ease ever so slightly.

Angel dips into a crouch before you, using careful hands to tilt your jaw back. He tuts his tongue as he examines the skin there, skims his fingertips along the boundary of the wound. His touch is gentle, but the memory of the burning frightens you into flinching.

“Sorry,” the man soothes quietly and pulls away. Instead, he reaches low to gather your bare feet in his hands. His palms are warm as they try to massage some feeling back into them. “Where’d your shoes go?”

You blink once, twice. “Someone stole them, I think.” A dry laugh catches in your throat at the irony of it all.

Angel watches you carefully, and you try not to squirm beneath his intense appraisal. He thinks for a long while, as if deliberating with himself, then clenches his jaw, mind made up. He throws a careful glance over his shoulder to the rest of the yard, where the other inmates mill around in slow, fatigued motions. When he looks back at you, Angel’s face mirrors the expression he wore a few days back, when you were returned after your branding, fiercely determined and endlessly furious.

“Owl,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping over your ankle bone. “It’s happening soon. We’re to act on a moonless night.” You think back to last night’s sky; the moon had been nearly half-full still.

“Five, six days?” You whisper.

“Yes,” Angel hums. Another brush over your heel. He means to be calming you, you realize belatedly. You’re still not entirely certain of Angel, but he’s the only one you’re meant to trust in this grim fortress. “Your job is to hold out as best as you can manage until then. Keep your head down, and keep yourself safe. Do you remember the way out?”

You nod. “I never forget a thing.”

Angel’s lips press into something as close to a smile as he can manage. “Good. I’m relying on you to lead us out.” His brow creases as something rueful flickers over his beautifully enraged face. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. When we get out of here, I’ll make everything right.”

For the remainder of your time allotted out in the yard, Angel sits beside you, straight-backed and legs folded neatly. He glares at every person who dares to drift over to stare curiously at the pair of you. In a soft hum, he reveals to you everything.

Angel confirms the rumors of the former queen mother as true. She had been incarcerated at this very prison after ordering the deaths of the son and first grandson, robbing the kingdom of its Crown and his heir. Before the assassinations had occurred, she had enlisted a naive kitchen maid’s help in experimenting with her weapon of choice, and a smatter of young ladies in the court had been senselessly murdered. Angel’s younger sister had been one of them. He says this all in an even, detached drone, as if dwelling on any one word will undo his resolve. The anger never leaves his face.

You understand, finally, what the job is.

When the guards shout for your return at the top of the hour, you let yourself be pulled up to your feet by Angel, relieved to have learned the motive for this job. Justice, you might find unfamiliar, but vengeance agrees with you greatly.

-

The days bleed into one another slowly. You stare up at the waning moon each night, stomach aching as you count down until the moment of escape. Confined into the cramped cells once more, you spend most of your time curled beneath your blankets, heeding Angel’s words carefully and keeping yourself as safe as you can manage.

Angel no longer seethes in silent solitude after the day in the yard. He calls over questions about everything and nothing in a loud voice, feigning innocent boredom. Despite it, you think you can read the sincerety in his curiosity. Sometimes, you’re in your cots as you talk, staring up at the ceiling. Most of the time, you sit across one another at the shared wall, so close that your knees brush through the spaces between the bars, that you can speak in whispers.

You tell Angel about your owlery and about growing up beside winged creatures, battling a consuming envy from your own inability to fly. He laughs and brushes his fingers over your wrist when you tell him that you broke it as a child jumping out of a tree in an attempt to learn. He hums thoughtfully when you tell him that riding a horse feels like what you’d imagine flying would be like and that you’d like to own a horse, faster than the wind, one day.

Angel tells you that he misses his family. That he respects his father more than anyone else in the world, that he heeds his mother’s words more than anyone else’s in the world, that he adores his younger sister more than anyone else in the world. All this, he says with equal parts joy and sorrow. Angel loves his family so fiercely that your own heart aches. You wonder if you’ll ever love another the same, if you’ll ever be loved the same.

He asks you for your crimes. You tell him that you’d killed your parents in a fire.

You ask him for his. Angel murmurs in a tone close to murderous that he had all but been the one to condemn his own sister to death. That his hand had been the one to deliver poison straight to her door the night that she died. You read the abject void in his eyes as he recites this and decide to ask no more of him.

The night that the moon is barely more than a sliver in the sky, Angel whistles, already sat on his side at your shared wall. Exhaustion weighing down your limbs, you pull yourself from the cot and crawl towards the wall curiously. As soon as he sees you, Angel reaches his hands past the bars towards you, pressing a cold palm against your cheek, hooking his fingers to lift your chin. He hisses softly at the same time that you whine, as your wound tugs painfully.

“Owl,” Angel murmurs, brows knitted together, “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “A little tired, I think. Cold.”

“Cold?” He turns the palm against your face over to press his even colder knuckles to your cheekbone. “You’re burning up. And that’s not looking so good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you lean into his touch. After flinching away from contact with others for so long, you’ve become reliant on these fleeting moments with Angel, who offers his gentle hands as comfort in this horrid, vacant place. You’re not sure how else you could have managed without them.

“I’m okay,” you insist hazily, unsure if your mind fogging is from the fatigue or from a fever. Nevertheless, you recite your memorized directions silently to make sure that it won’t affect tomorrow’s plan; you manage without stumbling. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

Angel holds your face, eeriely still. His mouth purses in thought, as he runs calculations in his mind. Whatever he concludes on doesn’t please him. You can tell by the way his expression darkens, so you reach up to grip at his fingers, as firm as you can manage.

“Angel. I have battled worse than this before. I will not fail.”

“Everything must go accordingly for us to make it. It will need to be perfect.”

You’re unyielding when you urge, “I will be perfect.” And he must see something convincing enough. Angel nods once to you, once for himself.

“Alright. Our trust lies in you.”

The morning is gray and silent, as if all of the air has been sucked out from the atmosphere.

You cling to your blankets, shivering despite the palpable flush in your cheeks. When you swallow hard, your throat sticks to itself, dry and painful. Hard to remember what this was for. What you’re so hellbent on making it out of here for, instead of letting yourself fall into the tantalizing pull of sleep. Everything’s so cold, your throat and head so hot, and all you’d like to do is fall back into your cot and tug the blanket up to your nose.

A scuff from the cell to your right has you blinking your eyes back open. Angel is a dark smudge curled at his cell door, knocking a fist against the metal slab.

“Quit all the noise,” a gruff voice grunts from the hall.

Angel slams his hand harder. “The girl has an infection. She needs to be seen at the infirmary, or else she’ll die.”

The guard laughs in a sneer. “Great. She’ll be one less mouth to feed.”

You quiver at the thought. Angel hangs his head, frustrated, before he clenches his jaw and punches the door once more.

“That’d be the fifth death in a month’s time. Don’t you think the High Warden will get suspicious? Early deaths mean shorter punishments.” Angel lets out a derisive snort. “That girl’s been here two weeks. Hardly long enough to even consider penance.”

There’s a pause, as the guard outside seemingly contemplates this.

“Fine. But you’ll go and grovel for help.”

Angel turns to glance at you through the bars, mouth curled in triumph. The dim of the cell casts a shadow over his ethereal face, which makes his eyes smolder brighter. I’ll be back, he mouths soundlessly.

You nod, and he’s gone. You shut your eyes, only while you wait out his return.

Your eyes shoot open at the sound of metal creaking. It takes you a moment to realize that your cell door has been swung wide and then another to realize that the man inside your cell isn’t a guard, but Angel wearing a guard’s gray uniform. The cloth mask obscures most of his face, but you could recognize those eyes anywhere. Now, there’s a vivid alarm in them, as he thrusts over a bundle of cloth. Another uniform set.

“Put this on,” he orders, words clipped and void of anything but urgency, “We’re moving now.”

The exhaustion evaporates as your brain floods with adrenaline. Hurried but steady, you pull the trousers on over your threadbare pants. While you’re shoving your arms through the tunic and cloak, fastening the mask over your nose and mouth, Angel drops to a crouch to help you fold up the extra length of the legs into neat cuffs. Still no shoes. No matter.

Angel straightens to standing, takes one look at you, and then he’s lurching out of the cell. He hurtles down the hallway, in the direction that you were brought over, but when he reaches the end of it, he swivels his head left to right, unsure.

Without pause, you take the lead, letting the mantra in your head play in reverse as you retrace your memories. On and on, the two of you stalk down the halls, in a clipped, urgent manner, turning stoically silent whenever you pass by other guards, who barely pay you any mind. You only let go of the shallow breath that you’d been holding in when you reach the red flag in tatters. Only a bit left to go. Straight for fifty footsteps.

On the fortieth step, you nearly barrel straight into a pair of guards, burly and unyielding. This far away from the cells, they must be part of the gate watch. The men fan out and block the hallway. The one on the left narrows his eyes. The one on the right doesn’t even feign doubt, and his hand reaches for his belt.

Made clumsy with fever and fatigue, you barely register the silver flash of a blade before you’re being roughly shoved aside by Angel, who has lunged forth to deflect the weapon with a knife of his own. The blades squeal in a nasty clash of metal, which rattles you enough to jerk to your senses. Angel, despite his slight and delicate build, makes quick work of the guard, slicing neatly at his wrist so that his fingers loosen around his weapon.

You recover, dipping to snag the blade by the handle as it falls before it even hits the ground, and you’re ducking beneath Angel’s arm to dart forward. The guard on the left doesn’t even make a sound as you spring up to score his throat with the dagger.

“Go,” Angel hisses. You glance over just enough to see him do the same to his opponent. The bodies crumple to the stone in unison. It was a nearly soundless struggle, but there’s no telling when the next round of sentries will come through.

You obey.

Ten more steps, right, left, left. The hall leads into the massive holding room where you were made to confess your crimes. It’s empty, save for the statue of the gods and their presence. You wonder what they think of what they see; two false inmates hurtling past in stolen uniforms, killing like it means nothing more than survival.

It’s only a straight shot from the room to the perilous stone bridge that leads to the front gates. Instead of being resolutely shut against the outside, you squint through the fog to find that one gate has been cracked open. As you hurtle closer, you find a heap of dark uniforms, more fallen guards, snow soaked red.

Angel bounds forward and through the gates, through freedom, reaching to grip you by the wrist and tug you out with him.

“Jeonghan!”

Just up ahead from a nearby bank of snow, the subject of your greatest nightmares in the past two weeks awaits, stalwart and tall and terribly handsome. The Sun Knight stands, blood-soaked sword in one hand, a blazing torch in the other. Sturdy Summer stamps her hooves at his side, while silent Snowdrop waits patiently a few yards back from where she’s been tied. He whistles, sharp and shrill, tipping his head to the side as he gestures for the two of you to move back. Then, you watch, curious and confused, as he throws the torch. It sails over the gates in a blaze and lands atop the slain bodies, where it catches rapidly, hungrily, as if they’d been soaked in oil.

“That’s the last of the gates,” Mingyu grunts, chest heaving with exertion. “Taebaek should be up in flames within the hour.”

You blink once, twice. Then, you stare harder through the fog, towards the hazy silhouette of the fortress. Its stark towers and spires, north, east, and south, are smudged by thick clouds of gray—smoke—and at parts, patched with flickering color: red, yellow, and orange—fire. Haltingly, you try to piece together an explanation, but the cold and the relief flooding your veins snuff out any attempt at forming logic.

Angel—Jeonghan—catches you by the elbow and holds you by the waist just as you start to sag into his side. “Owl,” he murmurs, voice no more than a breath, “We made it.”

Mingyu trudges through the snow, closing the distance, and takes Jeonghan into a tight embrace, hissing, “Jeonghan, you mad devil. It’s good to see you.” Still pressed into Jeonghan’s side, you also get pulled into Mingyu’s warmth and the scent of leather and cloves, the same that your nightmares were cloyed with.

Without letting go, Mingyu turns his honeyed gaze to you, relief and worry equally bright in his face. “Owl, you are a miracle. A godsdamned miracle.” Then, he reads the tight urgency in Jeonghan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

The last of the adrenaline fades, and your knees buckle. You let out a weak cry, but faster than you can fall, Mingyu dips to snake his arm over your waist. He tucks you against his side, reaching to pull a side of his black wolfcloak over your shoulder. The instant warmth makes you shiver violently, a whine catching in your throat. “I’ve got you,” he mumbles, still looking to Jeonghan for a response.

“Infection, I suspect,” Jeonghan answers, words clipped and purely efficient. “There’s a burn on her neck that doesn’t look good. I’m worried that it’s so close to her head and her heart.”

Mingyu crooks his head to pull back the collar of your uniform. When he speaks next, his voice has turned icily quiet, “They branded her?”

Jeonghan’s eyes darken in a stony, silent reply. “How long did it take you to ride here?”

“Eight days. Though, we started at the Spider, so it took half a day to even get out of the city.”

“Are the horses well rested?”

“Snowdrop is anxious to run; we were moving too slow for her liking. Summer hasn’t been doing so well in the cold, so I’m sure she’s eager to leave. We can move quick, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jeonghan hums as he considers this. “Three days?”

“Might be possible. We make minimal stops and ride through the night.”

“It’ll have to be done.”

By now, you’ve stopped listening, too exhausted to pay attention to the two men as they murmur their plans. You watch through lidded eyes as they agree on something and as Jeonghan approaches Snowdrop with an outstretched hand. To your surprise, the white mare chuffs happily, and you watch as a genuine smile stretches at Jeonghan’s mouth. Of course, you think to yourself with a strange pang in your heart. Jeonghan is Snowdrop’s rider. Both remarkable creatures of an otherworldly beauty. You can’t help but smile too at their reunion.

“Owl.” Your attention draws back as Mingyu calls. “You’re going to be riding back with me. Is that alright?”

You nod. How chivalrous of him to ask, you muse to yourself. A knight in every manner of the word. A funny warmth spreads in the pit of your stomach.

With your permission, Mingyu lifts you up onto Summer’s saddle, then slides up into his seat behind you, chest to your back, legs bracketed around yours. You have no room to be shameful as you greedily lean into his heat, sighing when he brings his cloak back around to cover you.

“Mingyu,” you breathe.

It’s much too cold, even tucked beneath the knight’s wolfskin, but it’s warm where Mingyu holds you against his chest, arm banded over your waist tightly so that you won’t slide from the saddle. When he doesn’t respond, you call his name again, firmer this time, and watch with hazy delight as his lips part and gaze darts down to you in surprise.

The clouds overhead have just begun to break, and daylight spills onto his face and turns his gaze molten and golden. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s made up in your head anymore, but one thing is certain. You need to tell him what you’ve been thinking since the first moment that you met him before you lose your chance to. Already, your head’s spinning, vision flickering in and out, as the fever threatens to consume you whole.

You warble the words out, clumsily earnest, “I know why they named you the Sun Knight.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you have been kissed by the sun, and it rises in your eyes.”

As you mumble, you spend the rest of your strength in holding yourself upright and slump into the knight’s hold, consciousness slipping away from you like sand between your fingers. The last thing you hear is Mingyu’s voice, as gentle as the sweep of his mouth over your brow.

“And the moon in yours, dear Owl.”

-

“Now there’s a proper owl. Jeonghan, you’re more of a peacock, really.”

You dip your head, bashful at the immediate attention drawn to you as you slip out into the hallway to join up with the entourage awaiting you. Jeonghan greets you with a hand that tightens over your elbow, firm and bolstering, as he jipes back at his father, “At least that means I’m beautiful.”

He tips his face down to study yours, winking when he sees that you smile at his theatrics. Only a few weeks have passed since the escape from Taebaek, but the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw have eased away. When he brushes his fingers against his temples out of habit, his hair there has grown long enough now to be swept back. If you had thought that Jeonghan was beautiful back when you first met him, he is truly angelic here, at home and with his family and friends, draped in his purple silks and decorated with jewelry, color in his softened cheeks.

Lord Yoon sighs, exaggerated and loud, before he shakes his head, holding his brow. “My own son,” he laments. “Where did we go wrong?”

For someone as formidable as the Crown’s Master of Whispers, Jeonghan’s father behaves rather impishly around his family, you’ve come to learn. It’s not difficult to see where Jeonghan’s personality comes from.

It’s also not difficult to see where his beauty comes from. Radiant as ever, Lady Yoon smiles, tittering gracefully behind her hand, as she ushers you both forward. “Let me take a good look at you,” she murmurs, taking you from Jeonghan’s side to hold you at arm’s length. “Now, you are truly our daughter, in name and in looks.”

Weeks ago, you’d woken up, not in hell, not on a dingy Trough tavern bedroll, but in a plush palatial infirmary bed. Infection had rendered you near death for the first days, the healers had informed, but by the gods’ good graces, and the Crown’s personal order to do whatever was deemed necessary to keep you alive, you’d managed to be brought back from the brink. Once regaining consciousness and recovering in the infirmary, you received notice of an account at the Crownsland Bank made under your name—your real name, which you hadn’t even told Soonyoung—with the credit of one hundred thousand Dragons. It hadn’t, however, changed the fact that you still had no home or family to return to. They allowed you to stay in the infirmary for as long as you needed to gain your bearings, but the implication was made clear that you couldn’t live there permanently, of course.

In the midst of your fretting about overstaying your welcome, Jeonghan had paid you a blustering visit, frightening all of the infirmary personnel with his sudden appearance. He thrust upon you a stack of papers, scrawled with plenty of words, most of which you couldn’t even make sense of, and announced that his family had put in a formal request to the Crown to adopt you into their house, effective immediately. You later learned that the Crown had signed off on the request immediately because Choi Seungcheol never denied his childhood friend anything, especially not after the mission that he overtook to deliver his vengeance. Within an hour’s time, and with no regard to your own say in the matter, you had been brought over to the Yoons’ grand estate in the Western Quarter of the Crownslands and written down in all official documents as a noblewoman of the House of Owls, tacked onto the current generation as the third Yoon issue.

In your first days on the palacegrounds, you learned that the presence of Jeonghan’s true sister still lingered everywhere. Everyone that you’ve met in Court has had nothing but noble things to say about her: that she was even more beautiful than her brother, that she was intelligent and kind and talented, that she was taken too soon, too unfairly from this world. You remember Jeonghan’s grief when he saw her locket around your throat, the ire in his voice as he delivered his vengeance, the immense love that he has for her. You could never amount to anything remotely close, and you don’t want to. If they look upon you, hoping that they’ll find a glimpse of the late Yoon daughter, they’ll find nothing but disappointment, and you don’t intend to make a mockery of the dead.

You’d belatedly learned a lot of other things too. That the silver necklace you entered Taebaek with had truly once belonged to Jeonghan’s sister. That it was actually a locket that carried poison. That he had used it to kill the queen mother in the infirmary because he had known that she was recovering there from an illness.

A love for a sister great enough to deliver himself as a prisoner and weather Taebaek’s frigid cruelty for months, with blind trust that someone would be as crazy enough as him to complete his plan.

You reach for Lady Yoon’s hands to close your fingers around hers and correct, “Adopted daughter.”

“Semantics.” Jeonghan shatters through the moment with a languid grouse, returning to your side to hold you by the elbow again. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond curl to his mouth as he complains, “Come, dear sister. I’m starving, and I would love to go pester the sovereign Crown of our beloved kingdom.”

The affair of the night is a celebration that the Crown has requested for Jeonghan’s safe return. You feel strange feasting over an event that, at its core, burnt down a stronghold and its hundreds of occupants and nearly killed you, too, but Jeonghan’s presence smoothes out your nerves and so do his smiles that have been coming easier since being home.

The event, touted as private and intimate, is hosted in the palace proper, within a ballroom that Jeonghan claims to be the smallest and least ornate, but you can’t help craning your neck back to stare up at the massive chandelier and the grand painted ceiling as he leads you past the threshold. Everything glitters, gilded in gold or silver, and with each turn of your head, a jewel winks in the corner of your vision. At your side, Jeonghan waits patiently, smile curling wider with every amazed breath catching in your throat.

Before you can allow yourself to marvel further, you accompany the Yoons up to the dais to give your greetings to the Crown. Seungcheol meets them with warm familiarity and gives you a welcoming smile too, but while they share polite conversation, you can’t seem to still your nerves around the Crown and his proximity, having had every reason to fear authority in the past. As your family dips respectfully and steps back to allow another noble family to make their greetings, you think that you won’t ever adjust to living in the Crownslands, never mind as part of the family closest to the sovereign’s.

You follow along the Yoons, mouth pulled into a strained smile as noblemen and women step forward to greet Jeonghan and introduce themselves to you. They marvel over your successful return, each new encounter tacking on another detail of the mission, made increasingly valiant and noble. You wonder if they know how you blubbered like a child when the guards burned you, or if the stories omit that bit.

“Hail, Owl.”

You crook your head over your shoulder, immediately savoring the sight you’re rewarded with. The third and final guest of honor, Mingyu approaches elegantly, dressed in crimson silk fitted so perfectly, as if the lengths of fabric had been draped over him and then cut to length and fashioned together upon his frame. His collar cuts low just enough to reveal the jut of his clavicle and the golden pendant hanging at his throat, carved with a star-eating wolf. His hair, which by the end of your journey had grown long enough to curl boyishly at the nape, has been cropped neatly. Off of his warhorse and out of his riding leathers, Mingyu looks the image of a proper nobleman. It’s the first that you’ve seen of him since you fell unconscious in his saddle, before your life changed so drastically. You wish, desperately, that you were immune to his charms, so that you wouldn’t be standing here in the middle of the hall, gaping.

“Hail, Knight.” You recover a beat too slowly, and Jeonghan snickers from your side. You shoot him a glare, but your adopted brother only dips to ghost his lips over your forehead in parting and sweeps away, off on a quest to bother as many of his friends as possible, no doubt.

“The sigil is fitting, of course.” Mingyu graces you with a smile, gaze dipping to your neck, where the silver owl locket he once handed you hangs. Jeonghan had returned it, poison-free, to you as a gift to celebrate your adoption. “But how are you getting along with your new House colors?”

The Yoon banners fly purple and silver. You’re in no position to mind them, previously having had no symbol nor color to your family’s name, but you’re still getting accustomed to a wardrobe of only colors, especially when you’d worn the drab grays and browns of the Troughs for most of your life. When the attendants appeared at your door earlier, they couldn’t be turned away, not today, insisting that they must help you dress for an audience with the Crown. You had had no choice but to let yourself be pressed into a garment of violet silk so soft that it feels like running water over your skin. You glance down at yourself now, at the dress, at the owl in flight embroidered in delicate silver thread onto your sleeve, at the heavy rings that have been resized to perfectly slide onto your fingers. Suddenly, you’re aware of the knight’s silent appraisal of you, and you run your palms down the silken sleeves, a bit self-conscious.

“Getting used to it still. To all of it, really. What do you think?”

Mingyu's grin is quick, eager. “I think you look like royalty.”

You nearly forget yourself, whatever you were meaning to say sticking to the back of your throat. Before you can allow yourself to flush at how guilelessly he answered, someone catches your attention from the corner of your vision, enrobed in sleek black. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes flash your way, and you turn away from the knight, tucking your prior thoughts away for later reflection, towards the approaching newcomer, hissing out with no real venom.

“Traitor. You lied to me.”

Kwon Soonyoung grins back at you with a one-shouldered shrug. “Technically, everything I’ve told you is truthful. I own The Dancing Spider. I run a network.”

Turns out, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t just run a network; he is the network. In your days recovering in the infirmary, through your sparse conversations with the healers’ assistants, you’d picked out the truth about your friend, the tavern owner, who, in actuality, was the second child and only son of House Kwon and the prodigious master of the Crown’s extensive network of mercenaries, sellthieves, and other rogueish informants. A Spider with a web that reaches across every nook and cranny of the kingdom.

“Whatever,” you sniff blithely, studying the man. “Lying by omission is still lying.”

He’s traded his simple clothing—which you suppose was more of a disguise for him—for an ornate black doublet, tailored perfectly to his form. There’s a spider stitched in iridescent thread at his chest, its legs radiating out from the center to the sides, encircling his ribcage. Here, Soonyoung even carries himself taller, more assured, sharp gaze steely and serious. You wonder, now, which version of Soonyoung is the truest.

“I thought you were a common house pest. Didn’t realize you were the Crown’s Spider.” You’re not sure how to tell him that you’re glad to see him again, that you appreciate everything that he’s done for you all these years, so you settle for the next most pressing thought in your head, squinting in scrutiny, “I can’t believe you had me paying you copper coins when you’re the heir to a noble House, Kwon.”

Soonyoung huffs, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulls out something that you can’t recognize. He tosses it over your way, which you easily snag out of the air. You glance down at your palm and find it weighted down by a tiny leather pouch. When you ease the drawstrings open, you spy the contents, a mixture of mostly copper, some silver coins.

“I was going to return them all, some day, and tell you the whole truth, too.” The Spider winks at you rakishly. “Though you also don’t need them anymore, hm?”

“I’ll find a use for them.” You grin back, reaching for your pockets before quickly realizing that your new silks have none. Another thing that needs getting used to; noblewomen apparently have no need for pockets, not when their attendants can hold and carry things for them.

Instead, a large upturned palm slides into view. You tilt your head up and find Mingyu reaching for the pouch, eyes alight with purpose, no matter how small, eager to serve. Your heart stutters over itself.

As if he can hear it, Mingyu flashes you a tiny smile, “Let me hold onto them for you, my lady.”

You sniff to feign indifference, drop the pouch of coins into his hand, and stride off without a word, in search of Jeonghan’s bracing presence, and a cold drink.

Having successfully found one and not the other, you stick along the wall, glass in hand, as you scan the room and its inhabitants. Amusement tugs at your lips as you watch Soonyoung bicker with Jeonghan about something you can’t quite catch from this distance. Others, whose faces and names you’ve been briefed on but haven’t been introduced to, mill around in their own circles, but you catch the shared fondness and familiarity in the way they look at one another. Trusted friends from childhood, from birth, as Mingyu had once described to you.

Even the older members of Court seem to have their established groups. Jeonghan’s parents recline in easy conversation with a woman robed in black and the spitting image of Soonyoung and the Master of Arts, whose own son, Chan, laughs boisterously in the crowd watching the argument.

You think that you’ve gone unnoticed by the room, especially from your spot between the folds of the window curtains, so you jolt, alarmed, when someone calls you by your given name.

The Crown himself has managed to sidle up beside you. Much like the lion of his family’s heraldry, he wears his hair in a thick, black mane, swept back and off of his forehead, wisps curling at his nape. There’s a curve to his mouth, but the intensity of his gaze arrests you in space. As he approaches, so close that you can smell the coiling incense on the brushed velvet of his coat, he lifts his own flute of wine between loose fingers towards your direction in greeting.

Your spine straightens, and you stammer, “Just Owl is fine.” Then, you add clumsily with a stifled wince, “If it pleases the Crown.”

“Just Seungcheol is fine,” he copies your words, smiling politely and almost sheepish, “I apologize. I don’t mean to frighten you, Owl.”

“Not at all. It’s just—” You thumb at the rim of your glass, catching a drop, ruby red, onto your finger, stealing glimpses of the Crown from the corner of your eye. “I’ve committed crimes in return for coin. I should be locked up in a prison, never mind live in the Crownsland and drink sweetwine with royalty and noblemen and ladies. Pardon me if I’m a bit…fidgety in your presence.”

Seungcheol hums a note, low and contemplative in his throat.

Even without looking straight at him, you can feel his gaze, searching and curious, at your collar, where the brand left by the Taebaek guard hides beneath your clothes. The attendants had carefully applied a salve onto the still healing wound, wrapping it with a piece of linen bandage, and then obscuring it beneath the collar of your silks. You’re no stranger to scars and find no shame in it being visible, but the first and only time Lady Yoon had seen the blemish, she’d grown pale and visibly uneasy so you’ve taken towards having it hidden away in the presence of nobility.

“You’ve bled for the Crown, so now the Crown bleeds for you.” A grin, suddenly boyish, snags at his mouth as he adds, “Metaphorically, of course.”

You smile back faintly. “I didn’t know I was doing it for the Crown. Even if I did know, I certainly would have done it for my own gains.” A quick glance around the room and its occupants, opulent and bright and merry, makes something bitter rise in your throat. “And look how much I have gained overnight for it.”

“Do you think yourself undeserving of it?”

You turn with a blink, surprised. Without an ounce of doubt, you answer solemnly, “Of course. A few weeks ago, I was an orphan and a Trough rat. Today, one of the most powerful families in the Crownslands calls me their daughter. All because I played the right game and played it well.”

Seungcheol’s gaze crosses over to Jeonghan, who is wholly rapt with his companions and unaware of your own. “I think you will find that you are not so different from your brother, Owl,” the Crown muses softly, then lifts his glass to take a long sip. Then, attention snagged by a group of crimson-robed individuals, he gestures towards them and prompts, “Handsome family, aren’t they?”

At the farthest end from your spot, Mingyu mingles with three others who are very clearly his parents and sister. As Seungcheol says, they are all magnificent, tall and elegant, shrouded in red and gilded in gold. You murmur your agreement, fascinated by the identical slant and sharp inner corners of Mingyu’s and his sister’s eyes, beautiful even from this distance.

“The House of Wolves is an old one,” Seungcheol hums, tapping his fingers along the stem of his glass, “The Kims have been around for as long as the Chois. They could have vied for the Crown at any moment in history and won it, probably. Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they’re masters of war, even in this era. At twenty, Mingyu’s father was named the youngest commander in a century’s time, under my grandfather’s reign. His mother is an unparalleled strategist, with his sister right behind her heels. Mingyu himself is one of the finest knights we’ve seen ever.”

You tear your gaze away from the family laughing together to regard the Crown cautiously. “Do you suspect that the kingdom is at risk of a coup?”

Seungcheol only chuckles, with a curt shake of his head. “No. House Kim doesn’t envy the throne. The wolves put family above all else, and nothing else will sway them.” His voice takes a thick, bitter turn when he continues. “Perhaps my house should have done the same. Maybe I would have a family yet.”

Jeonghan had told you the truth, the whole truth. The queen mother, Seungcheol’s grandmother, had slain her own son and grandson, purely out of displeasure that her husband hadn’t chosen her favorite son as his heir. She had appointed one of her loyal courtiers as the newest High Warden of Taebaek, expecting to be condemned there after the murders, in exchange for a comfortable life in the fortress. There had been a plush feather bed and a compact brazier in her cell, Jeonghan had discovered on his way to the infirmary.

A wistful haze flickers over the Crown’s eyes, and you read it instantly. It’s the grief that comes with being the sole survivor of your family. You know it so closely, so fervently, that your own heart aches.

“You are surrounded by so many who love you,” you offer, tipping your chin at the rest of the room, “And the Yoons consider you as one of their own, do they not?”

Seungcheol’s emotion whisks away, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “They do.”

“Then, I am now a part of your family as well.”

The Crown laughs, both cheeks dimpling, and it’s much lighter than anything he’s said to you all night. “Thank you, Owl. That’s very generous of you. I’ve always wanted a sister.”

At that moment, from the middle of the room’s commotion, a sudden swell of music starts up, as players with stringed instruments begin a warm up sequence. You puzzle at the sight and as people begin to pick themselves up and off of furniture.

Seungcheol shifts his weight from beside you, reaching to settle his drained glass onto a nearby side table. “And now for my true intention of coming over here: will you join me for the first dance?”

Blood drains from your face in abject horror, as you stammer, “What? I cannot dance, I’ve never learned! I’m a Trough rat, for gods’ sakes!”

Seungcheol doesn’t even try to hide the mischief glimmering in his eye, a grin easing wide open. “It’ll be short. Symbolic, more than anything, and everyone will be itching to get to dancing themselves to care about much.”

You clamp your mouth open and shut multiple times as you gape for words. “You’re the Crown!”

“You’re the guest of honor. You’d be doing me the pleasure. And I’d rather not waltz with Yoon Jeonghan or Kim Mingyu, if I can avoid it. Please, Owl. As family?”

Panic sours into irritation as you realize that you’ve been utterly, completely played by the sovereign of the kingdom.

-

Fire swirls furiously all around you. Flames flicker in a storm, with you in the eye of it. You can’t see anything past the crimson and yellow and orange blinding your vision. There are a thousand voices, saying a thousand things, laughing, jeering, mocking. All condemning you to a hell of your own making.

You wake with a start, vision flooding with black and blue and silver that chases away the bright heat. Sweat dampens your forehead, sticks your sheets to your entangled limbs. You reach beneath your pillow, out of habit more than anything, to run your fingers along the carved handle of Feather. Hovering from above, your adopted brother frowns down at you, a hand shaking you by the shoulder.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” Jeonghan offers as an explanation of his presence. “Thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh.” You sink into the mattress, exhaling a long, weighted breath. “Did I wake you?”

A shadow flickers across Jeonghan’s face as a cloud passes over the moon. “No. I don’t sleep well. Not anymore.”

You nod. Not that you can remember a time when you’ve ever slept well, but something about Taebaek and its horrors, no matter how brief your stay was, has altered your mind. Even the soft feathers of your new bed and the furnaceless warmth of your room bring no comfort to let you sleep through the night.

You shift over on the giant mattress, creating enough space for Jeonghan to slip onto it. He folds his legs neatly as he sits, knees bumping against yours. For a moment, you’re reminded of leaning against the bars of your cell wall, learning to trust one another, sharing as much warmth as you could lend. Maybe Jeonghan has the same thought; he smiles and pulls the covers over both of your laps.

You clasp your hands together tight to hide that they’re still trembling from the lingering claws of your nightmare gripping your heart. Jeonghan sees, you’re certain, but he’s too kind to comment on it. Instead, he prompts gently, “Did you enjoy yourself at the banquet tonight?”

“Yes. I enjoyed seeing you with all of your friends.” As an afterthought, you add quietly, “I was glad to see Soonyoung and Mingyu again.”

Jeonghan hums. “And what did Seungcheol discuss with you?”

“You noticed.”

“I don’t miss a thing.”

You grin. “The Crown conveyed his gratitude for my part in bringing you back home. He said that he will repay the favor for as long as I live.”

Jeonghan sighs but can’t hide the smile that curls onto his mouth. “Dramatic, isn’t he? He’s just glad that I made it back so he doesn’t have to convince someone else to be his best friend.”

You snort. Then, something that’s been nagging at you since the banquet comes to mind. “Why didn’t you serve Soonyoung when he asked for more wine?”

Jeonghan echoes your words, “You noticed.”

You give a quick shrug. “I don’t miss a thing.”

Your brother hums again, more thoughtful, serious now. “The night before my sister died, I was the last person to see her. She hadn’t been sleeping well, so she requested something warm to drink from the kitchens. I brought it to her and bid her goodnight. They say that her body was already cold and stiff when they found her the next morning. Probably, she drank the milk, fell asleep immediately, and never woke up.”

There’s an unsaid confession there, of an irrational fear that has emerged out of the tragedy. You shut your eyes against the horrible account. It makes sense now, what he had said back at Taebaek, that he felt like his hand was the one that delivered the poison.

Without thinking, you murmur, “At least she did not suffer.” Then, you hastily correct, eyes flying open, “My apologies. That was not the right thing to say.”

Jeonghan laughs; a quiet rasp of a noise, but genuine. “You, and the countless others who have told me that, would be correct. Of course, there are harsher poisons and more horrible ways to die.” He blinks hard, purple eyelids dark against his pale, moonlit skin. “Still, I cannot help but think that I was the one to deliver my sister’s death straight to her.”

You sit, still and silent, working up the breath to admit your own secrets. “It’s true that the fire that killed my family was of my doing. I was up late, reading in the owlery, even though my parents told me to go to sleep. I forgot to blow the candle out before I returned to my bed, and the flames spread quickly. It hadn’t rained for months at the time, I think. Everything was dry and hot.

“My mother woke first, told me to get up and check on the owlery, but there was no point. When I got there, the whole thing had already gone up in flames and all of the birds were dead. By the time I ran back to the house, our roof was on the ground. I just hope that the smoke killed them both before the flames did.”

Jeonghan offers no words of consolation, and for that, you are grateful. Perhaps he is the only one in this world who may understand exactly how you feel. He reaches a hand out, and when you slide your palm against his, you realize that he’s shaking, too.

“By the way, we didn’t bring you into our own home because we were looking to replace my sister,” he murmurs, voice quiet but something fierce regardless, “That’ll never be possible.”

“Of course.” You frown. “Did you think that I was expecting to? It’s very important to me that you say no.”

Jeonghan’s previously solemn face splits in two as he laughs at your bewilderment. “No. I’m just messing with you.”

Your anxiety melts away into irritation, and you’re imbued with the sudden urge to yank your hand away. As if he senses this, Jeonghan’s grip only tightens, to which you scowl, glaring to mask the relief trembling back down your throat.

“And here I thought we were having a meaningful conversation.”

“We are,” Jeonghan croons, “You didn’t let me finish.”

Though your heart still races and you’re more annoyed than nervous now, you yield and allow a smile at the sight of the harsh lines of his face easing away.

“I was going to say, we want you here because you’ve given us something more valuable than anything. You’ve granted us vengeance, and now the three of us can live in peace until the day we reunite with my sister. That, alone, is enough to love you as one of our own.”

You swallow hard, breaths shallow so as not to ruin the quiet of the night. There’s a sudden tearing in your chest, as all that you’ve denied yourself, fearing that your past would not merit you as deserving of it, settles into place right before you. A family. Warm hands around yours. A purpose beyond surviving to the next day.

Jeonghan’s eyes glitter as he muses, “I can see why you’re called Owl. You should have seen yourself just now.”

“Mingyu says it’s because he can see the moon in my eyes.” The words leave your sleep-loosened tongue sooner than you can reel them back.

Your brother nods, “He’s right.” Then, his smile turns impish. “You love him.”

You flinch as if burned. This time, when you pull your hands away, Jeonghan lets you. His bright amusement bleeds, morphed into something smudged and concerned. Shame flits over your face as heat stings your cheeks. “Don’t say something so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Jeonghan echoes curiously. “Why would that be so cursed? Are you not allowed to love Kim Mingyu? He certainly loves you.”

You bite out a dismissive scoff.

“I’m not meant for someone like him. He is not meant for someone like me.”

“Young, pretty ladies marry young, dashing knights all the time—”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jeonghan.” Breathing comes harder, mechanical, as you search for the correct words. “I’m not… I will only end up harming him.”

There was a story that your mother told you when you were a child. A story about a girl of the night falling in love with the sun, even though he burned her, even though he blinded her. Everyone condemned her, called her foolish for it, but the girl hadn’t thought of it that way. You think of yourself as that girl, hopelessly in love with the sun, scared to get close in fear of dimming his radiance. For he is the sun personified, and I am but a shadow.

Jeonghan shakes his head, wistful and pensive.

“If you truly think that way, the only one you’re hurting is yourself.”

-

“Hello, Owl!”

You’ve scarcely crossed over the threshold of the room, trailing Mingyu’s broad back, when a hearty greeting is sent your way. Sharing a glance with the knight, you peer cautiously around him to the rest of the sitting room, where a handful of the others have gathered for what Mingyu and Jeonghan described to you as a “day off”. You recognize them all, members of the Lion’s Pride, the Crown’s most trusted courtiers, children of royalty and nobility who you were introduced to at last week’s celebration: Soonyoung, your black-robed Spider; Minghao the artist; Hansol, distant cousin of the Crown; and Chan, the source of the emphatic greeting and owner of the notable laughter from the feast.

From the armchair that he’s comfortably tucked into, Chan smiles, gaze warm and curious, as if he has successfully befriended every person he has ever encountered in life. He wears emerald green, a sleek hunting dog’s design embroidered over his heart. You squirm, eager to be on the receiving end of his kindness but unsure of how to return it.

“Hi. Hello. Thank you for letting me inconvenience your days off.”

“Nonsense!” Chan exclaims. “You’re Jeonghan’s sister, which means that we’re all family now.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose as he approaches an unoccupied chaise that’s not quite at the table that the others sit at, but adjacent enough to be a part of the set. He beckons you to it, waiting until you perch carefully on one end and then sitting on the opposite. He’s close enough that you can hear the breath on his voice, but you can’t help the disappointment stirring in your stomach at the distance regardless.

“Ignore him,” Mingyu grunts, reaching for the table to pluck a handful of grapes from a platter that’s been polished to gleam. He pops a few into his mouth and crunches them with his teeth. “Chan’s just excited that there’s finally a newcomer that he can try and bribe onto his side.”

You ignore the flash of his fangs and the shape of his mouth as he chews to consider his words instead, brushing your palms nervously along the soft velvet of the couch. “His side for what?”

Reclined lazily on his own plush chair with his feet kicked over the armrests, Soonyoung grins with sharp teeth. “For anything. He likes to fight losing battles.”

“That’s not true,” Chan lifts a finger, brow pinched, “They will not let me win a single debate, even if I’m saying that the sky is blue.” He juts his mouth into a pout, and you can immediately understand why the others pester him so. “It’s quite unfair, actually. Take pity on me, Owl, won’t you?”

A laugh bubbles in your throat, sooner than you can stop it. “Sure. I can’t stand for injustice.”

“Wonderful! We’ll get along perfectly,” Chan preens, rewarding you with a sunny smile.

Minghao doesn’t look up from the sketchpad his face is buried within, but he gives a short, pitched giggle. Hansol huffs with amusement, passive expression crinkling for the first time since you’ve arrived.

From beside you, Mingyu’s head whips to you, looking as if you’ve betrayed him. “Owl, you don’t need to do all that to curry favor with him. Chan likes just about anyone under the sun who gives him the time of day. Like a puppy dog.”

“Look who’s talking,” Chan bites back immediately, without a beat. “You know that they also call you the Mutt Knight, right?”

“Hear, hear,” Soonyoung calls out mirthfully, “What are wolves, if not overfed, poorly trained dogs?”

You grin at Mingyu, who doesn’t even sulk at his friends’ teasing, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. From there, the banter dissolves away as the men attend to their own devices, your presence having naturally been absorbed into the matter of things.

Minghao’s pencil never stops, even as he looks to his friends to join in conversation or looks out the window for reference. Hansol scratches away at his own packet of papers. Judging from the rhythms he taps out against the table with his fingertips and the quiet humming, you’d guess that he’s working on a composition. Soonyoung and Chan start up a game of chess that, to you, seems to involve a lot more cheating than valid moves. Mingyu watches the game, whispering hints, real and fake, to both sides, eyes alight with mischief. You flick open the book you’ve brought with you but find yourself watching the fascinating group before you in lieu of reading the words.

Sound and silence exist in tandem, as voices call out questions and responses and jokes and jeers, then fade away without notice. They don’t make a point to include or exclude you, only give the perfect pauses for you to butt in if you have something to say. Everyone responds, whether through words or nods, and with each conversation, you find yourself loosening, learning the rhythm of this circle and this gathering. You think you’ve reached the barest tip of understanding this, their lifelong friendships and the fathomless love that they harbor for one another.

It’s so desirable that your heart aches. It’s so frightening that you wish you could hide your soul away from them all.

At some point, Jeonghan filters into the room, during a brief break between his affairs. Rapt by the conversation at hand, a fierce debate between Chan and Hansol, you don’t realize your brother’s arrival until he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead and his face swims into view, upside down.

“Han,” you mumble, pleasantly surprised, “I thought you were busy.”

“I am,” Jeonghan shrugs, puzzling over Mingyu, who has slumped onto the armrest to quietly doze. He leans to flick a nail against Mingyu’s forehead, startling him awake. “I told you to keep an eye on her, not to nap.”

You huff out a laugh, “I can fend for myself, Jeonghan. I’m alright.”

Your brother rests his palm atop your head, mussing the hairs there gently. His mouth softens into a smile. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

Jeonghan manages to settle the argument that has only gotten louder in the midst of your exchange with a sharp click of his tongue, and you watch, amused and enthralled at the way that he effortlessly silences the younger men. “Be good,” he chides with a quick glance at each occupant of the room, leans to kiss your temple in parting, and then sweeps away as suddenly as he had appeared.

As morning trickles into afternoon, the room grows warm and hazy with the scent of sunbaked linen as the breeze flickers through the curtains. Before long, your lids tug low and heavy. Everyone’s preoccupied with their own hobbies. You tuck your finger into your book to hold your place and decide to nap, just for a few minutes.

You don’t wake in a few minutes. You don’t even wake in an hour. In fact, you doze so soundly that when you do wake, you’re being roused by a gentle hand on your shoulder, blinking your eyes open to the sunset’s colors bleeding into the room.

“Wake up, Owl. I’ll walk you back to your room.” Mingyu mumbles from beside you, yawning and rubbing at his own eyes.

Disoriented and bleary, you dutifully trail along Mingyu through the corridors of the palace, not minding when he reaches behind to hold you by the wrist, guiding you through the twists and turns that you haven’t quite devoted to memory yet. The thick fog of sleep still hasn’t faded by the time you come to a stop at your door in the Western Quarter, and you find yourself frowning, disappointed, when Mingyu bids you a good evening and begins to turn away.

“Oh!”

You jump and glance up expectantly.

Mingyu pulls at a scrap of paper from his pocket and hands it over to you. When you accept it curiously, he shrugs, “Not sure what it is, but Minghao told me to give it to you. He also told me not to look until after you do.”

The paper is thick and textured, creamy in color, and it feels expensive even just by touch. You ease the crease open and blanch at the contents of it. Inside, a delicate sketch by graphite sprawls across the page. Two people sit atop a narrow couch. The smaller slumps into the larger’s side, head tipped against his shoulder, slumped and dozing and unaware of her position. The man crooks his own head down, held still and frozen in a stare. It’s a preliminary sketch, with rough lines and shading, but the one thing that the artist has captured are the faces. One slack and serene in slumber, the other fond and enamored and smiling.

You quickly snap the paper shut before Mingyu can catch a glimpse of it and thrust your hand behind your back. The bleary haze quickly disappears, as heat begins to crawl up your throat. Mingyu blinks back at you, curious, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he’s reaching into his other pocket, pulling something larger and rounded in shape from it.

“Can I show you something?”

When he holds the object up to your eye level, you scrutinize it cautiously. It’s a snarling wolf’s head, wrought in polished iron. You recognize it as a pommel, detached from the hilt of a blade, fashioned after his house’s sigil, as most noble knights tend to have. The star of his heraldry is represented by a perfectly clear diamond held in its maw, set tightly between four pointed fangs. Two mismatched gemstones, both brilliant, serve as the wolf’s eyes: a ruby and an amethyst. Mingyu’s thumb rests between the ears, the metal there dulled, as if worked away by habit.

In the midst of squirming at your stunned silence, Mingyu prattles, “This belonged to my father, and he gave it to me after I was knighted. I left it at home before I left for our journey because I didn’t want anything to happen to it. Anyway, I wanted to show you. Both of its eyes were red, for our house colors, but I had one of the rubies swapped out for a purple stone. For House Yoon—” He pauses, mid-stumble over his words, then corrects. “For you.”

Blood rushes violently in your ears. Why? Your mind swirls in question. You stare at the purple gem, you think back at the moment captured within Minghao’s sketch, you think of the way he looks at you, honeyed and tender and gentle. Why, why, why, why—

“Do you love me?” You blurt out, too frightened to even feel ashamed of how blunt the words come out.

“Yes,” Mingyu says plainly, expressive eyes burning like twin stars.

Loosened into the world so easily, the truth no longer haunts you from the periphery but attacks you head on. You wipe your sweaty palms down the front of your shirt, grimace without even meaning to. “Is it truly that easy?”

Mingyu lowers his arms and rolls his shoulders back, tightening his fingers around his pommel, brushing his thumb into the valley between the wolf’s pointed ears. He scans you for a long time as he contemplates his words.

“To love you? Or to admit that I do? Yes to both. It is the easiest thing I’ve done aside from learning to breathe.”

“Why?”

Mingyu breathes a mirthless laugh. His face crinkles into a wince, though he tries to take it in stride. “Gods, Owl. You don’t just ask someone why after they profess their love for you.”

You barrel straight through, deigning to beg while incapable of feeling the shame. “I need to know why. Please.”

Mingyu starts speaking before you can even finish, “Because you are honest. Because you are strong. You’re one of the cleverest and bravest person I have ever known. Because it pains me to see you try to be so strong on your own, and I want to be there for you when you need help. Even though you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”

Once, just this once, you want to be greedy. You want to be selfish. You want and you want and you want, without being scared to ruin it or lose it. Just this once, you let yourself want.

You have to stand on your toes to even reach to wind your fingers around Mingyu’s nape, tugging in an effort to make him duck. Surprise flickers past his face, then recognition has him dipping his head instinctually, before realization settles into the curl of his mouth, just as you press yours against it. Pleased, Mingyu hums, lips parting to nip at yours. He’s gentle and warm, eager but careful. His hands come up to your waist, canting you a few steps back into bumping against your bedroom door. In his left hand, he still holds the wolf’s head pommel, and the cool weight of the metal nudging your hip has you tipping your chin back to pull apart from the kiss. You drag in a breath to sober up from the heady rush of desire mucking up your thoughts.

Mingyu sucks in a few breaths to recover too, and then he’s crooking his head in an attempt to kiss you again. You yelp in protest, hands coming up to his chest to hold him back, “Jeonghan’s room is right there! We should—”

The heavy wooden door against your back pitches open, and a squeak forces its way halfway up your throat as you lose your balance backwards. In one swift motion, Mingyu braces you with one arm around your waist, swings both of you into the privacy of your room, and shuts the door behind him. When he turns back to you, mischief crinkles the corners of his eyes, lamplight bouncing and reflecting off of them. He doesn’t say more, leading you further into the room.

You reach the center, to where your bed stands, mattress dimpled with the pillows askew and the sheets messed up. Abruptly, you chide yourself for requesting that the attendants don’t do your cleaning for you, and even more for not having gotten into the habit of making your bed neat every morning. Mingyu barely bats an eye at your mess as he seats himself first at the closest edge, then guides you to standing before him, both hands still planted firmly over your hips, so close that your knees brush against his.

“Pretty.” His lashes flutter as he glances away, suddenly shy, confessing, “I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time now.”

Something simmers just beneath your skin, thrumming and alive. Desire, hunger, greed. All wicked sins, but nothing has ever felt more right. You curl your fingers into tight fists and realize that you’re still holding onto the scrap of paper from Minghao’s sketchbook. Wordlessly, you hand it over to Mingyu, nerves scraped raw with anticipation and terror.

He pulls his hands away to accept it, prying the page open with both thumbs. For a moment, he stares, and heart in your throat, you examine his reaction. When Mingyu finally moves, it’s to fold up the paper again and slide it into his own pocket. The pommel that he’s been holding onto all this time, he tosses over his shoulder, where it lands somewhere on your floor with a muted thump against carpet.

Then, with a laugh that sounds more like a giggle, Mingyu leans forward to grab you by the wrist, pulling you so firmly that you crash into his chest. He continues laughing, tugging and tugging, all the way until he’s reclined into laying on his back in the middle of the mattress, with you planted in his lap. From this angle looking down, you stare, awed and enamored, at the pink flush of his cheeks, the spray of hair mussed all around his head like a careless crown, the sharp flash of his fangs between grinning lips.

“Pretty,” you echo his words and smile back.

Mingyu tips his head to the side, slightly bashful, mostly pleased. His hands come up to rest lightly on your thighs, just above your knees. Though you try not to react, you can’t help but tense at his touch. He notices it, of course, and his blithe smile wavers a bit as he inquires politely, “Have you…been with someone before?”

“Sure. I’ve kissed boys before. When I was younger. Other orphans. If that counts.” You flush, mind buzzing, suddenly aware that you’re grasping for words and spitting out whatever seems apt. “But anything beyond that…” You shake your head.

“Never?”

“I…never. No. Not with anyone.”

He pulls himself back up into sitting, the intensity in his eyes softening, as he reads your anxiety. Mingyu hums quietly, soothing hands tracing up and down your sides, “That’s alright. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything at all. Just sit here like this, if you’d like.”

His voice is so tender, so adoring that your stomach pangs, cramping with desire.

“Want to,” you manage to blurt, eyes widening when you realize your honesty.

Mingyu breathes a soft laugh, “Yeah?” His smile so beautiful that your heart kicks pathetically against your ribcage. “What do you want to do?”

You dither, timid and bashful of your own inexperience. Kissing, you could initiate fine, but anything else, you’re afraid of stumbling through it too slow or too fast and messing things up.

At your silence, Mingyu traces his lips over your brow, “Bravest person I know, remember? Be brave.”

His linen shirt wraps taut over his chest, one lapel over the other, ties knotted at his side. Emboldened, you reach to tug at one, watching greedily as loop loosens and then unravels. The shirt opens up, flashing a glimpse of bare skin that instantly turns your mouth dry. You flush heavily, heat prickling up to the tips of your ears.

Mingyu laughs, a quiet puff of noise and breath, before he’s leaning forward again to ghost his mouth over your cheek, over your temple. His voice murmurs right by your ear, “Very brave, dear Owl, well done. Should I help you?”

You nod furiously, turning to hide your embarrassment.

“Ah, ah. Don’t look away.” Mingyu catches you by the chin, thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. “You’re smart. Use your words.”

You let your head be tilted up, greedily taking in the craftsmanship of his face from closer than ever. He’s perfect everywhere, even at the tiny scar over his brow that you’ve just discovered. A quiet plea rasps from your throat, “Please.”

Mingyu’s pupils blow wide and dark. His lashes flutter. “Such good manners,” he murmurs and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders.

Immediately, your gaze snags over not the sturdy line of his collarbones, which are quite distracting, but rather a severe jagged line that splits right above his heart and over his left shoulder. The regenerated skin there has turned white, stark against the rest of his burnished chest. Your breath catches, as you imagine the horrible injury that must have preceded the scar.

Mingyu assesses your reaction carefully, offering you a tender smile when you glance up at him to implore silently. He presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling, “Training accident when I was a kid. From one of my good friends, Seokmin. He cried for days after it happened. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure. Make sure to give him hell for marking me up—”

You’ve dared to press your fingertips along the edges where the healthy skin stitches to the scar tissue to trace along the line, when Mingyu cuts off with a sharp hiss. Frightened that you’ve hurt him somehow, you pull your hands away, lifting halfway out of his lap.

“No,” Mingyu urges quietly, jaw clenched, “it doesn’t hurt. Just wasn’t expecting that. Sorry.” He reaches for your wrist, guiding your hand back to him. “Feels good. Promise.”

You splay your fingers over his chest, right over the healed skin, touch so hesitant that it tickles your own hand. Warmth bleeds into your palm, Mingyu’s steady heartbeat pulsing against it.

Be brave. You hold your hand there, over his heart, and reach with the other up, knuckles dragging along the line of his neck, feeling his throat bob as he swallows heavily. Skim your fingertips over the strong set of his jaw, trace them along the pout of his mouth, the same way you’ve been imagining doing all this time. Mingyu shivers beneath you, though his skin thrums with heat, lips parting to flick his tongue out and swipe it over the pad of your thumb. When you glance up, surprised, his eyes have turned wholly black now, bright with purpose, like a loyal hound, like a wolf on the hunt.

It’s the only warning you’re given before Mingyu surges forward, bracing his hands over your waist to move you from his lap to reclining onto the mattress. He moves with gentle intent, pulling a pillow beneath your head, caressing your cheek as he pulls away, tugging at the hem of your shirt in prompt. You want to comply but turn abruptly and overwhelmingly self-conscious of the way he watches you.

In the midst of your fidgeting, Mingyu huffs a chuckle, dipping his head mere inches from yours to squint at you playfully, “Suddenly you’re shy?” Before you can retort, he shifts the angle of his face so that his mouth tickles yours. Still so thoughtful in his own desire, always letting you close the gap. You tip your head back, catching his bottom lip with your teeth.

A surprised noise catches in Mingyu’s throat, and the final bit of restraint vaporizes away. You reach to hold his face, licking into the heat of his mouth, gasping when your tongue grazes one of his sharp teeth. With your free hand, you pull at the ties holding your own shirt in place. It’s all the permission Mingyu needs to stop keeping his hands to himself.

He manages to wrest the shirt off without breaking the kiss, calloused palms sweeping over your stomach, up your ribs, along your shoulders. When you pull apart to catch a breath, you marvel at the sight of him, pupils blown, mouth slick and swollen. Mingyu smiles back, a little dopily, like he’s living through a dream. His gaze roves over every corner of your bare frame, making you quiver beneath his inspection. You puzzle, when he finds every scar and blemish on your own body, presses his fingers or his lips against each one and asks about it. You answer patiently, amused.

“Got shot at by an arrow, thank the gods he was a poor shot. That one’s from when Soonyoung was teaching me a knife trick; it was mostly my fault. My sleeve caught on fire the night that the owlery burned down.” This last one you say in a quiet rasp.

Mingyu doesn’t say a thing, only presses his lips against your shoulder once, twice. A third time, lingering and tender, before he returns to your mouth. He kisses you, whisper-soft like a prayer, then tugs away to mumble, “I regret hitting you. I should have never agreed to, should have never laid a hand on you. Shouldn’t have hurt you. It is one of my greatest failures in life.”

Your smile trembles as you whisper, “I asked you to.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was dishonorable.” He says this, and then does something just as dishonorable, if not more, by grazing his fingers along the waistband of your pants.

Something about the discrepancy makes you tip your head back in laughter. Mingyu snorts and effectively muffles your laugh by undoing the knot of the tie there, now beyond waiting for your permission. This far in, you don’t have the clarity to shy away from being bared to him entirely, but he also doesn’t give you the chance to, as he shimmies down the bed to lower his face to nip at your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

You can’t hold back the yelp that wrenches itself loose from your throat when you feel the warm swipe of his tongue laving over where he just bit. Mingyu repeats this sequence a few more times, growing bolder with the force of his teeth and the decreased distance from your folds. Then, with a quick glance up at you to scan your reaction, he finds your clit with his thumb, pressing a tentative pressure against it. You kick a leg against the mattress in a reflex response, whining at the pleasure that buzzes at your lower back and zips up your spine.

Mingyu breathes a quiet chuckle, and the puff of air ghosts over your entrance, making you flinch again. “So reactive,” he purrs, before lowering his mouth to replace his thumb with his lips. When you cry out this time, he doesn’t let up, only laughs again, deep inside his chest, and continues sweeping his mouth over your clit, parting his lips and then closing them to suck gently. The noises loosened make you flush heavily, from your chest all the way to your cheekbones, but he continues on, shamelessly. Only when he’s satisfied enough, Mingyu shifts his weight from both elbows to one, to trace up and down your folds, tantalizingly, before crooking a finger in.

Throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath, you moan at the same time Mingyu groans. There’s a pressure, light but foreign, that you greedily adjust to as Mingyu flexes his finger in deeper and works it back out. He continues this motion on and on, setting a rhythm and building an ache inside you. You think that you could be satisfied, just like this, when he presses in another finger, soothing the added pressure with a firm suck around your clit.

Abruptly, the band that’s been slowly tightening over your stomach snaps, and you come, unexpected, with a wordless shudder. Mingyu barely reacts, notching his fingers up and into you as he laps up the rush of juices spilling from your folds. When you whine at the oversensitivity wrought from the steady wide strokes of his tongue, he finally pulls away, shushing you with a wet kiss against your thigh.

Mingyu pushes an arm against the bed to sit up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, simpering and looking terribly proud of himself. He leans forward to give you a kiss that you taste yourself on, and you’re much too riled up for words now, so you tug at the ties of his pants with needy hands, shyly regarding the outline of his cock straining against the linen. Mingyu laughs into the kiss, gently swatting away at your hands to reach up and circle a nipple with cold fingertips. You hiss at the sensation, trying desperately to ignore the way he grins as he teases, clicking his tongue, “So impatient.”

When you reach for his waistband again, this time he allows you to undo the knot, though his own impatience shows when he shoves the fabric the rest of the way down and kicks his ankles free of them. He’s impossibly hard, tip messy and shiny as it drips with arousal. You’re fascinated by the amount of restraint Mingyu exhibits, despite being so affected. He’s leaning back, unmoving, watching you, and you realize that he’s allowing you the space to act first. You push yourself into sitting and lean to brush your palm against the underside of his cock. He’s heavy in your palm, skin remarkably warm and soft like velvet. There’s a moment of pause as you hesitate, contemplating, and then dip to lick at the slick sheen coating his head, humming at the clean taste of him.

The sound that rips from Mingyu’s throat is loud, pained, and lewd. His stomach tenses. For a moment, you think that you’ve hurt him, until he gently pulls your mouth off of him with a hand over your shoulder.

“I think—” He trembles, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in a heavy breath. “I think we should save that for next time.”

You grin, triumphant, and let yourself be guided back onto the pillows. Mingyu pulls his breathing back into a steady rhythm, roaming his hands up and down your body, over your sides, along the swells of your chest, across your stomach. You stare up at him, smitten by the reverence in his expression as he beholds you.

His large palm sweeps up the underside of your thigh, all the way to where it stills at the back of your knee where it crooks. He swipes his thumb there, once, twice, and then maneuvers your leg to wrap around his waist, heel pressed against the small of his back. Mingyu leans to hold himself by the base, sweeping the length of his cock over your messy folds in a dizzying motion that makes the both of you moan. You still your breath in anticipation, thoughts and vision and hearing fuzzy as he murmurs something you can barely decipher.

“You’ll tell me the moment that something hurts, or makes you feel uncomfortable. If you want to stop, we stop.” Mingyu pauses for your reply, then makes your mind collapse entirely by brushing your clit with his weeping head. “Owl, yes?”

You whimper, desperate to move onto something, anything. “Yes!”

“Good girl.”

He presses in and through, painfully careful, tortuously gentle. There’s an unfamiliar ache that you hold your breath against, until Mingyu presses all the way in. Once fully seated, he pauses, kissing you on the cheek, on the forehead, mumbling to ask if you’re doing alright. He lets you quiver through a few breaths, effortlessly patient, eyes glittering the whole way through, and then only shifts with a relieved smile once you give him a nod.

Heat curls deliciously in your stomach as he builds a rhythm, thrusting in and out, hips rolling fluidly. The room fills with the sound of your breaths mixing, of your pleading whimpers and content whines, of the slick slide of Mingyu. You grasp for anything your hands can find, twining over dampened sheets, scratching at the firm give of Mingyu’s sides, lacing with the fingers that he offers you, soothing and bolstering.

It doesn’t take long to be worked back up to the precipice of intense pleasure, and before you even realize it, there are short, clipped sobs being forced from your chest. You tug at the hand interlocked with yours incessantly, pleading greedily for more, more, more. Mingyu obliges faithfully, canting his hips forward more forcefully, planting a foot against the mattress so that he can shift the angle at which he thrusts up into you. He bends over in half to catch your mouth in a kiss that’s mostly panting, teeth catching at lips and tongues flicking over each other.

Mingyu lowers his forehead to yours, uncaring that there’s hair and sweat sticking to skin. He stares into your eyes, and despite the dim of the room, there’s a golden glimmer piercing through the heady cloud of pleasure in them. “Gods,” he breathes, followed by the sound of your name, “I love you so much.”

Without even meaning to, you let go of the restraint that you’ve been grasping at so desperately, keening in one breathless sound, as your throat catches. The ache that’s been building in your stomach snaps, in equal parts violent and relieving, and heat spreads like an icy prickle, in your lower back, at your nape, down your inner thighs. Your senses heighten past the extreme, and you feel everything in twofold, every drag, every caress, Mingyu’s breath puffing onto your shoulder as he rolls his hips, more languid now, to help you through the peak.

“There you are,” Mingyu soothes, lips skimming over your cheek, over your jaw, over your mouth, grinning wicked as you’re left speechless and panting for breath, “Beautiful girl.” He hovers over you, kissing you again and again, until you’re squirming, ticklish. When you recover enough that your vision clears, you clench around him, reaching for his jaw to tug him back into a kiss.

A tortured groan tears from Mingyu’s throat, but he’s shaking his head when you try to deepen the kiss and pull his hips back towards yours. He lifts entirely up and off of you, shuddering with a sharp hiss on the sensitive slide out.

You frown. “But you didn’t—”

Mingyu silences you with a chaste kiss. “That’s alright. I don’t need anything but for you to feel good.” He smiles, so guilelessly, that you don’t doubt a thing that he says.

-

Hours later, the night has deepened into a blue-black so dark that even the lamps are barely more than an orange glow in the corners of the room. You’ve spent the entire time since, tangled beneath the sheets with Mingyu, dozing in and out of sleep, murmuring in and out of conversation, kissing and touching and laughing.

“Do you think I’ll ever understand what it means to love and be loved?”

Mingyu lifts his head from where it’s nestled over your stomach, which makes your fingers tug gently from where it’s been threaded through his hair. Light dances in his eyes curiously as he hums, “You were loved. Are loved. Can you remember what it feels like?”

You try not to think of the past, especially not into the deep recesses of your mind where exists memories of the world when there was an owlery full of life and sound and color, a home that looked and smelled more like a library, every seam overflowing with paper and ink and paste. When the two people who loved you more than themselves were still alive. For Mingyu, you try to reach into those depths now, wincing to yourself when distant memories scrape painfully against your bleeding heart. The gentle brush of a furtive kiss against your forehead, careful not to wake you, when your father had retreated back into the bedroom after finishing his work late. Your mother’s warm, guiding hands that taught you how to seal an envelope neatly, to tend to an owl’s injured foot, to cradle books as if they were made from gold.

The tender softening of your heart. The desire to reach and to touch and to caress. The blurred boundary that exists between thoughts and feelings, where you act because you want to and not because you should. The urges that you resolutely shut out of your life in order to harden yourself against a world that didn’t love you.

You nod, hesitant. There’s a whole litany of words that your tongue itches to say, but they all sound like excuses. Breath shuddering in your chest, you mumble, “I’m afraid I won’t know how to love you the way that you deserve.”

Mingyu’s stare doesn’t waver. His mouth brushes once over the scar on your shoulder, then again over the one on your throat. “That’s fine. As long as you’re willing to try. Even if you fail.”

Your stomach pangs as you behold him. Mingyu, who has been created to love and to be loved. Mingyu, sun kissed and sun beloved, the closest thing to perfection that you’ve ever seen.

“You don’t deserve failure.”

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, visibly inattentive to your hesitation. His gaze grows dark, lids heavy, and before you can think to hold him back, his imploring fingers hook beneath your chin to lift your mouth to his. Despite yourself, you indulge him, breathing a whine when your bottom lip snags on one of his sharp teeth. A rumble builds in Mingyu’s chest, one that you feel beneath your fingertips when you splay them over his bare chest in a weak attempt to push him away. He bites again, intentionally this time, a quick, delicious sting, before he lets you.

You scowl, a little breathless. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

A perfect brow arches maddeningly. “Oh? So am I. I feel very seriously about this.” A cloying touch brushes over your bare hip, and you fight off a shiver.

“Mingyu.”

He laughs, carefree and happy. You wonder how he can manage to be, when it feels like your own heart is bleeding out. Mingyu shoves himself onto his hands to sit up, blankets slipping and pooling at his lap. Everything is distracting, from his elegant waist, the vast expanse of sun burnished skin, the terrible scar over his chest that has knitted back together white, the jut of his mouth, the slant of his eyes, to the sweat-damp strands of hair feathered along his forehead.

“Don’t look at me like that, if you mean to be serious,” he groans, and you flush, unable to help yourself. He shakes his head to clear the fog in his own eyes, then clears his throat to prompt your attention. “Owl, I mean this as the truth and nothing else, so please don’t find offense in it. I’m very blessed to be loved immensely by my family and my friends, and I have an overabundance of love to give. I do not, and will not, regret giving it to you. And if you happen to fail in returning it, I will not fault you, nor will I abandon you for it.”

Apprehension and wonder and reverence stills your tongue. When thought returns to your mind, you blink hard, forcing back the ache rising in your eyes. “You mean that, truthfully?”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples, as he reaches to swipe his thumb beneath your eyes.

“Promise. On a knight’s honor. On my life.”

-

“Oh, perfect. Knight, please get off my Owl. I need to speak to her.”

You lift your head from your book, wincing at the ache in the crook of your neck from not having moved for a few hours. The sitting room has turned fragrant with the scent of sunlight and oranges, as the warm early summer air filters through the open windows, gauzy curtains swaying and shifting in a peaceful dance. The rest of the chaise that you’re perched on has been haphazardly occupied by a certain knight, whose head rests on your lap as he naps, breaths even and quiet.

Uncaring of how his entrance has disturbed your peace, Soonyoung stands expectantly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, brow arched in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he stares down at the man, pretending to be a lap dog.

Mingyu doesn’t budge from his spot, doesn’t even lift up to look, as he growls, “She’s not your anything. Bug.” It’s hardly a scathing insult, especially coming through a lisp made even clumsier with sleep.

“Down, mutt. It’s important. And just so we’re clear, she was my Owl, long before she was yours or Jeonghan’s.” Soonyoung rolls his eyes at you, quirking his mouth into a crooked smile. “I preferred things before you acquired the knight as a guard dog.”

You shut your book, reaching to tangle your fingers at the soft, recently shorn hairs at Mingyu’s nape, smiling when he makes a soft purr in response. “Hush, Soonyoung. I quite like having him around.”

Soonyoung mock gags, though there’s a fondness on his expression that whisks away when he grins, sharp teeth, even sharper eyes.

“Owl, how would you like to help me run a network?”

-

The night is thick, its air weighed down with silence. A single candle stands in the middle of a desk placed exactly in the middle of the room, its light sputtering weakly, as if the shadows threaten to choke it out of existence. Outside the pavilion, not even an owl croons, frightened to disturb the grave quiet.

A young man sits with his elbows propped onto the desk, wide shoulders hunched, head dipped low in thought. He is a lion of a man, with a thick mane of black hair and a pair of deep, passionate eyes. Despite his visible prowess, he has been made small by grief. He clutches his sturdy palms together to keep them from trembling too hard, a clumsy attempt at prayer.

Opposite him, another man sits straight-backed and rigid. He’s slender in all the places that the first man is broad. His face is slight and delicate, features full and striking, as if the gods took their time in carving him out. Despite his otherworldly beauty, the man’s eyes are stretched wide and cold with fury. Clutched in his pale-knuckled hand is a thin silver necklace, thumb pressed harshly against the oblique pendant, as if attempting to permanently mold the facet into his skin.

This man, too, suffers, but his rage overwhelms his grief. The hairs on his nape prickle, as he sits, frozen in the vacuous moment following words that have been loosened from his tongue carelessly. For both men, the world has been upturned over their heads in the matter of a few days. Still, it’s no excuse to be cruel to his longest, closest friend. He doesn’t even remember what he just said, only the anger and the terrible, sickening release that he felt as the words left his mouth.

“Jeonghan. You’re not the only one who lost someone. My father and brother are also gone.” Seungcheol, the former, says, voice a quiet rumble in his chest.

Jeonghan stiffens, but he doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry, not really, about the words that he spits out in his grief, for he is the type of man who accepts every consequence for his actions, whether it creates or dismantles him, with no remorse. Seungcheol knows all this; they’ve been friends from the cradle. He doesn’t take any of Jeonghan’s frigid anger personally, for Jeonghan had loved the Crown and the older prince as if they were his own family. This, Seungcheol knows with all of his heart, too.

Which is why he doesn’t argue and listens patiently when Jeonghan finally reveals the intent for which he called this midnight meeting and presents his proposal.

-

“Hail, Owl.”

You curl your mouth in distaste, straightening from the slump that you’ve entered the tavern in.

This late in the night, even the chronic drunkards have crawled down the crooked cobblestones their way home, or at least halfway home, and the lights have been diminished down to a single oil lamp. This flame flickers gently, wagging like a tantalizing secret, but the shadows that it throws into the room are long and energetic. The sole occupant, and owner, of The Dancing Spider casts the largest shadow, and you warily eye its movements, languid and graceful, before plucking your hood down from your head and turning to the counter.

“Defeats the point of a disguise if you recognize me immediately,” you crow, not pleased but not unkind either, as you hop up onto a barstool, nodding gratefully as a mug is slid over to you. You grasp it between both palms, letting its hot contents warm your fingers, before lifting the brim to your lips and taking a long sip.

Immediately, the rich, candied flavor of the Kwons’ signature mulled wine coats your entire mouth, sticking to your throat like syrup on its way down. For someone who can’t handle his own liquor, the barkeep churns out some of the best wine in the province.

From the other side of the bar, Kwon Soonyoung grins, like he hears your thoughts. You do your quick inventory. Sunny smile that stretches the corners of his lips to his ears. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes. Slim gray slacks cut right to his ankles, white linen shirt with his sleeves pulled haphazardly to his elbows, a black vest buttoned to accentuate his waist perfectly. He looks just the same as every other night you’ve snuck into his tavern. Undisturbed by your entrance, Soonyoung continues wiping down the counter with a rag in quick sweeps, careful to work around the space that you occupy, before responding to your previous comment.

“Who else would visit me at this hour, if not my dear friend Owl?”

The barkeeper is cheery, as always, and he is the closest thing you have to a friend, but the word makes you wrinkle your nose and curl your lip. There’s no room in your life, cursed as it is, for friends. Just strangers and the occasional acquaintance. You categorize Kwon Soonyoung as the latter in your mind and take another slow mouthful of the wine before wiping your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Well then,” you urge quietly, shifting in your seat anxiously, flicking your gaze over your back as if someone might have crept in, even though you made sure to latch the door behind you. “What’s the job this time?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He stops cleaning and turns his back on you towards the counter lining the wall. You watch the line of his shoulders in anticipation as he works and then narrow your eyes when he returns with a plate of food. A hearty bowl of soup, loaded with chunks of meat and potatoes and other vegetables, and a crusty baked roll, still warm and steaming from the stove. For the three copper coins that you usually pay him for a drink and a meal, he’s feeding you astoundingly well tonight, and you leer, suspicious.

“Are you sending me to my death, Kwon? Because if so, I don’t want any part of it.”

Your stomach growls at the wafting scent of the food, but you force yourself to push off of the stool to stand.

“Hey, wait.” Soonyoung scrambles, lurching across the bar, circling his fingers over your wrist to hold you in place. His grip barely ghosts over you, but the sensation of someone else’s skin touching yours, no matter how fleeting, has you tearing your arm back to your side, as if burned. It’s too ragged of a motion in response.

You burn with shame while Soonyoung stammers an apology out. He manages to coax you back into sitting and pushes the tray of food closer to you, which you accept with a wordless nod, gaze lowered to the wood of the counter. Soonyoung waits until you take a bite, tearing off a chunk of the roll and dunking it into the stew before popping it into your mouth. Instantly, you have to fight the urge to sink into your seat when the flavors hit your tongue. You chew quickly and swallow the mouthful before you can savor it because savoring means remembering and remembering leads to longing.

“There’s a job,” Soonyoung finally speaks, voice hushed conspiratorially, “A big one.”

You contemplate through your next spoonful of stew. “For who?”

“I’m not allowed to say—”

You snort and roll your eyes. He’s worked with you long enough to know that you won’t lift a finger for an anonymous request. If you’re going to be earning dirty coins, you’d rather know exactly who they come from, who you’re soiling your own hands for.

“—but it’s someone in a very, very, very high position. A hundred thousand gold Dragons.”

You drop your spoon into the bowl. Flecks of hot stew splatter up and onto the back of your hand, but you pay the brief sting no mind.

A year ago, you had taken on your biggest job from Soonyoung’s network yet that paid a single gold Dragon. It had required you to take the life of a town magistrate, and riddled by your conscience, you hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for a few moons following. The pay, however, had lasted you the better half of a year, which you rationed out carefully. You’d barely spent a quarter of it on the handsome starsteel dagger that now permanently lived on your hip, and the rest of it had been devoted towards the boarding fee in an inn room that locked and one good, proper meal a day.

You can’t even begin to imagine what a hundred golden Dragons could mean for you, let alone a hundred thousand. Before your thoughts fray with hopeless dreaming, you quickly tamper down the hope, giddy and airy, threatening to lift from your stomach.

“You are sending me towards death, aren’t you?” You squint your eyes, suddenly nervous of the way that Soonyoung’s pupils darken, mouth hardens.

The barkeep crosses his arms over his chest, chews on his lip as he thinks. Finally, he admits lowly, “It may be dangerous. But I wouldn’t tell you about it, if I didn’t think you would be successful.” Lamplight dances over his face, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you think that you read pity in it. “Owl, with that sort of money, you would be free to live your life.”

Ice trickles down your spine. As a child, you always imagined you would live a simple life, doing honest work for a meager pay at your family’s post. Perhaps you’d have your own family with a partner who respected you, maybe even loved you. When everything was razed to the ground, your humble ambitions had gone with them. Now, your life consisted solely of scraping by until Soonyoung’s network spat out another job at you to carry you through a few more days, a week if you were lucky.

A hundred thousand Dragons would last you for the rest of your life, and then some. Your thoughts run with grandiose ideas of your first purchase. Perhaps a new pair of slacks with stronger, lined pockets to hold all of your overflowing coin. Before the logical side of your brain can catch up, your traitorous tongue acts first.

“I’m interested.”

Soonyoung simpers, unapologetic.

“That’s great! Because I already told them that you’d do it.”

-

“Hail, Spider.”

You tense at the appearance of an unfamiliar voice but keep your head bowed, face obscured behind the shadow of your hood and Soonyoung’s shoulder. Despite the icy company you’ve provided him since thundering down the steps into the tavern a half-hour ago, the barkeep is exceedingly cheery in the early morning quiet, shoulders at ease and the grin curling over his lips familiar. He trusts this person, so you make a conscious effort not to bristle.

“Hail, Knight.”

Soonyoung reaches to clasp his palm into the newcomer’s. The man is taller, much taller than the barkeep, broad in the shoulders but lean everywhere else. He wears clothes that are tailored perfectly to his form beneath a long cloak lined with silk. He looks expensive, and in your books, expensive means dangerous. Though he’s not dressed like it, he’s clearly a knight, judging by the sword hanging at his hip and Soonyoung’s title for him. You try not to stare at the weapon and continue your inspection.

The man has a striking but kindly face, with strong brows, a delicate nose, full lips, and the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen, expressive and bright. His mouth naturally curves up, as if always smiling. His body is of a man’s, but the twinkle of his gaze and his grinning mouth reminds you of a boy. His skin, even in the dim of the tavern, is an alluring gold, complemented by the red of his clothing. Even his hair, not cropped short like the common fashion for knights but long enough to curl behind his ears, leans honeyed and not entirely black, as if warmed by daylight. Beloved by the sun, you think, and even without his armor or heraldry, you recognize immediately who this man is.

You bite your tongue hard to stop yourself from cursing at Soonyoung. He’s not only had the nerve to enlist you for a high-profile job without your permission, but also to neglect to tell you that your accomplice in it would be none other than the renowned Sun Knight, one of the Crown’s favorites. Heat prickles up your nape, and your stomach turns anxiously. You make a mental count of the coins in your pocket, rolling each over in your fingers, contemplating whether what you have might hold you over until the next job comes around.

Not a chance. You’d be lucky to make it past a week, and that’s if Soonyoung will continue taking pity on you, even after you tell him that you can’t go through with this job. A hundred thousand. You grit your teeth and lift your head, just as the two men finish up greeting one another.

When he turns to you, Soonyoung has already spied your expression, which you’re certain is nothing short of murderous, and his easy grin grows crooked and sheepish. “This is my good friend, Owl,” he introduces with a quick gesture and an airy laugh. “She’s been running a few jobs a week for some years now. Does great work and I trust her.”

The flattery lands ineffective on your ears. You dip your head to the knight in silent greeting, taking care not to give Soonyoung the attention he seeks from you.

The Sun Knight bows his head, lower than is necessary for someone of your class. When he lifts his gaze, he immediately searches your face, curious.

“Owl. Is that your name?” His voice is deep, rasping but not grating. There’s a hint of a lisp hissing beneath his words, which contributes to his innocuity.

You regard him cooly, half-impressed by the polished decorum he carries himself with. You’ve never met a knight before, but you have had your run-ins with men like him, of high stock and deep pockets. They’d spoken to you in short, clipped phrases, as if they couldn’t be bothered to waste any more of their breath on you and had dismissed you with urgent flicks of their hands, never mind ask you for your name.

“The only name that matters.” You add on dryly, “And do you go by Sir Sun?”

The knight tenses instantly. Uneasy surprise flickers across his face, as he glances from you to Soonyoung, whose own jaw slackens ever so slightly. The two men share a wordless conversation within a single look between themselves, which ends with Soonyoung shaking his head. A strained silence lingers, before the knight shatters it with a resigned sigh.

“I suppose it’s not easy to hide.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth, and his face softens, as if it’s easier for it to be amused than serious. “But please, you can call me Mingyu.”

A given name, not a family name like you’re used to calling down here in the Troughs of the capital. You make a mental note of it and tuck it away, knowing that you’ll never call him by name.

With the introductions completed, you pick up the sack of supplies you’ve brought with you and pull the straps over yourself, one at your shoulder, the other at the opposite hip, tying them into a knot over your chest. When you finally turn to Soonyoung, he’s suddenly unsmiling and grave, watching as you fasten your cloak tighter at the throat and pull your hood down into place.

Your mouth has gone tacky and dry, so you give him a firm nod. Something foreign passes over his face, and for the slightest moment, you think that it looks like doubt. Within the next heartbeat, it hardens into an assurance that’s surprisingly bolstering, and Soonyoung’s pressing a package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine, towards you. It’s warm in your hands, but before you can ask what it is, the barkeep gestures to shoo you out.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Best be on your way.”

The Sun Knight clears his throat, and your chest gives a lurch, having momentarily forgotten of his presence. His boots scrape against the floorboards as he makes for the door. Your heart picks up, as you search for something to say, anything to say, just in case you don’t make it back. At the very least, you should thank Soonyoung, for taking you in that first night on the brink of starving to death, for being kind to you, for considering you a friend.

None of the words come to mind.

In your floundering, Soonyoung seizes the chance to speak first.

“Be smart, Owl.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, before something fond and familiar tugs at his lips. “It’ll keep you safe.”

You grin back, finding and grasping the ounce of courage that you need to jolt yourself into action.

“I am nothing but.”

-

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you as you step outside of the tavern. The loud thudding rattles your bones ominously, as if you’ll leave this place and never return to it again. Hastily, you banish this thought from your mind and catch up to the Sun Knight.

The knight—Mingyu—has cut over to the other side of the well-traveled road, a little up ahead where it forks into two paths. Tied to the wooden post marking the crossroads are two horses: one slight and pale like moonlight, the other sturdier and strong, as if hewn out of umber wood. Horses can only be afforded to be ridden by nobility and therefore are foreign creatures to you, but nothing is as strange as the man tending to them.

Mingyu sweeps a large hand down the brown horse’s massive throat, his own neck crooked down to murmur softly to the beast. His face is too close for comfort to its massive head, in your opinion, but the knight smiles wide as he continues whispering, “Good girl, sweet girl.” The horse only nickers in response, as if she understands human speech.

His ramblings are gentle, affectionate, so much so that your own nerves are nearly lulled into easing up. You quickly catch yourself, shaking your shoulders to snap back into being alert, and remind yourself that you haven’t even embarked on this job that may earn you one hundred thousand Dragons or an early grave. You cross over to the knight and the two creatures.

Your arrival prompts Mingyu to glance up, still relaxed and grinning. You pay him a quick look before minding the horses warily. Now that you’re right up beside them, they’re much taller and broader than you thought. Mingyu is one of the tallest people you’ve ever seen, and even he barely comes halfway up the brown horse’s neck.

At your strange presence, both horses prick their ears and raise their heads from their lazy grazing. Though their eyes are on either sides of their faces, you can’t help but feel scrutinized by the animals and tense. As if he notices your unease, Mingyu reaches up to pat at the brown horse’s nose and coos, “Owl, this is my sweet girl, Summer. She’s all brawn and no brain. Aren’t you, girl?”

Summer chuffs again, sounding pleased at the description of herself. You fight off a grin, still cautious but more amused than wary now.

“Do all knights name their horses?”

Mingyu’s eyes flick up to yours, deep and thoughtful for a moment, before squinting one eye into a wink. “Only the best ones.”

Instantly, the glamour shatters and you scoff, but the knight already steps over to the other horse. Close up, you see now that this one’s an unearthly white color, like the Angel of Death’s pallid mount in the children’s stories you’d grown up with. She’s quiet, eeriely and hauntingly so, but leans into Mingyu’s touch when he strokes his hand down her pale mane.

“This is Snowdrop, on account of her being—”

“White. Got it.”

“I was going to say ‘a beautiful, beautiful girl’, but how clever you are, Owl.”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples innocently, and you desperately have to restrain yourself not to roll your eyes.

“Can you ride?”

At the post, your family would borrow the next door farmer’s mule-drawn cart whenever larger, heavier parcels needed to be delivered. You had learned how to ride and steer that mule from its saddleless back, even before you were four feet off the ground. Surely a trained, saddled horse won’t be too different. You eye Snowdrop carefully, and all she does is blink her large black eyes back at you.

“I can manage, I’m sure.”

Mingyu nods, assured. He gives you a cursory sweep from head to toe, then glances over at the horse.

“Need a hand up?”

“I’m good, Knight.”

Before you can even think to regret it, Mingyu hooks his foot into the stirrup and swings himself atop his great beast with ease. From the added height, the knight’s voice sounds farther away, and that much more aggravating, when he calls down at you.

“It’s a long road ahead of us. I’ll explain what the job is on the way.”

You stifle a sigh and turn your gaze over to the east, where the sun is just breaking over the horizon.

-

“So, why Owl?”

You’ve been on the road for only about an hour, you would guess, judging by the sun’s position in the sky. Already, your lower back aches and your inner thighs chafe against the leather saddle, as smooth and worn as it is, even through the lining of your pants. Most of the journey so far has consisted of easy silence, save for the clicking of Mingyu’s tongue as he guides Summer faster or slower and the steady clopping of hooves against the dirt path.

The sudden sound of his voice has you jerking to attention in your seat, which sends a deeper twinge through your spine. You can’t hide the grimace that follows, and you’re glad that Mingyu leads and that his back is turned to you. The fixed gait of the horses and the constant landscape of rolling grasslands and fields have lulled you into a transient state, so it takes your head a few heartbeats to restart, to run the knight’s words over to comprehend it, and then formulate an answer, without giving away too much.

“My family kept owls when I was a child.”

“Oh. As pets?”

You snort sooner than you can think to hold it in and clumsily hide it behind a dry cough.

“No. We ran the post for our village. My responsibility was to maintain the owlery. They said I spent so much time with the birds that I was on my way to becoming half-owl myself.”

The knight turns his face to the side just enough that you can read his grin. You look away. The memory of your family and the birds quickly turns from fond to bitter.

“The owls. They can be trained to deliver the mail accurately?”

“Of course. They’re not the symbol of intelligence for just any reason.”

Mingyu hums quietly but doesn’t say more. Now that the sun has come out to warm the earth, he has shed his long cloak off and wears only the red linen shirt that hugs his shoulders. You watch the ease with which he rides, the relaxed yet strong line of his shoulders, the perfect posture of his back and waist. He rides so effortlessly that you wonder how young he was when he was first placed onto a horse. You wonder if he wears red because it’s the color of his House or simply because he likes it. You wonder why he named his horse, and why he named her Summer. More curiosities spring to mind, and Mingyu has asked you a question so it’s only respectful to return the courtesy, but everything that comes to you seems too profound for the time that you’ve known him. Lamely, you call out something plain.

“Why are you the Sun Knight?”

Mingyu tips his head over his shoulder again, more fully this time so that you can see his entire face. Beneath the daylight, his eyes gleam molten, and you suppress a shudder at the sight. He smiles again—like he was born to—and gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Knights’ titles aren’t chosen, they’re bestowed,” he answers simply, a little bashfully, and as he speaks, you notice that two of his teeth are especially pointed, like the fangs of a hound. “Perhaps I fight particularly well under the sun. Something like that.”

No, that’s not it, you swallow the words down your throat. Beloved by the sun. The phrase comes to mind again, and you think you understand how exactly his title came to be.

“I don’t mind it, though,” Mingyu continues cheerfully, turning his attention back to the road ahead. “‘The sun loves and gives life’, they say. It’s an honor to be named after it. Do you know that one?”

“Of course,” you grunt back, “The Troughs have nursery rhymes too.”

After that, silence fluidly falls back into place, which you welcome. You shift forward in the saddle to alleviate the pressure in your back and are reminded of Soonyoung’s parcel, when it nudges into your stomach from where you’ve been clutching it close. Curious, you pull it from beneath your cloak and tug carefully to unravel the twine.

Wrapped within the paper are two loaves of perfectly browned bread, no longer hot from the fire but still somewhat warm from your skin. Tucked in between the bread is a tiny scrap of paper, folded in half, and when you open it, there’s a message in Soonyoung’s messy scrawl.

Owl—

I’m sorry for sending you away without your permission. Impulsivity is my greatest sin, I fear. I’m scared that you’ll run into danger and that I was the one who sent you there. I should have told you this in person, but I was even more scared that I might stop you from going. Like I said, I believe in you, and I think you’ll succeed.

You will succeed and come home with more money than you know what to do with. You deserve more than this life. You deserve to be happy.

Eat proper meals. Save the bread for the road. Also, the larger loaf is for you. Give the smaller one to the mutt knight.

Come back alive. I would like not to be haunted by someone as terrifying as you.

Your only friend,

Spider

You swallow hard against the knot that forms in your throat and hide your sniffle by coughing a dry laugh out.

“You and your gods awful handwriting, Kwon.”

-

When Mingyu’s great brown mare gives a whinny, the sun has already begun its descent into the mountains that have appeared in the far distance. The knight clicks his tongue, sharp and high, and both horses respond in an instant, slowing from a trot to a walk. You lift your head wearily and loosen your fingers from the twist that you’ve been holding the reins around. By now, you’ve lost nearly all feeling in your legs, certain that the skin along your thighs have been rubbed completely raw, and when you roll your shoulders back, your spine cracks along five separate points.

“Summer says it’s time to stop for today,” Mingyu chirps happily, “which is just as well. There’s an inn just over the ridge there.” He points ahead, which you nod along to without following, just glad to be in close grasp of respite. You squeeze your eyes tight, barely clinging on as Snowdrop follows their lead, as steady as she had been at dawn.

“Alright, Owl?”

You blink your eyes open, barely acknowledging that you’ve come to a halt, just in time to watch Mingyu slide from his saddle, landing solidly on both feet. He sweeps his fingers through his fringe, which only flops back onto his forehead, a little damp with dust and sweat, but his eyes are bright, as ever, unfettered by the day’s long journey.

Your throat feels like it’s coated in a layer of dust kicked up from the road and you can’t trust your tongue to say anything coherent, so you settle to nod an affirmative response, sluggishly pulling one leg over Snowdrop’s back to dismount. No sooner does your foot hit the ground than your knee buckles beneath your weight, and your heart jumps as you scrabble to find purchase before you fully crumple onto the dirt.

Quicker than you can reach for Snowdrop’s saddle straps, the knight springs forward, reaching to brace you up by the hip. With the sudden proximity, he brings a foreign warmth and the scent of leather and steel and something warm and spicy. You go rigid, first at the closeness of the knight and the recognition of just how tall he is, then at the realization that he’s touching you—not directly, his fingers tighten over the dagger fastened at your belt and presses it into your hip bone, but still touching. You flinch away, the weakness in your knees quickly replaced by the heady rush of bewilderment.

“Sorry,” Mingyu blurts, cheeks flushed, as if he’s done something wrong. One day, you’ll admit to yourself that it was somewhat endearing, but in the current moment, you’re too anxious to dwell much on it. Gratefully, the knight allows you the distance that you’ve created, shuffling away to guide Summer forward by her reins. Before you can do something stupid like think about what just occurred, you quickly reach for Snowdrop’s leads and follow close.

The inn that you’ve arrived at can’t be described as anything more than a shack, but through the windows, you spy a lit hearth and hear the lively chatter of other gathered travelers. You’re wary of the presence of strangers, especially when you still haven’t learned where you’re going and what is required of you to be paid the obscene amount of money promised, but you’re exhausted and shakier than you’ve ever been on your own two feet.

“Before we head in,” Mingyu starts hesitantly, as he gestures for you to hand over Snowdrop’s reins so that he can bring the horses over to the covered shelter, which you comply with gratefully, “I wanted to brief you. We’re to travel under the guise of being married.”

The surprise must be plain on your face because amusement dances over Mingyu’s as he hastily follows up with explanation.

“It invites fewer questions. Fewer people poking their nose into where they're unwanted. We’re traveling up north to visit my younger brother, who’s getting married in a week. That’s the story we’ll stick to.” He offers you a simple smile and a pause to consider it.

Slowly, you roll the words coming to mind over in your mouth before vocalizing them.

“Is that truly where we’re headed? North?”

The knight shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze shifts, cautious, from you to the horses to the inn, which makes you squirm, impatient and nervous.

“You do realize you’re going to have to tell me eventually? I still have not a clue what I need to do for—” You hush your voice into a whisper before finishing, “The hundred thousand Dragons.”

Mingyu’s eyes stretch wide. “Gods. A hundred thousand?”

You scrutinize the knight and find not an ounce of falsity, which then makes you frown, puzzled. “Aren’t you the one paying for this job?”

He splutters, incredulous, and the noise makes the horses behind him shift, skittish. Mingyu turns briefly to coo some words of comfort to the spooked creatures before returning to address your own confusion.

“I’m a knight, not a goldsmith.” He avoids a definite answer and pauses to scratch his nape, muttering to himself more than to you. “Yeah, actually that makes a lot of sense.”

“What does?”

Mingyu breathes a weak laugh with a quick shake of his head. You watch, exasperated, as he doesn’t give an answer, yet again. The knight wrings his hands together, sucks a sharp breath in, and then rolls his shoulders back to straighten his posture.

“I’m starving. Let’s go in, and we’ll talk after supper, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach pangs at the thought of eating. With a quiet huff, you give him a curt nod and make for the entrance to the inn. Before you can reach for the door, Mingyu stops you with an outstretched fist and a quiet murmur.

“Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says, and he drops something, small and light, into your palm. Without another word, he brushes past you and into the inn’s light and warmth.

You look down to find a golden ring, warmed by the heat of Mingyu’s skin, cupped in the center of your hand. You pinch it between your fingers and lift it in inspection, finding it to be a signet ring, much like the ones that the truebred members of the noble Houses wear. On the outer facet, there is a coat of arms engraved into the metal: a simple image of a wolf, reared on its hind legs, stretched upwards as it reaches to snatch a star between its parted jaws.

Something strange and ominous stirs in the pit of your stomach, but you shove the feeling away hastily. You try the ring, crafted for a man’s hand, on each left finger, finding that it fits best on your thickest, before following the knight inside.

By the time you catch up with Mingyu, he’s already leaned over the counter, chin in his hand, propped onto a crooked elbow. The woman on the other side of the bar looks halfway bewitched by the knight already, round cheeks flushed pink and eyes glittering as she hangs off of every word he speaks. When you sidle up beside him quietly, Mingyu tucks his head down to look at you, mouth curled into a languid, feline grin.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, gaze snagging on your newly ringed finger when you brace your hands against the counter to steady yourself on your quivering legs. “Beth here was just getting us situated in a room for the night.”

Beth, to her credit, recovers swiftly from her trance, straightening up as she sweeps her palms over her reddened face. “Oh! Yes!” She chirps, reaching beneath the counter to dig around until she produces a large brass key on an iron hoop and hands it over to the knight, who rewards her with a beam and a wink. The woman returns it with a watery smile, glance sliding from him to you timidly. “It’ll be the farthest room on the right side. Second floor. Anything else I can help you both with?”

“Yes, actually, darling. Two bowls of whatever stew you’ve got tonight, and some bread, please.” Mingyu passes over the key to you, motioning his chin over to the staircase in the far corner of the room. “Why don’t you head up first, love? I’ll be right there with supper.”

You nod, eager to escape this awkward mimicry of marriage. Ignoring the strain in your thighs, you bound up the uneven wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and all but collapse into the room that you’ve been assigned. It’s a small space with only a single window, glass frosted over from a lack of regular cleaning, but the door locks—at the doorknob and the deadbolt—and there are two bedrolls folded up in the simple wardrobe, hewn roughly out of raw, unfinished wood. It’s more than enough to serve you for a night.

You grimace as you lower yourself to the floor. There’s a deep ache that pulses with every heartbeat in your lower joints that you fruitlessly rub at with your fingers. You’ve been sitting nearly the entire day, but even your feet and ankles seem to hurt. For the first time in a long while, you’re so exhausted that your eyes prick and burn with the first signs of tears, but the doorknob turns and you quickly swipe your sleeve over your face to chase them away.

“That was easy enough,” Mingyu hums, pleased, as he kicks the door shut behind him. He carries huge ceramic bowls in each hand and has a loaf tucked between his side and arm, which you reach over to take from him. He offers you a grateful smile, which makes his cheeks dimple, and you avert your gaze away, accepting your bowl of stew through your peripheral vision.

You eat in hurried silence, huffing when impatience leads to a burnt tongue. The stew is nothing profound, just carrots and potatoes and the occasional chicken bone, but it’s hot and bracing, especially when you soak pieces of the bread in it. You only make it through half of your portion before your stomach feels tight and bloated, but Mingyu’s already scraping his spoon down to the last few mouthfuls of his, eyeing your leftovers politely. Without a word, you hand your bowl over to him, and he happily takes it, flashing more of his dimples your way.

While Mingyu finishes his meal, you slip out from the room and amble down the corridor in search of a washing basin. You discover a bucket of water, cold but clean enough, and wash your hands and face with it, scrubbing at the dirt that has caked into the lines of your palms. As you wash, the golden ring on your finger flashes every so often beneath the moonlight filtering through the hallway windows. Aside from your starsteel dagger that you wear permanently on your hip, you’ve never owned something beautiful, let alone jewelry, before, so you take a brief moment to delight at the smooth burnished gold. It’s soft and warm to the touch, nothing like the rings that people in the Troughs get married with, fashioned out of rough strips of tin sheets leftover from repair jobs. It’s beautiful, even despite the image of the wolf swallowing a star, and you almost loathe the thought of having to give it back.

You return to the room and find Mingyu in a crouch at the corner of the room, stoking a fire in the hearth. It’s small, contained, and provides a much needed warmth, but you eye it with caution, all the same. You don’t trust fire, not since it took your parents from you.

The knight has set out the bedrolls with ample distance between the two, gesturing you towards the one closer to the hearth. It’s a kind courtesy that he offers you, but you tremble at the thought of sleeping so close to an unguarded flame. You shake your head and mumble, “You can have that one. I get hot easily.”

Mingyu tilts his head curiously but doesn’t press the matter. You fold your legs and sit onto your claimed bedroll, pulling your cloak from your shoulders to use as a blanket to cover your lap. “So,” you prompt quietly, “Are you going to tell me about the job now?”

The knight chews on his lip, but he can’t avoid the topic any longer. He leans back onto his own bedroll, crossing his legs before him. You wait patiently, twisting the golden ring around and around on your finger, for Mingyu to speak. When he does start, his voice comes low and guarded, suddenly grave and unlike his lively self.

“To answer your earlier question, we are headed up north, yes. At its core, the job requires us to infiltrate a facility and retrieve a…package.”

You lean back onto an arm. Slowly, you consider, “Alright. Infiltration and retrieval. I’m familiar with both tasks; I’ve done them before, for Soonyoung.” Saying the barkeep’s name makes your heart clench painfully. You hold the ache there for a moment and then promptly force it away.

The knight shakes his head. “It’ll be different. Remember, the request comes from a high place—a hundred thousand Dragons, for gods’ sakes.” He hesitates, breath catching several times in his throat, before revealing, “We’re going to break someone out from Taebaek.”

You freeze in place. Nobody truly knows where Taebaek, the most renowed, high-security prison of the kingdom, is located, save for the jailers who are tasked with transporting the residents in. Of course, people in the Troughs love their fables, and you’ve heard enough of them to conjure up an idea of what Taebaek might look like. A giant, sprawling fortress high up in the Northern Mountains, where its silent gray walls stand against frigid and wintery winds year round. Where warmth and sound and hope dies, choked away by the stifling cold.

Even worse than its harsh location and surroundings, you’ve only heard of Taebaek in the context of the most vile, reprehensible crimes and criminals. It’s where kingkillers and kinslayers were locked away, until their breaths stopped, flesh rotted, and bones dissolved. The most recent of rumors claimed that the former queen mother had been banished there after poisoning and slaying her own son and grandson, the late Crown and the crown prince, respectively. Prisoners entered Taebaek; they were never meant to come back out.

Your mouth goes dry. Only now comes the reckoning of what is required of you to be paid a lifetime’s worth of Dragons. You should have known that it would be incomparable to taking the life of a magistrate. You should have known that it would require an impossible feat to be accomplished.

Quietly, you run the numbers in your head. The number of the coins you counted earlier this morning haven’t changed. Maybe you could steal the knight’s coin purse in the night and run off. If you took Snowdrop, that is, if she trusted you enough to let you, you might be able to escape to the next town over and buy some time to disappear. Your gaze catches on the gold ring; you could pawn it off for a handsome price but only if the heraldry wouldn’t be traced back to Mingyu. Doubtful.

Mingyu. He’s a knight—the Sun Knight—for all the gods’ sakes. There’s no way that you’ll manage to escape from him.

Your mind supplies nothing helpful, aside from a string of curses. At this point, your fate lies in either dying while breaking into and out of Taebaek or while running from the Sun Knight. You mouth one of these curses out silently and pray to all the gods that your soul will haunt Kwon Soonyoung in the afterlife.

“Fret not, dear Owl,” Mingyu’s voice, energetic and chipper once more, breaks you from your reverie. “We have a plan, nearly foolproof, and as long as we follow it precisely, you should be walking away with your pockets overflowing.”

You shoot over a glare, too weary to retort. Tomorrow, you’ll tackle your thoughts once more with a clearer head and fresh eyes, but for tonight, you want nothing more than to sit in silence, unthinking, unfeeling.

“Enough for now. We can discuss more on the road.” Mingyu suggests gently, as he reaches for his cloak and starts balling it up. He gives you a sideways glance, mouth twisting as he quips, “Do you stay up all night like an owl as well?”

You snort. “I sleep as much as I need to.”

“And how much is that?”

A heartbeat passes, and you admit quietly, “Not much.”

Mingyu flops down and stretches out onto his back, limbs so long that his feet poke out past the bedroll. He shoves his bundled cloak beneath his head and sighs, loud and exaggerated, “Well, I need plenty. Good night, Owl.”

“Good night.”

You hug your knees loosely, watching the fire as it dances. Within moments, Mingyu’s ragged breathing grows smooth and even, chest rising and falling steadily. Slackened from sleep, the Sun Knight’s youthful face looks even younger, and faintly, you wonder how long he’s been knighted for. Never mind that. You quickly catch yourself thinking and add it to your list of curiosities that won’t matter for much longer.

You stare at the fire, imagining death, wondering if your parents will come find you at the end or if they’re still upset at you over their own, until it dies down into a few smoldering embers and a pile of ash. Only then do you feel relieved enough to rest, curling up on your side. The bedroll is so thin that you can feel every groove of the wooden slats beneath you, but it doesn’t bother you for long, as sleep steals you away in an instant.

-

“Still haven’t made friends, you two?”

The sun has barely started its ascent, hidden mostly by the distant mountains, but Mingyu looks bright-eyed and rested as he joins you out by the horses. He greets Summer with an apple, split into halves, chuckling as he watches you sidestep Snowdrop to access her saddlebags.

“She’s eeriely quiet,” you mumble, conscious of Snowdrop’s ear flicking, as if she might understand your words, “Like a ghost.”

Unlike Summer, who seems to have a personality as large as her owner’s, Snowdrop keeps to herself, watching everything through her huge black eyes. You feel like she’s constantly observing and listening, and you wonder how much of the world she beholds in her beast’s mind.

The knight laughs again. “Her rider requires stealth and silence, and she makes the perfect partner in that regard. She’s plenty sweet, though, you’ll see. Just needs to warm up to strangers first, hm?” He leans over close to offer the other halved apple to the pale horse, who takes it between her teeth gingerly and crunches away.

You peer thoughtfully as Snowdrop chews. She only uses her lips to pick up the pieces of fruit that fall back into Mingyu’s hand and sweeps a large tongue gently over his palm when no more apples seem to appear for her. The knight pokes his own tongue out and mock gags at the slick slide of saliva on his hand, but you can read the fondness plain on his face. It’s remarkable and strange, how someone can have so much affection for even animals. The only creatures you had encountered in the Troughs were massive rats and tiny pigeons, all caked in grime and begging for scraps that you couldn’t afford to give up.

You turn away to rummage through your belongings and pull the larger loaf out from its paper wrapping. Despite Soonyoung’s instructions, you know that the bread will keep for longer when left intact. Better to share a loaf and keep the other whole for as long as possible. You tug your dagger from its sheathe and slice the bread in two, passing over one half to the knight and wrapping your own back up in the parchment.

Mingyu’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “Thanks. That’s a handsome blade. Is it starsteel?”

You nod, affirmative, a little sheepish at being perceived. “It’s the only nice thing that I’ve ever bought for myself.” Even though it belongs to you, you still marvel at the beauty of it, turning it over in your palm and delighting in its perfectly balanced weight. The blade flashes bright, even in the dim lighting of dawn, pale silver that could nearly be white, streaked with blue-black, like veins of midnight ink. The handle itself is simple and ivory, carved out of some creature’s bone and sanded smooth to the touch.

“Hopefully the first of many,” is Mingyu’s light response. His words sound genuine, and his easy optimism is bolstering. You want to believe him, want to hold onto hope that this job will be completed without mishap and that you’ll be able to return home, to The Dancing Spider. “All good blades have a name. Did you give it one?”

You reply softly, “Feather.”

“Owl’s Feather. Clever.”

Mingyu’s cheek is dimpling again, pointed teeth flashing white between his lips, so you resolutely look away to fasten Snowdrop’s saddlebag straps tightly, tuck your dagger back onto your hip, and hook your foot up and into a stirrup. Your joints are still sore from the previous day, but the brief stretch you’d conducted earlier has done you some good. You’d risen this morning and had managed to sit on your bedroll sullenly while contemplating most of your life decisions, wash up, dress, and give your stiffened muscles a good, long stretch, all before the knight even started stirring beneath his covers.

By the time you’re fully lifted up and settled in your saddle without swaying too forward or backward, Mingyu’s in his seat, nibbling at his bread. He cranes his neck from left to right, glancing up to the sky and then back towards the horizon.

“Seems like the weather will be fair today,” he notes, taking another chunk out of the loaf and chewing thoughtfully. “We’re still a few days out from the foot of the mountains, so we should gradually adjust to the temperature and altitude changes. Ready, Owl?”

Your only response is a firm nod, to which he smiles, quick and easy.

Mornings brighten into days, and on and on you travel behind the knight, veering off of the road and towards a tavern or inn only when dusk swarms and chokes out the light. Mingyu’s effortlessly sanguine, humming and whistling, unaware of your own misery. His energy is unflagging, and his bright grins and hearty laughter steadfast against your quiet reluctance to let him in.

By the fifth day, you’ve grown all but silent, made heavy with exhaustion, hunger, doubt. The longer you’re on the road with no end in sight, the more Mingyu’s enthusiasm grates away at your nerves, turning them raw and bare. You nibble at the last husk of Soonyoung’s bread, which has already turned stale and tough, forehead tucked against the back of Snowdrop’s neck in a weary attempt to block the incessant sun out of your face. Even with your hood permanently pulled over your head, your cheeks sting to the touch, burnished by the long days on horseback. Mingyu, of course, looks untouched, and in fact, to your chagrin, the exposure to sun has only deepened the tone of his skin, turning him impeccably gilded.

You think that by now, you’ve somewhat picked up on Snowdrop’s mannerisms and gotten used to what’s normal and what’s not. You peer up, curious, to find that her ears are pricked high and that the previously lax reins in your hands feel heavier. Gnawing at your bottom lip nervously, you reach up to run the back of your knuckles along her mane, but she only flicks an ear in response, impatiently dismissive. Astute as ever, Mingyu tips his head backward to peer over at you struggling to return your mount’s pace to even.

“Ah,” the knight muses, seeming a little contrite for not have noticing whatever the issue is earlier, “She’s just fidgety. We’re moving much slower than she’s used to.”

You consider this and give Snowdrop another regretful pat to the neck, “For my sake, I’m sure.”

Mingyu laughs, one of those airy giggles of his that makes your spine straighten, and gives a shake of his head, which shifts his hair down into his eyes. The sun, bright and warm overhead, makes him glow, and your stomach pangs at the sight.

“If she went at her desired pace, even I would be knocked off of her back, I’m afraid.” The knight grins when you shoot him a look of surprise. Something conspiratorial flickers over his face as he thinks. “Are you a little more confident in your riding now?”

You scrutinize the knight before giving him a careful nod.

Mingyu balls his reins into his left hand and reaches a palm over to Snowdrop, letting the pale horse sniff at his fingers. He pats her nose gently and clicks his tongue twice, to which her ears flick rapidly. Beneath your thighs, you feel the muscles of her back shift and thrum with excitement.

“Press your knees in harder than you have been so far,” the knight instructs in a soft but assured voice. “Snowdrop knows not to push too hard with riders who aren’t her own. She won’t let you fall.”

You grip tight at the reins, squirming in your saddle anxiously. “Truthfully?”

Mingyu nods, firm, gaze molten and certain. “Promise, Owl. On a knight’s honor.”

Before you can dwell too long on it, you close your knees, firm against Snowdrop’s sides. Unlike anything you’ve seen from her in the past few days, the horse darts forward, controlled and precise still. She cleaves through the air, silver mane fluttering back towards you. Briefly, you panic, feeling the rest of the world lurch forth, while your body wants to remain stationary, but you hastily loosen your muscles, sucking in a cold breath to reset your nerves. Like Mingyu said, you can nearly feel the discipline in Snowdrop’s entire being, and you mourn your inability to relieve it for her. Wind rushes at and around you, throwing your hood off of your head and whipping your hair into your face. It’s terrifying and foreign and unsteady, but something giddy bubbles in your stomach and wrenches itself from your throat in the form of a trill, unrestrained and free.

A hearty hoot responds from behind you, pitched high with excitement. You don’t trust yourself to look back, so you grin wide at the road before you until your cheeks ache from the strain.

Snowdrop gallops for a few more yards, then brings herself back down to a moderate trot. You gasp to catch your breath, but only the heightened thrumming of her heartbeat against your legs suggests that the magnificent beast beneath you has exerted any effort.

“How was that?” Mingyu trots up easily beside you, Summer’s hooves neatly clipping along the road as she matches your pace. He smiles as if he knows your answer already. When he turns his face to glance at you, the sun dapples him golden.

You respond, a little breathless now and wholly entranced, “It felt like flying.”

“Closest thing to flying there is,” the knight agrees.

You want it. You desire it so greedily and like nothing before that your stomach aches with longing.

“When I am rich,” you make up your mind, “the first thing I will buy is the ability to fly.”

Mingyu laughs, chin tipped back, corners of his eyes wrinkled. Not mocking, not rude, but unbridled and full of joy.

You stare and stare, near bursting with want.

-

“Handsome lad you’ve got.”

You blink your eyes wide before remembering that you’re meant to be playing along with Mingyu’s disguise. Said lad lingers at the corner of the farmstand, resolutely turned away as he rolls a few apples in his palm, but you’ve been on the road with him for a few days now and you’ve learned what it looks like when he’s pretending not to be listening.

“Ah,” you muse, picking through the basket of shelled walnuts, half of your attention on the vendor, the other half sliding over to Mingyu as you shrug. “If you say so.”

The knight gives a tiny noise, akin to an indignant wheeze, and you smile into the collar of your cloak, shifting to add a handful of walnuts to the basket of fruit he holds. You turn away to duck beneath the tarp, and retreat back outside to where the horses are, leaving Mingyu to try, and fail, to haggle. He’s much too nice to be any good at it.

Both mounts lift their heads at your exit. Summer snorts and dips her snout back down to mindlessly nibble at the grass when she realizes that you aren’t Mingyu. Snowdrop, on the other hand, keeps her eyes trained on you as you approach, stare pinned to where you hide your hand behind your hip.

“Clever girl,” you muse, pulling out a pear that you snagged off the stand and into a pocket while the vendor spent her sweet time ogling Mingyu. Snowdrop’s soft nose tickles your palm as she takes the fruit into her mouth, and you breathe a laugh at how gentle she is, even as she promptly crunches away at her favorite snack. Summer has noticed, and she regards you ruefully, with as much distaste as when she realized you weren’t her rider, if not more. “Don’t tell him I’m playing favorites,” you whisper to the pale horse, just as Mingyu makes his appearance from the tent.

He wears a scowl. Unsuccessful yet again, it seems.

“Any luck?” You tease.

“Oh, whatever. Let’s get a move on.”

Ten minutes from the farmstand, the road crooks towards a grove of thick, gnarled trees. The cluster has grown so densely that you can barely see ahead through the shadows. Snowdrop’s certain gait slows a bit, ears flicking nervously, which does nothing to still your own roiling stomach. Mingyu and Summer, though similarly tense, continue forth, so you follow.

You’ve barely made it past the edge and fully into the grove, when the shadows shift with the motion of others. Your eyes, still adjusting to the lack of light, rove rapidly, catching sight of people. All men, judging by their builds. All starving bandits, judging by their dark, tattered clothing. Summer comes to a halt, Snowdrop quickly copying, when a handful of men spill out of the darkness and onto the path ahead.

Mingyu clears his throat softly. His head tips loosely to the side, bluffing curiosity, but you can read from the line of his shoulders that he has instantly shifted into caution. He slides down from his seat, landing silently on his feet. There’s a sudden feline shape to his movements, graceful and elegant and lethal, as he straightens his spine and swivels his head to sweep his sharpened gaze over the men from one end to the other. You watch, captivated, as you realize that this must be the famed training of Crownsland knights in action.

The bandits, though not as analytical as your eyes, must notice that there’s something different, something dangerous about him. The biggest man who has taken up the lead is a head shorter than Mingyu but just as wide and even burlier. He rolls his own shoulders back and tips his head back in a forced swagger.

“Yer a knight, aren’t ya?”

Mingyu’s mask of polite confusion nearly slips, as a twitch catches his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tall, sturdy man like yerself,” another of the men takes a few bold steps forward, scarred mouth pulling into a smile that looks more like a sneer. “You’d be wasted on anything besides knighthood.”

Mingyu laughs, genial and smooth, voice like warm velvet. He softens his tongue to roll his syllables, lets his lisp come off stronger to feign innocence. “You’re much too kind. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m only a stablehand. My master has kindly allowed my wife and me to borrow some horses to travel for my brother’s wedding.” For the past few days, he’d been traveling covertly with his sword tucked away into his saddle sack; you wonder how quickly he’ll be able to get to it. You watch with a trained eye as he steps closer to Summer, who has become restless and anxious, smoothing a palm over her throat while simultaneously flicking the saddlebags open with a hidden hand. The sphere pommel of his blade pokes out tantalizingly. “We best be on our way, if we’re to make it there by tomorrow.”

The big man at the front drops his smile, snake’s eyes flicking from you to Mingyu with a malice so cold and sudden that an involuntary shiver runs up your nape.

“Sure. But you best leave us yer horse. Big one you’ve got there.”

A slow, quiet breath escapes between Mingyu’s gritted teeth. Though the knight maintains his courtly facade, the kindness has faded. The bandits are clever enough to notice, perhaps not the anger that has started to twinge at his jaw but at least the palpable shift in the air, and they shuffle their weights onto their opposite foot, hands anxiously twitching in the direction of their weapons. This, however, they are too clumsy to obscure.

You take stock of it all. They carry tools as makeshift weapons; kitchen cleavers, cattle prods, furnace stokers. They’re clearly not men meant for killing, just men driven by desperation to do it. There’s a strange buzz at the base of your skull as you realize, you are not so different from these bandits.

A rare flutter of empathy has you tipping over the side of Snowdrop to drop to your feet. You reach to circle your fingers over Mingyu’s arm. There’s a tension that pulses in his bicep that you can feel against your fingertips, even through the layers of his clothes. You play your part of a frightened wife faithfully, with a soft murmur, “Come, dearest. The horse isn’t worth our safety.”

The pet name comes off your tongue clumsily, but you hope that the stumble over your words and the tremor in your throat can be attributed to anxiety over the situation. You hope that these men are desperate and nothing more. That they will leave you alone once they have what they want. Already, your mind stirs with the skeleton of a plan to retrieve Summer back. You can let them walk away with her, and then trail after them, steal her back under the cover of night. Please, you think the word as loudly as you can, hoping that it will be heard by the bandits.

Your hope dies as quickly as it had risen, when you watch the man’s thoughtful gaze spoil into something vile.

“Leave the knight. Maybe we can sell ‘im for ransom. Looks important enough for good pay.”

“Certainly pretty enough,” one of the ugly men from behind sneers, which makes the whole brood of bandits chuckle in gravelly unison.

You shift your feet beneath you silently, fingers already itching towards your belt, when the giant man’s mirthless gaze turns to flint as it lands back on you. There’s a moment of contemplation that hardens into distaste.

“Kill his whore.”

The heavy scrape of starsteel against its scabbard is the only permission you receive from the knight before you launch forward. Feather settles into your grateful palm, its weight practiced and comfortable and ready, as you reach the bandit closest to you. His dark eyes light up with alarm only as you pull your blade from his neck slickly, swivelling to seek out the next. By this point, most of the others have roused from the surprise and are pulling their own weapons, with the quickest already in motion.

A glance confirms that Mingyu’s holding off most of the biggest men on his own. He twirls away as the bandit he just cut down collapses towards him, then effortlessly connects his movements into skewering another by the stomach. He fights like he’s dancing, having made even the act of killing into something beautiful.

Your throat aches. Tearing your gaze away from the knight, you dip into a crouch, scarcely avoiding the swing of a club aimed at your head, then use the momentum to kick off the ground, dagger aimed at the assailant’s throat. You end up leaping a bit higher than anticipated, and Feather lodges into the soft bit right beneath the point of the man’s chin. He chokes on his own blood.

You continue, on and on, like this, dodging and lunging. Your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your stomach hurts. You move, terrified that if you stop, you’ll be cut dead. Exhaustion catches up in no time, like a persistent shadow. The beast inside your head roils, fighting to keep the adrenaline dialed at its highest, to survive. The mortal restricted to your body falters, panting raggedly to suck in breaths that don’t come, won’t come.

“Was that the first time you’ve killed?”

It takes a moment to realize, past the ringing in your ears, that Mingyu is speaking to you. Another few heartbeats to pass until you realize that the danger is no more. He stands tall and broad and strung tight with the lingering haze of battle but no longer in motion. With his left hand, he flicks his sword in an attempt to shake the slick sheen of blood clinging to the edge onto the grass below. It’s made of starsteel, the blade nearly your dagger’s larger twin.

All around the both of you are men’s bodies, crumpled and lifeless like forest litter. You count seven in total, two of which you add to your list of stolen lives. The men felled by Mingyu are in rougher shape than your own. Despite the shiver prickling up your nape at the thought of Mingyu’s artful killing, you’re more than grateful that he was here with you.

You suck in air, hiss it out through your teeth, repeat this a few times until your lungs remember how to breathe again without thinking about it. Only when you catch your breath, you shake your head in response, gaze catching on your palms, still trembling, slick with blood. It’s always haunting to realize how bloody fighting with a dagger gets.

Mingyu nods. You notice him staring for a prolonged time and wonder what he seeks from you. Finally, he sinks to a crouch beside one of the dead men and bows his head, lips forming a string of silent words. You watch as he remains in his stance for a few moments before realizing that he’s praying.

“You pray?”

Mingyu lifts his head, eyes still shut as he answers, “Only for the dead. They’re meeting the gods to receive judgment now; they’ll need all the prayer they can get.”

You don’t respond. The knight clears his throat and rises back onto his feet. Once fully straightened, he turns your way and closes the distance, pausing only a few steps before you. The feline tension bleeds away, leaving only the man, eyes creased with unease. Mingyu reaches to hold his hands out, bracketing yours without touching.

“You’re shaking, Owl.” He murmurs, not mocking, just quietly concerned.

“Yeah,” you grunt, curling your fingers into your palms. Even balled into fists, your hands tremor incessantly. “Yeah, this happened the first time, too. Lasted for days.” More to yourself than to him, you mumble, “It’ll pass.”

Mingyu considers this silently. When you steal a quick look at him, his brow is furrowed, lips twisted into a steely frown. It’s an incompatible expression on his usual smiling face. Faintly, you add this to a list of things that you hate. There’s a heavier set to the knight’s shoulders and the line of his mouth, though you’re not sure if it’s because of the bandits or because of you. He looks like he wants to say more, but there’s no time to dither.

The two of you scour through the bodies, Mingyu for gear and tools that look untouched enough, you for coin purses and other shiny things. Despite your quivering hands, your work is quick but meticulous. Within heartbeats, your pockets have swelled exponentially. Within the next hour, you’re back on the road, making scarce of the dark forest, riders and mounts both silent with fading adrenaline and heightened vigilance.

Hours later, the horses stop sweating, breath crystallizes into vapor, and your fingers start to stiffen at the knuckles. The horses’ hooves clomp louder, sharper against the hard, packed earth, and the ground is layered with snow that sticks and doesn’t melt. From ahead, you watch Mingyu slow Summer’s gait as he tilts down to pull a wolfskin cloak from his saddle sack. He hums, content, as he fastens it around his shoulders. They pick their pace back up.

You shift anxiously, as the cold begins to seep into your own clothes. This is the farthest north you’ve ever been already, and the coldest air you’ve breathed yet. All you can do is pull your gloves from your pocket, the deerskin pair that you pilferred from a particularly obnoxious marketplace merchant a few years back. They’re worn from use and meant for work more than for warmth, but they keep your hands covered against the immediate chill. You hunker down in your saddle and pull your hood higher, gripping your cloak by the worn hem and pulling it tighter against yourself to block out the wind.

“Alright back there?”

Your shoulders stiffen, straight as a rod. Mingyu’s still riding easily ahead, but he crooks his chin over his shoulder to puzzle at your disgruntled slump. The world up here is brighter from the snow blanketing everything, the colors more vivid. The knight’s eyes gleam chestnut, his skin golden, the velvet of his doublet crimson, and the fur of his wolfskin midnight. He keeps his sword on his hip now, favoring caution over stealth. For the briefest of moments, you see him as a knight out of stories, valiant and heroic, haloed by the sun like a prince among soldiers. The type of stories that your father would recite you to sleep with and your mother would sing about as she tended to the owlery. The type of stories you once believed in.

Mingyu’s brow furrows at your lack of response, and you hurriedly jerk your chin into a nod.

“Fine, Knight.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, mouth pursing as if he itches to debate, but turns back around to the road ahead. You stare hard at his back, before relaxing once you’re no longer under his scrutiny. You ride for several more silent moments, gritting your molars together to keep them from chattering.

“Stubborn Owl,” Mingyu’s grumble rouses you from your misery, and it’s only then that you realize that Snowdrop has stopped walking. Barely ahead, Summer stamps her hooves in place, huffing from the cold, as her rider rummages through her bags again. Mingyu pulls another pelt, creamy white in contrast to his, and leans backwards to reach it over to you.

Without protest, you accept the cloak, near hissing with relief at the warmth that it immediately brings. You tug it over your shoulders and fasten the clasp, scrunching your nose as the soft furs tickle at your jaw.

“Thank you,” you breathe, too relieved for shame.

Mingyu nods. Then, frustration tugs at his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, you know.”

You shut your eyes with a quick shake of your head.

“Yeah. I’m working on it.”

-

Exactly one week after leaving The Dancing Spider, you arrive at your final rest stop before Taebaek’s gates. Mingyu doesn’t call it so explicitly, but you can tell from the decreased speed with which his jokes come through, from the crease at the corners of his mouth that now frowns too much. He slows into an approach, slides off of Summer with a curt, stifled grunt. He only looks at you through fleeting sweeps of his troubled eyes, as if guilty of something.

There’s no inn this high up the mountains, only a dugout of snow that has piled up taller than Mingyu himself, sheltered by sparse, dying trees.

You work quietly beside one another; Mingyu digging a hole that can house a fire, you tying the horses up nearby and offering them water and fruit. The cold weighs your limbs down, making you move sluggishly. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, as you linger at Snowdrop’s side, pressing your forehead against her mane that smells strongly of earth and faintly of sunlight and lavender, like a happy memory. Silent as ever, she doesn’t even shift as she lets you cling to her to retain any semblence of hope and warmth.

When you return to the dugout, Mingyu sits in front of a living fire, shadows flickering over a pensive frown. It leeches the youth from his face, leaving only a foreign, solemn knight, hewn of cold steel. You hate the sight of it.

“I think Snowdrop thinks of me as a friend now,” you try to call lightly, pushing your lips sideways into a quirk.

Mingyu looks up but doesn’t say anything. Just hands over a few sticks of dried meat that he’s been holding over the fire to warm them. He watches warily as you accept them and find a dry spot to sit across from him, far from the edge of the fire but close enough to feel the warmth of the flames. You pull your legs up and hug them to your chest, chin tucked up onto a knee.

“We reach Taebaek tomorrow,” the knight’s voice catches in the middle of his throat. There’s a slight quiver in his breath as he draws cold air in. “I need to make sure before I tell you the plan. You’re still willing to do this?”

You choke on a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “We’re at its gates. Do I have a choice this far in?”

Something regretful darkens his gaze. You don’t have to hear an answer to know what he thinks. You shrug and lift a stick of jerky to gnaw at it absently.

Finally, Mingyu bolsters himself, hands clutched together above the fire, as if in prayer. You can almost imagine him at the head of a war table, brow knitted together in thought as he discusses strategies with other great knights. You want to imagine him as the Sun Knight, in full armor with his proper colors and heraldry. Instead, all you can see is a husk of the Mingyu that you’ve come to understand, drained of all mirth and clinging to hope and faith. You try not to recall that he only prays for the dead. You look away, heart bleeding, to stare at the flames instead.

“We’ll come to the gates under the guise as the Sun Knight and his prisoner. You’ll go in as an inmate. There is a man named Angel inside. He’s the package that we’re meant to retrieve.”

This much, you already suspected. You tuck the name safely away in your mind. “What does he look like? How will I know who he is?”

“There will be a code exchange to confirm one another’s identity. I cannot give you anything more than that. My orders were to tell you as little as I can. It’s the only way we can ensure that the plan will be successful while protecting you as much as possible. The less you know, the safer you are. Your only instructions are to memorize the exact path that you’re taken inside by the guards, so that once he’s ready, you can lead Angel out. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

Mingyu hesitates. He unclasps his fingers to pick nervously at his nails. “There’s no room for failure.”

You jerk your chin up, fiercely defiant. You’ve been living a life that gave you no room for failure. “I forget nothing.”

Only then does Mingyu’s creased mouth soften into a fading memory of a smile. “Good. Soonyoung told us that. That’s why he recommended you.”

The sudden mention of your friend threatens to unravel your resolve. Swiftly, you tuck the flare of emotion away, squaring your jaw to insist instead, “Hit me.”

“What?”

You would laugh at the pitch that Mingyu’s voice reaches and the size that his eyes widen to.

“Hit me,” you repeat. “Aren’t I supposed to be your prisoner? I’m in too pristine of a state for that to be believable.”

Mingyu snorts, incredulous, and remains in his seat. “Knights do not harm the innocent. We protect them.” He says this gently, like a reverent mantra.

“Even if you’re given a reason to?” You rise to your feet and cross over to the other side of the fire, letting your fingers dance over Feather for show. “And I’m not innocent. Harm away.” A moment of doubt flickers past you, so you quickly add on, “Leave me my teeth, please.”

“There’s no need for all this.” Mingyu climbs to his feet too and shuffles a few steps backwards, away from you. He chuckles lightly, but his brow twinges, uncomfortable. “Just take the wolfpelt off and rub some dirt on your face.”

“I’m risking my life for this job. We’re doing it thoroughly. This job has become everything to me. We can’t risk failure, not now, when we’re this close. I won’t go back to begging for scraps.”

“You wouldn’t have to—”

“Or else what? I go back to leeching off of Soonyoung’s kindness for the rest of my life? You, the Sun Knight, will sponsor me, a nobody from the Troughs?” Your words fly off of your tongue, furious and frantic now. “People like you will never understand what it’s like. It’s easy for you to be happy and hopeful because it’s all you’ve ever known in your life. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall asleep praying every night that the gods will have mercy on me, so that I won’t wake up in the morning and can finally be rid of it all.”

You finally understand why despite his size and his intelligence and his capabilities, Mingyu still seems like such a boy to you. He carries a boundless idealism for the world, despite all of its faults. His eyes gleam with childlike wonder, especially when the light catches his face. You wish—gods, you wish—that you could have even half of the same optimism, but that chance for hope has died for you, that same day that your world burned up at your hands.

“Besides, you’re the one who said that there’s no room for failure. Don’t act timid now, Knight.”

You don’t mean it, not really, and Mingyu doesn’t deserve any of these terrible words, but your voice continues to ring off of the surrounding cliffs, even as the fight bleeds out from you. You can’t bear to look at him anymore, so you avert your eyes lower, to his hard, frowning mouth.

Mingyu’s nice. Too nice. How can a person be too damn nice? People in the Troughs don’t have room for being kind or generous. It’s disarming. You don’t know how to respond. So you give his chest a weak push with both palms, hissing without venom. He doesn’t even budge.

“Hit me.”

You close your eyes, just before his fist meets your jaw.

-

When light hits Feather’s blade at just the right angle, the silver turns into a mirror.

You hold the dagger up at eye level now, turning it this way and that in inspection. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve fallen into the habit of not staring at reflections for too long, always scared that you’ll find your mother’s or father’s face in your own, even more terrified of seeing and not recognizing them.

Mingyu has done good work, though he has turned sullen and sulks from the opposite side of the dugout as you. Your bottom lip weeps blood steadily from where it got split against your teeth, and there’s a large welt burgeoning over your left cheek bone. Your face throbs along with your heartbeat, and your jaw clicks every time it opens and closes.

Satisfied, you move onto the final thing on your mental list of preparation. You sheathe Feather, unclip your dagger from your belt, and tug the ring off of your left hand. Wistfully, you sweep your fingertips over Feather’s smooth bone handle and dip your thumb into the divot of the wolf ring. You’re reluctant to part with the two beautiful treasures that you’ve been honored to wear on your body, but you know that they’ll be kept safe in your absence. Before you can grow hesitant, you cross over to Mingyu and hand both to him, savoring the perfect heft of Feather in your palm one last time.

“I bequeath the blade to Soonyoung,” you murmur, staring up hard at Mingyu to confirm that he hears and understands. “If something were to happen to me.”

Something dark and thunderous flickers over his face, but he presses his mouth into a tight line and nods, firm. He takes both items from you; first, the ring, which slides onto his littlest finger, then Feather, which he handles with such reverence and care that you think he might love the blade as much as you do.

To your surprise, Mingyu produces something from his pocket and holds it out towards you. It’s another piece of jewelry, a tiny circular pendant wrought of silver on a thin chain. When you regard it, puzzled, all the knight offers is, “A talisman. For protection. The warden allows in whatever you wear on your body.”

You take the necklace. It weighs practically nothing, a thin slip of silver, but there is an etching of a bird—an owl, you recognize—with two tiny amethysts set into place as its eyes. Your nose burns as you blink rapidly down at it and sweep your palms quickly over your eyes in the same fluid motion as pulling the chain over your head.

“Thank you.”

For tonight, you’ll keep the white wolfpelt, devote the silken touch and its cloying warmth and the delicate lavender scent to memory to bring with you into the fortress. This small comfort you allow yourself.

Hours later, as midnight settles into its dominion, you hunch beneath your cloaks, minding the fire while stargazing, sat with your back against one of the tree stumps, head tilted up against the bark.

“I think I know why they call you Owl.”

You glance down, startled by the sudden voice.

From his end of the shelter, Mingyu’s no longer feigning sleep, turned over onto his side to look at you past the dying embers. The night is so black that it appears cobalt, but overhead, the moon glows, swollen with light. For once, the sky bathes Mingyu in silver and blue, the colors of the world you’d known before all this, the colors of your world. Fascinated, you stare, wordless for a moment longer than is expected. You think you much prefer the red and gold on him.

When you stir to your senses, you lean back onto your palms, curling your fingers into the cold dirt. You tip your head with a quiet retort, “I told you exactly why they call me Owl.”

The knight’s lips tug with tired amusement. “Maybe. But it’s only half the reason.”

You consider this, consider his mouth, full and carved and always twitching in mirth. What you’d do to trace the lines of them with your fingertips, if only to feel the craftsmanship of the gods. It could very well be your last days in this life, you think, bemused. You might as well do whatever you’d like.

Instead, you ball your hands, taking large fistfuls of dirt into them. Traitorous, ruinous hands that have only known how to steal and hurt and kill.

“Well, what’s the other half of the reason?”

Mingyu smiles, as if pleased to have been indulged. “Because when you’re watching the stars, especially on a night like tonight, I can see the moon rise in your eyes.”

-

“May I?”

You nod once, voice stolen away by anxiety.

The morning is as gray as the air that hangs low in the dugout. You’d found little to no sleep that night, so Mingyu had risen first, rousing you from the half-doze you’d managed with a gentle hand over your shoulder. When you jolted into sitting up, breath catching halfway up your throat, he’d shushed you gently, brows knitted together in concern. Without words, he’d handed you a mug of hot water and a halved apple, the last of your stores remaining from the farmstand, before retreating away to tend to the horses. He had returned with his sword fastened to his belt, carrying a spool of twine.

Head dipped, you watch quietly as Mingyu reaches for your arms, holding both wrists in one hand, using the other to loop a length of rough twine around them. He leaves no slack, winding and knotting the rope so tight that it leaves deep indents where it lies against your skin. Once he’s done, he ghosts his fingers over the backs of your hands as he pulls away, which you try not to shiver at.

You shift your weight, ready to turn away back towards the road, when Mingyu takes a half step closer, shortening the distance between. He doesn’t touch, only hums a short note, so that your attention snags upwards, towards his face. Mingyu’s gaze burns as it flits over your eyes, the bruise on your cheek, the split in your lip. He reaches a hand up, hovering it just beneath your jaw in silent question.

It could be the last day of your life. So you answer, tilting your head just slightly so that your cheek brushes his palm, warm and calloused. It makes your pulse stutter clumsily. Something fierce begins to bleed into Mingyu’s expression, shifting his solemn despair into a bright devotion.

“Be brave, Owl.”

It’s the last you feel of his warmth. You walk the rest of the way in silence as icy as the terrain around you. Mingyu leads you by a length of rope fastened around your restraints, and you follow faithfully, eyes trained onto his back. In the final stretch of the way up to the gates, you watch as his gait turns purposeful, each foot placed intentionally, and he slides back into that feline warrior you’d witnessed against the bandits.

Finally, Taebaek, northernmost fortress and living grave to the most wicked transgressors of the kingdom appears, nowhere at first and then suddenly looming above you, in a jagged black silhouette that you can barely make out from the swirl of cloud and fog and snow above you. Compared to the severity of the ramparts ahead, its gates are plain and insubstantial, manned only by a single guard at its center.

You don’t realize that you’ve paused to stare, until Mingyu gives a rough tug to your leash and you stumble shakily to your knees. The knight doesn’t even look behind him as he pulls again, until you shove yourself back onto your feet. It’s a facade, you know this, but your stomach roils uneasily and your eyes sting with unshed tears.

“Hail,” Mingyu calls out to the guard. Even his voice is foreign, edged with a threat and growling out from his throat, instead of rumbling in his chest.

“Hail, good Sir. Please state your title and your business.”

Mingyu reaches behind to grasp you by the nape, tender fingertips leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, before they tighten into a claw. He shoves you forward and down onto your knees again, head bowed before the oppressive terror of Taebaek.

“I am the Sun Knight of the Lion’s Pride, Mingyu of House Kim, of the Wolves. I bring before you a criminal, befitting of Taebaek’s eternal embrace.”

-

You’re brought into the stronghold, wrists and ankles and throat shackled by iron. The guard’s touch stings like acid, and he drags you along like a chained beast. Mingyu trails behind you, like a silent shadow, and though you’re endlessly bolstered by his presence, you suddenly wish that he wasn’t here to see you like this. The holding room that you pause within is vast, as wide as a nobleman’s feasting hall and endlessly tall. You steal glances around and find yourself surrounded by massive statues of personified beings that you recognize as the five gods: Sun, Moon, Earth, Sea, and Sky. With a dry swallow, you try to cover the laugh that itches at your throat at the irony of religious symbols in such a godless place.

The guard shoves you back onto your knees. He speaks in a voice as toneless as the air in the room.

“Name your crimes.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu step forth, ready to deliver whatever he’d planned on professing, but before he can speak, the guard interrupts.

“Pardon, Sir, but here at the fortress, the prisoners are required to offer their sins up in their own voices beneath the gods’ gazes.”

“I was not made aware of this principle.”

“Forgive me, Sir. It is a newer policy that has been created by the High Warden.”

Mingyu shifts his weight, boots scraping the stone beneath anxiously. Whatever script he had created has now dissolved into ashes. No matter. For once in this entire voyage, this is something that you have been prepared for. You keep your head bowed, fettered by the weight of the iron collar, shutting your eyes as you recite the words that you’ve been practicing, every night since you were eight years of age. The prayer that you’ve silently rolled over on your tongue to devote to memory, preparing—in case the gods were real—for the day you would meet judgment.

“I am a kinslayer. My mother and father both perished in a fire of my design. They protected me first, told me to run for safety, not knowing that I was the one who caused the fire. I watched as they choked on the smoke, as they screamed from the flames. I did nothing to help them.”

Now that you’ve spoken the truth out loud, formed them into words and uttered them in your voice, it finally feels real. You had lived all these years blaming the sun, the drought, and the dry heat, but deep down, you had known that there was no other than yourself to blame. It was your fault that your parents and the owls and your home burned into ashes. Everything that came afterwards had been your punishment to bear for making it out alive alone. Though you barely lift your eyes, you can feel the imposing presence of the five gods’ statues, as if their spirits live within the carved stone. Kinslaying alone cannot be sufficient enough to warrant Taebaek’s eternal cold embrace, so you continue.

“I have lived for money. I have looted and stolen and killed others in exchange for coin. Worst of my crimes, I underestimated a knight, the Sun Knight, and thought that I could swindle him. I am only sorry that I got caught doing it.”

Satisfied, the guard who greeted you at the gates grips your chains and yanks hard. You lurch forth, led by the wrists, and swallow away the yelp that forms when the edges of the iron cuffs bite into your arms.

“We’ll take it from here, Sir. Thank you for your escort.”

You can’t even turn to glance one last time at Mingyu before you’re being wrenched forward again.

They lead you down what feels like a thousand corridors, at times taking immediate turns, walking straight for minutes at others. You’re weary, weighed down by your restraints and the frigid, thin air of the mountains, but you take Mingyu’s orders to heart and study each step that you take deeper into Taebaek. Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, left, straight at the gate with a tattered red flag marker. You encode every new direction in your mind and devote it to memory.

You arrive at your cell abruptly. It’s the first holding in a line; you can’t see into the others, but it seems that all of the cells are occupied, judging by the latched doors. The guard who holds your leash shoves you through the gate and slams it shut even before you and your chains have finished crashing down onto the stone floor. Unceremonious and callous.

You wince and pick yourself up to crawl into the cot placed against the far back wall of the cage. The cot can barely be called one, made up of a thin padded sheet that barely blocks the chill from the floor beneath. Nearly every inch of your body aches now, from your untrained legs to the cosmetic beating you’ve received from Mingyu. You long to drift asleep, for just a moment to gain your bearings and regain some strength.

“Hello, new neighbor. Welcome in. I sure hope that you manage longer than the last one. I’m so bored, and the lad on my other side is just so sullen that I fear he might be simple minded.”

A languid voice croons out from the cell to your right. You can’t see who it belongs to from where you are, as only the front half of the shared wall has been set with iron bars, the latter half blocked with gray brick. You’re keen on ignoring them, exhausted and cold, but push yourself up and off of your cot to crawl over to the front of your cell. You kneel, wincing when even the stone’s chill cuts straight through your clothes and into your joints, and grip at the bars to peer into the neighboring cell.

The prisoner occupying it is stretched out onto their own cot but at your rustling turns to glance your way. For a moment, your breath is knocked out of your lungs, as you behold one of the most beautiful people you have ever seen. You had thought that traveling with the Sun Knight had all but immunized you against beauty, but where Mingyu is boyishly handsome, this stranger possesses a delicate, otherworldly elegance. Without a doubt, this is your Angel. You silently thank all of the gods for the fortune they’ve granted you in putting you into this cell. Without hesitation, you forgo all introductions, muttering over the code, an excerpt of a poem, that Mingyu has given you.

“The lion basks, but the sunlight is cold.”

Angel shoves himself to sit up on both arms. He freezes for a moment, glances from you to the wall on his other side warily. The man picks himself up to stand, and when the blanket falls from his lap, you notice his willowy limbs, thin wrists and ankles. There’s a gaunt edge to his cheeks that you’re certain wouldn’t have existed outside of this place, and you wonder how long he’s been imprisoned here for.

He gracefully floats into sitting on his side of the bars, hands brushing the cropped inky hair at his temples back as if he’s used to it being longer and then folding neatly in his lap. This close up, you see that his eyes nearly take up half of his face, vast with something archaic, like wisdom, and something blistering, like rage. It both fascinates and frightens you. Angel observes you as intensely as you do him before he completes the code back to you.

“Burn the clouds and shadows away to bring him warmth.” You watch as the man sweeps his calculating gaze over you. “Hello. I’m Angel.”

You dip your head into a careful nod. “The Sun Knight brought me here. You can call me Owl.”

Angel doesn’t smile—he doesn’t seem like he smiles easily, like Mingyu does—but something disarming and soft curls at his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Owl. How was your journey with our dear Knight?”

“Long. Exhausting. He talks a lot and is infinitely optimistic about everything.”

Angel does laugh, though, in the form of a quick puff of breath that instantly crystallizes. Amusement pulls at his sharp cheekbones, which lasts only for a fleeting moment, before his gaze snags onto your neck where the silver pendant lies in the hollow of your throat.

“Your necklace.” Angel nearly lurches into the dividing wall, thin arms poked between the bars into your cell. You jump and lean back, just barely out of reach from Angel’s hands. At your bewilderment, despite his jerky movements, he explains calmly, “That locket belonged to my little sister. The owl is the symbol of my family, and the amethysts are for the purple of our house colors. Please.”

With the newfound reckoning, your face burns. Of course it had been another facet of the plan and not a piece of Mingyu’s protection to bring in with you. You suddenly feel like an insipid child, stupid and tiny. If Angel notices your hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it, only holds out his hand patiently. You tug the chain up and over your head, passing it over, and with it, all of your lingering thoughts of the Sun Knight.

“Thank you,” Angel breathes, throat warbling, and for a moment, something wet and wistful passes over his eyes. He closes his fist around the locket, clutches it tightly to his chest. When he glances back up, none of the emotion remains, only a hard set to his jaw and a burning, rageful gaze. “The beginning of the end starts now.”

Better for you to know as little as possible, Mingyu had said. Now, as you rot in this tiny cell, you wish that you had even the slightest inkling of Angel’s plan.

Days pass by in a neverending, monotonous blur. You blink awake from restless slumber to the guards rattling their weapons against the barred doors. Shivering, you hunch on your cot, clutching the single blanket you’ve been given as tight as you can to preserve what little heat you produce. Twice a day, they come by with a bowl of cold, gray slop and a cup of water that’s mostly ice. You pick at the food and chew at shards of ice until your teeth chatter so violently that you can no longer.

Angel, despite his emphatic greeting on your first day, has grown withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Whenever you glance through the shared wall, he’s laid on his side, curled towards the far wall so that you can’t even see his face. You stare and stare at his back, waiting for action, waiting for any movement that signals that the plan is in motion. He doesn’t even stir once. He doesn’t even speak a word.

The hope that had been building and rising within you dies. Like a weak flicker of light, dashed out by an avalanche. You think of Soonyoung and the Dancing Spider, of Snowdrop and flying, of Mingyu and his sunkissed face. All things that had seemed too good to be yours forever.

You shut your eyes and try to rest. It seems you have the time now for all of the sleep you’d forgone in the Troughs. Sometimes you fall into black, dreamless naps and wake, even more exhausted than before. Sometimes you dream of golden knights and silver mares and wake with tears clinging to your lashes.

When you wake next, there’s a wild screech, as if metal is being torn apart. You jerk to your senses and push yourself up on your cot, just in time to see that your cell door has been forced open. The two guards that shove inside the already cramped space wear black cloth over their faces, revealing nothing of their identities except for their dark, beady eyes. Even this you barely have the chance to consider, before they reach you, ripping you from the blankets and winding chains around your wrists and ankles. A scrap of fabric that reeks of sweat tightens over your face, stealing your vision away. They yank you forward by the chains, dragging you along the rough stone, knees and elbows scraped as you tumble and fold in disoriented commotion.

“Heard there was a new kinslayer. Heard that it burned its family alive,” one of the men growls, voice tinged with disgust and hatred, “Didn’t think it’d be a tiny little bird. You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

A different voice rasps, higher pitched and mischievous, “It’s always the unassuming ones who are the worst. What’s the punishment for this one, boss?”

A quiet hum starts up as the first man considers. There’s a feigned thoughtful note that you can hear straight through. “Eye for an eye seems apt, eh? Bring me the torch.”

Agitation curdles into panic.

“No, no,” you thrash against your bindings, pleading blindly to anyone who might hear, “No fire, please!”

Something harsh and grating meets your ears, and a moment passes before you realize that it’s a cacophony of the guards’ mixed cruel laughter. “Do you think that’s what your mother and father thought in their last moments? No! Please, no! No fire!” The second man mocks loudly.

Your blood runs cold. For once, there’s nothing that you can think of that might get you out of this, nothing clever. Fear grips your heart within icy talons, rendering you powerless and defeated. You slump weakly against your restraints, staring at the black of the blindfold in hopes that the moment will pass quickly.

“Oh,” the first guard rasps, and you can hear his feet scuffing the stone as he shifts his weight. “That’s it, that’s a good little bird. No fire, since you’re behaving so well. You’re lucky that it’s me, you know. I don’t delight in tormenting little birds like some of the other guards here do.”

For a moment, your heart lifts with hope. Then, the screech of metal sliding against metal meets your ears. You barely recognize that something has happened, that something has changed, until you catch a waft of smoke and cooked flesh, like meat on a spit. The backs of your eyes flash with the explosions of a million tiny stars as a white-hot touch kisses your skin, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. It burns, so intensely, that for a moment, it feels like ice.

By the time that you recognize the sound of your own voice, keening and screaming and begging for it to stop, your mind is already distant, shoving away as far as it can manage. You nudge the part of you that feels the pain to the edges of your mind, letting something else fill it wholly. Vaguely, you recognize more jeering, more snickering.

Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, you recite faithfully, mouthing along to the words so that you don’t lose your place. Red flag in tatters.

You’re still murmuring the directions to yourself when they shove you back into your cell. They only let the blindfold fall once the door shuts behind the guards, but it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen their faces. You’ve heard their voices, and you’ll never forget them. You lie there, curled on the filthy stone, devoting the cadence and the rasp and the hatred of their words to your memory.

To your right, motion flurries as Angel appears at the shared wall. He curls his fingers around the bars, brow furrowed above eyes wide and black. “Owl,” he calls, “I’ll end it all, soon. Soon. I’m sorry.” He whispers fiercely, voice soft but brimming with fury, silver owl’s pendant gripped tightly in his fingers, “I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

You blink away tears, watching as the man called Angel turns into the image of a vengeful demon.

“Tomorrow, we get an hour in the yard. I’ll come find you there.”

-

“Yer a bottom feeder, aren’t ya?”

You peer up to a voice that sounds like stones scraping against each other. You had found and hunkered down in a far corner of the bare courtyard that they’d led the prisoners in your cell block out to, hoping to avoid any encounters with anyone but Angel. Not much luck there.

The voice’s owner is as ugly as it is, frame withered beneath a fashion of tattered rags and mouth pulled into a permanent sneer to show crooked and broken teeth. His greasy hair falls in sparse, limp clumps from a nearly bald scalp, pocked with scars and other blemishes. Despite his own terrible state, he manages to peer down his nose at you, airs shockingly condescending.

“What does it matter to you?” You bite out, pulling your legs closer to your chest and looping your arms around your knees. “We wound up in the same place in the end.”

The man’s snarl turns into a grin, which somehow makes him even uglier. “Knew it. I can sniff out a rat no matter where I go.” He tips his head to the side and makes a slow, careful appraisal of your face, which makes you feel filthy, even without being touched. “Though yer a pretty little rat, aren’t ya?”

You quiver and tuck your chin away, wincing when the motion pulls at the wound on your collar. The man starts to say something again, in that terrible, grating voice of his, when another interrupts him icily.

“Rancor, piss off.”

Just behind the withered man’s shoulder, Angel has appeared, as silent as a shadow. His eyes burn hot, but his voice comes clipped and as frigid as the mountain air.

Rancor’s attempt at a smile wipes away. “Oh? The pretty princeling can speak!”

Angel only flickers his dark gaze over to you. “I said. To piss off.”

“I’m just makin’ friendly chit-chat, is all. What’s it to yer royal sweetness?”

Before the man can continue, Angel dips his head just before Rancor’s ear to whisper something that you can’t catch. You watch as Rancor’s derision turns into fear. The withered man scampers away as quickly as he’d appeared before you, and you ease ever so slightly.

Angel dips into a crouch before you, using careful hands to tilt your jaw back. He tuts his tongue as he examines the skin there, skims his fingertips along the boundary of the wound. His touch is gentle, but the memory of the burning frightens you into flinching.

“Sorry,” the man soothes quietly and pulls away. Instead, he reaches low to gather your bare feet in his hands. His palms are warm as they try to massage some feeling back into them. “Where’d your shoes go?”

You blink once, twice. “Someone stole them, I think.” A dry laugh catches in your throat at the irony of it all.

Angel watches you carefully, and you try not to squirm beneath his intense appraisal. He thinks for a long while, as if deliberating with himself, then clenches his jaw, mind made up. He throws a careful glance over his shoulder to the rest of the yard, where the other inmates mill around in slow, fatigued motions. When he looks back at you, Angel’s face mirrors the expression he wore a few days back, when you were returned after your branding, fiercely determined and endlessly furious.

“Owl,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping over your ankle bone. “It’s happening soon. We’re to act on a moonless night.” You think back to last night’s sky; the moon had been nearly half-full still.

“Five, six days?” You whisper.

“Yes,” Angel hums. Another brush over your heel. He means to be calming you, you realize belatedly. You’re still not entirely certain of Angel, but he’s the only one you’re meant to trust in this grim fortress. “Your job is to hold out as best as you can manage until then. Keep your head down, and keep yourself safe. Do you remember the way out?”

You nod. “I never forget a thing.”

Angel’s lips press into something as close to a smile as he can manage. “Good. I’m relying on you to lead us out.” His brow creases as something rueful flickers over his beautifully enraged face. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. When we get out of here, I’ll make everything right.”

For the remainder of your time allotted out in the yard, Angel sits beside you, straight-backed and legs folded neatly. He glares at every person who dares to drift over to stare curiously at the pair of you. In a soft hum, he reveals to you everything.

Angel confirms the rumors of the former queen mother as true. She had been incarcerated at this very prison after ordering the deaths of the son and first grandson, robbing the kingdom of its Crown and his heir. Before the assassinations had occurred, she had enlisted a naive kitchen maid’s help in experimenting with her weapon of choice, and a smatter of young ladies in the court had been senselessly murdered. Angel’s younger sister had been one of them. He says this all in an even, detached drone, as if dwelling on any one word will undo his resolve. The anger never leaves his face.

You understand, finally, what the job is.

When the guards shout for your return at the top of the hour, you let yourself be pulled up to your feet by Angel, relieved to have learned the motive for this job. Justice, you might find unfamiliar, but vengeance agrees with you greatly.

-

The days bleed into one another slowly. You stare up at the waning moon each night, stomach aching as you count down until the moment of escape. Confined into the cramped cells once more, you spend most of your time curled beneath your blankets, heeding Angel’s words carefully and keeping yourself as safe as you can manage.

Angel no longer seethes in silent solitude after the day in the yard. He calls over questions about everything and nothing in a loud voice, feigning innocent boredom. Despite it, you think you can read the sincerety in his curiosity. Sometimes, you’re in your cots as you talk, staring up at the ceiling. Most of the time, you sit across one another at the shared wall, so close that your knees brush through the spaces between the bars, that you can speak in whispers.

You tell Angel about your owlery and about growing up beside winged creatures, battling a consuming envy from your own inability to fly. He laughs and brushes his fingers over your wrist when you tell him that you broke it as a child jumping out of a tree in an attempt to learn. He hums thoughtfully when you tell him that riding a horse feels like what you’d imagine flying would be like and that you’d like to own a horse, faster than the wind, one day.

Angel tells you that he misses his family. That he respects his father more than anyone else in the world, that he heeds his mother’s words more than anyone else’s in the world, that he adores his younger sister more than anyone else in the world. All this, he says with equal parts joy and sorrow. Angel loves his family so fiercely that your own heart aches. You wonder if you’ll ever love another the same, if you’ll ever be loved the same.

He asks you for your crimes. You tell him that you’d killed your parents in a fire.

You ask him for his. Angel murmurs in a tone close to murderous that he had all but been the one to condemn his own sister to death. That his hand had been the one to deliver poison straight to her door the night that she died. You read the abject void in his eyes as he recites this and decide to ask no more of him.

The night that the moon is barely more than a sliver in the sky, Angel whistles, already sat on his side at your shared wall. Exhaustion weighing down your limbs, you pull yourself from the cot and crawl towards the wall curiously. As soon as he sees you, Angel reaches his hands past the bars towards you, pressing a cold palm against your cheek, hooking his fingers to lift your chin. He hisses softly at the same time that you whine, as your wound tugs painfully.

“Owl,” Angel murmurs, brows knitted together, “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “A little tired, I think. Cold.”

“Cold?” He turns the palm against your face over to press his even colder knuckles to your cheekbone. “You’re burning up. And that’s not looking so good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you lean into his touch. After flinching away from contact with others for so long, you’ve become reliant on these fleeting moments with Angel, who offers his gentle hands as comfort in this horrid, vacant place. You’re not sure how else you could have managed without them.

“I’m okay,” you insist hazily, unsure if your mind fogging is from the fatigue or from a fever. Nevertheless, you recite your memorized directions silently to make sure that it won’t affect tomorrow’s plan; you manage without stumbling. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

Angel holds your face, eeriely still. His mouth purses in thought, as he runs calculations in his mind. Whatever he concludes on doesn’t please him. You can tell by the way his expression darkens, so you reach up to grip at his fingers, as firm as you can manage.

“Angel. I have battled worse than this before. I will not fail.”

“Everything must go accordingly for us to make it. It will need to be perfect.”

You’re unyielding when you urge, “I will be perfect.” And he must see something convincing enough. Angel nods once to you, once for himself.

“Alright. Our trust lies in you.”

The morning is gray and silent, as if all of the air has been sucked out from the atmosphere.

You cling to your blankets, shivering despite the palpable flush in your cheeks. When you swallow hard, your throat sticks to itself, dry and painful. Hard to remember what this was for. What you’re so hellbent on making it out of here for, instead of letting yourself fall into the tantalizing pull of sleep. Everything’s so cold, your throat and head so hot, and all you’d like to do is fall back into your cot and tug the blanket up to your nose.

A scuff from the cell to your right has you blinking your eyes back open. Angel is a dark smudge curled at his cell door, knocking a fist against the metal slab.

“Quit all the noise,” a gruff voice grunts from the hall.

Angel slams his hand harder. “The girl has an infection. She needs to be seen at the infirmary, or else she’ll die.”

The guard laughs in a sneer. “Great. She’ll be one less mouth to feed.”

You quiver at the thought. Angel hangs his head, frustrated, before he clenches his jaw and punches the door once more.

“That’d be the fifth death in a month’s time. Don’t you think the High Warden will get suspicious? Early deaths mean shorter punishments.” Angel lets out a derisive snort. “That girl’s been here two weeks. Hardly long enough to even consider penance.”

There’s a pause, as the guard outside seemingly contemplates this.

“Fine. But you’ll go and grovel for help.”

Angel turns to glance at you through the bars, mouth curled in triumph. The dim of the cell casts a shadow over his ethereal face, which makes his eyes smolder brighter. I’ll be back, he mouths soundlessly.

You nod, and he’s gone. You shut your eyes, only while you wait out his return.

Your eyes shoot open at the sound of metal creaking. It takes you a moment to realize that your cell door has been swung wide and then another to realize that the man inside your cell isn’t a guard, but Angel wearing a guard’s gray uniform. The cloth mask obscures most of his face, but you could recognize those eyes anywhere. Now, there’s a vivid alarm in them, as he thrusts over a bundle of cloth. Another uniform set.

“Put this on,” he orders, words clipped and void of anything but urgency, “We’re moving now.”

The exhaustion evaporates as your brain floods with adrenaline. Hurried but steady, you pull the trousers on over your threadbare pants. While you’re shoving your arms through the tunic and cloak, fastening the mask over your nose and mouth, Angel drops to a crouch to help you fold up the extra length of the legs into neat cuffs. Still no shoes. No matter.

Angel straightens to standing, takes one look at you, and then he’s lurching out of the cell. He hurtles down the hallway, in the direction that you were brought over, but when he reaches the end of it, he swivels his head left to right, unsure.

Without pause, you take the lead, letting the mantra in your head play in reverse as you retrace your memories. On and on, the two of you stalk down the halls, in a clipped, urgent manner, turning stoically silent whenever you pass by other guards, who barely pay you any mind. You only let go of the shallow breath that you’d been holding in when you reach the red flag in tatters. Only a bit left to go. Straight for fifty footsteps.

On the fortieth step, you nearly barrel straight into a pair of guards, burly and unyielding. This far away from the cells, they must be part of the gate watch. The men fan out and block the hallway. The one on the left narrows his eyes. The one on the right doesn’t even feign doubt, and his hand reaches for his belt.

Made clumsy with fever and fatigue, you barely register the silver flash of a blade before you’re being roughly shoved aside by Angel, who has lunged forth to deflect the weapon with a knife of his own. The blades squeal in a nasty clash of metal, which rattles you enough to jerk to your senses. Angel, despite his slight and delicate build, makes quick work of the guard, slicing neatly at his wrist so that his fingers loosen around his weapon.

You recover, dipping to snag the blade by the handle as it falls before it even hits the ground, and you’re ducking beneath Angel’s arm to dart forward. The guard on the left doesn’t even make a sound as you spring up to score his throat with the dagger.

“Go,” Angel hisses. You glance over just enough to see him do the same to his opponent. The bodies crumple to the stone in unison. It was a nearly soundless struggle, but there’s no telling when the next round of sentries will come through.

You obey.

Ten more steps, right, left, left. The hall leads into the massive holding room where you were made to confess your crimes. It’s empty, save for the statue of the gods and their presence. You wonder what they think of what they see; two false inmates hurtling past in stolen uniforms, killing like it means nothing more than survival.

It’s only a straight shot from the room to the perilous stone bridge that leads to the front gates. Instead of being resolutely shut against the outside, you squint through the fog to find that one gate has been cracked open. As you hurtle closer, you find a heap of dark uniforms, more fallen guards, snow soaked red.

Angel bounds forward and through the gates, through freedom, reaching to grip you by the wrist and tug you out with him.

“Jeonghan!”

Just up ahead from a nearby bank of snow, the subject of your greatest nightmares in the past two weeks awaits, stalwart and tall and terribly handsome. The Sun Knight stands, blood-soaked sword in one hand, a blazing torch in the other. Sturdy Summer stamps her hooves at his side, while silent Snowdrop waits patiently a few yards back from where she’s been tied. He whistles, sharp and shrill, tipping his head to the side as he gestures for the two of you to move back. Then, you watch, curious and confused, as he throws the torch. It sails over the gates in a blaze and lands atop the slain bodies, where it catches rapidly, hungrily, as if they’d been soaked in oil.

“That’s the last of the gates,” Mingyu grunts, chest heaving with exertion. “Taebaek should be up in flames within the hour.”

You blink once, twice. Then, you stare harder through the fog, towards the hazy silhouette of the fortress. Its stark towers and spires, north, east, and south, are smudged by thick clouds of gray—smoke—and at parts, patched with flickering color: red, yellow, and orange—fire. Haltingly, you try to piece together an explanation, but the cold and the relief flooding your veins snuff out any attempt at forming logic.

Angel—Jeonghan—catches you by the elbow and holds you by the waist just as you start to sag into his side. “Owl,” he murmurs, voice no more than a breath, “We made it.”

Mingyu trudges through the snow, closing the distance, and takes Jeonghan into a tight embrace, hissing, “Jeonghan, you mad devil. It’s good to see you.” Still pressed into Jeonghan’s side, you also get pulled into Mingyu’s warmth and the scent of leather and cloves, the same that your nightmares were cloyed with.

Without letting go, Mingyu turns his honeyed gaze to you, relief and worry equally bright in his face. “Owl, you are a miracle. A godsdamned miracle.” Then, he reads the tight urgency in Jeonghan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

The last of the adrenaline fades, and your knees buckle. You let out a weak cry, but faster than you can fall, Mingyu dips to snake his arm over your waist. He tucks you against his side, reaching to pull a side of his black wolfcloak over your shoulder. The instant warmth makes you shiver violently, a whine catching in your throat. “I’ve got you,” he mumbles, still looking to Jeonghan for a response.

“Infection, I suspect,” Jeonghan answers, words clipped and purely efficient. “There’s a burn on her neck that doesn’t look good. I’m worried that it’s so close to her head and her heart.”

Mingyu crooks his head to pull back the collar of your uniform. When he speaks next, his voice has turned icily quiet, “They branded her?”

Jeonghan’s eyes darken in a stony, silent reply. “How long did it take you to ride here?”

“Eight days. Though, we started at the Spider, so it took half a day to even get out of the city.”

“Are the horses well rested?”

“Snowdrop is anxious to run; we were moving too slow for her liking. Summer hasn’t been doing so well in the cold, so I’m sure she’s eager to leave. We can move quick, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jeonghan hums as he considers this. “Three days?”

“Might be possible. We make minimal stops and ride through the night.”

“It’ll have to be done.”

By now, you’ve stopped listening, too exhausted to pay attention to the two men as they murmur their plans. You watch through lidded eyes as they agree on something and as Jeonghan approaches Snowdrop with an outstretched hand. To your surprise, the white mare chuffs happily, and you watch as a genuine smile stretches at Jeonghan’s mouth. Of course, you think to yourself with a strange pang in your heart. Jeonghan is Snowdrop’s rider. Both remarkable creatures of an otherworldly beauty. You can’t help but smile too at their reunion.

“Owl.” Your attention draws back as Mingyu calls. “You’re going to be riding back with me. Is that alright?”

You nod. How chivalrous of him to ask, you muse to yourself. A knight in every manner of the word. A funny warmth spreads in the pit of your stomach.

With your permission, Mingyu lifts you up onto Summer’s saddle, then slides up into his seat behind you, chest to your back, legs bracketed around yours. You have no room to be shameful as you greedily lean into his heat, sighing when he brings his cloak back around to cover you.

“Mingyu,” you breathe.

It’s much too cold, even tucked beneath the knight’s wolfskin, but it’s warm where Mingyu holds you against his chest, arm banded over your waist tightly so that you won’t slide from the saddle. When he doesn’t respond, you call his name again, firmer this time, and watch with hazy delight as his lips part and gaze darts down to you in surprise.

The clouds overhead have just begun to break, and daylight spills onto his face and turns his gaze molten and golden. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s made up in your head anymore, but one thing is certain. You need to tell him what you’ve been thinking since the first moment that you met him before you lose your chance to. Already, your head’s spinning, vision flickering in and out, as the fever threatens to consume you whole.

You warble the words out, clumsily earnest, “I know why they named you the Sun Knight.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you have been kissed by the sun, and it rises in your eyes.”

As you mumble, you spend the rest of your strength in holding yourself upright and slump into the knight’s hold, consciousness slipping away from you like sand between your fingers. The last thing you hear is Mingyu’s voice, as gentle as the sweep of his mouth over your brow.

“And the moon in yours, dear Owl.”

-

“Now there’s a proper owl. Jeonghan, you’re more of a peacock, really.”

You dip your head, bashful at the immediate attention drawn to you as you slip out into the hallway to join up with the entourage awaiting you. Jeonghan greets you with a hand that tightens over your elbow, firm and bolstering, as he jipes back at his father, “At least that means I’m beautiful.”

He tips his face down to study yours, winking when he sees that you smile at his theatrics. Only a few weeks have passed since the escape from Taebaek, but the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw have eased away. When he brushes his fingers against his temples out of habit, his hair there has grown long enough now to be swept back. If you had thought that Jeonghan was beautiful back when you first met him, he is truly angelic here, at home and with his family and friends, draped in his purple silks and decorated with jewelry, color in his softened cheeks.

Lord Yoon sighs, exaggerated and loud, before he shakes his head, holding his brow. “My own son,” he laments. “Where did we go wrong?”

For someone as formidable as the Crown’s Master of Whispers, Jeonghan’s father behaves rather impishly around his family, you’ve come to learn. It’s not difficult to see where Jeonghan’s personality comes from.

It’s also not difficult to see where his beauty comes from. Radiant as ever, Lady Yoon smiles, tittering gracefully behind her hand, as she ushers you both forward. “Let me take a good look at you,” she murmurs, taking you from Jeonghan’s side to hold you at arm’s length. “Now, you are truly our daughter, in name and in looks.”

Weeks ago, you’d woken up, not in hell, not on a dingy Trough tavern bedroll, but in a plush palatial infirmary bed. Infection had rendered you near death for the first days, the healers had informed, but by the gods’ good graces, and the Crown’s personal order to do whatever was deemed necessary to keep you alive, you’d managed to be brought back from the brink. Once regaining consciousness and recovering in the infirmary, you received notice of an account at the Crownsland Bank made under your name—your real name, which you hadn’t even told Soonyoung—with the credit of one hundred thousand Dragons. It hadn’t, however, changed the fact that you still had no home or family to return to. They allowed you to stay in the infirmary for as long as you needed to gain your bearings, but the implication was made clear that you couldn’t live there permanently, of course.

In the midst of your fretting about overstaying your welcome, Jeonghan had paid you a blustering visit, frightening all of the infirmary personnel with his sudden appearance. He thrust upon you a stack of papers, scrawled with plenty of words, most of which you couldn’t even make sense of, and announced that his family had put in a formal request to the Crown to adopt you into their house, effective immediately. You later learned that the Crown had signed off on the request immediately because Choi Seungcheol never denied his childhood friend anything, especially not after the mission that he overtook to deliver his vengeance. Within an hour’s time, and with no regard to your own say in the matter, you had been brought over to the Yoons’ grand estate in the Western Quarter of the Crownslands and written down in all official documents as a noblewoman of the House of Owls, tacked onto the current generation as the third Yoon issue.

In your first days on the palacegrounds, you learned that the presence of Jeonghan’s true sister still lingered everywhere. Everyone that you’ve met in Court has had nothing but noble things to say about her: that she was even more beautiful than her brother, that she was intelligent and kind and talented, that she was taken too soon, too unfairly from this world. You remember Jeonghan’s grief when he saw her locket around your throat, the ire in his voice as he delivered his vengeance, the immense love that he has for her. You could never amount to anything remotely close, and you don’t want to. If they look upon you, hoping that they’ll find a glimpse of the late Yoon daughter, they’ll find nothing but disappointment, and you don’t intend to make a mockery of the dead.

You’d belatedly learned a lot of other things too. That the silver necklace you entered Taebaek with had truly once belonged to Jeonghan’s sister. That it was actually a locket that carried poison. That he had used it to kill the queen mother in the infirmary because he had known that she was recovering there from an illness.

A love for a sister great enough to deliver himself as a prisoner and weather Taebaek’s frigid cruelty for months, with blind trust that someone would be as crazy enough as him to complete his plan.

You reach for Lady Yoon’s hands to close your fingers around hers and correct, “Adopted daughter.”

“Semantics.” Jeonghan shatters through the moment with a languid grouse, returning to your side to hold you by the elbow again. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond curl to his mouth as he complains, “Come, dear sister. I’m starving, and I would love to go pester the sovereign Crown of our beloved kingdom.”

The affair of the night is a celebration that the Crown has requested for Jeonghan’s safe return. You feel strange feasting over an event that, at its core, burnt down a stronghold and its hundreds of occupants and nearly killed you, too, but Jeonghan’s presence smoothes out your nerves and so do his smiles that have been coming easier since being home.

The event, touted as private and intimate, is hosted in the palace proper, within a ballroom that Jeonghan claims to be the smallest and least ornate, but you can’t help craning your neck back to stare up at the massive chandelier and the grand painted ceiling as he leads you past the threshold. Everything glitters, gilded in gold or silver, and with each turn of your head, a jewel winks in the corner of your vision. At your side, Jeonghan waits patiently, smile curling wider with every amazed breath catching in your throat.

Before you can allow yourself to marvel further, you accompany the Yoons up to the dais to give your greetings to the Crown. Seungcheol meets them with warm familiarity and gives you a welcoming smile too, but while they share polite conversation, you can’t seem to still your nerves around the Crown and his proximity, having had every reason to fear authority in the past. As your family dips respectfully and steps back to allow another noble family to make their greetings, you think that you won’t ever adjust to living in the Crownslands, never mind as part of the family closest to the sovereign’s.

You follow along the Yoons, mouth pulled into a strained smile as noblemen and women step forward to greet Jeonghan and introduce themselves to you. They marvel over your successful return, each new encounter tacking on another detail of the mission, made increasingly valiant and noble. You wonder if they know how you blubbered like a child when the guards burned you, or if the stories omit that bit.

“Hail, Owl.”

You crook your head over your shoulder, immediately savoring the sight you’re rewarded with. The third and final guest of honor, Mingyu approaches elegantly, dressed in crimson silk fitted so perfectly, as if the lengths of fabric had been draped over him and then cut to length and fashioned together upon his frame. His collar cuts low just enough to reveal the jut of his clavicle and the golden pendant hanging at his throat, carved with a star-eating wolf. His hair, which by the end of your journey had grown long enough to curl boyishly at the nape, has been cropped neatly. Off of his warhorse and out of his riding leathers, Mingyu looks the image of a proper nobleman. It’s the first that you’ve seen of him since you fell unconscious in his saddle, before your life changed so drastically. You wish, desperately, that you were immune to his charms, so that you wouldn’t be standing here in the middle of the hall, gaping.

“Hail, Knight.” You recover a beat too slowly, and Jeonghan snickers from your side. You shoot him a glare, but your adopted brother only dips to ghost his lips over your forehead in parting and sweeps away, off on a quest to bother as many of his friends as possible, no doubt.

“The sigil is fitting, of course.” Mingyu graces you with a smile, gaze dipping to your neck, where the silver owl locket he once handed you hangs. Jeonghan had returned it, poison-free, to you as a gift to celebrate your adoption. “But how are you getting along with your new House colors?”

The Yoon banners fly purple and silver. You’re in no position to mind them, previously having had no symbol nor color to your family’s name, but you’re still getting accustomed to a wardrobe of only colors, especially when you’d worn the drab grays and browns of the Troughs for most of your life. When the attendants appeared at your door earlier, they couldn’t be turned away, not today, insisting that they must help you dress for an audience with the Crown. You had had no choice but to let yourself be pressed into a garment of violet silk so soft that it feels like running water over your skin. You glance down at yourself now, at the dress, at the owl in flight embroidered in delicate silver thread onto your sleeve, at the heavy rings that have been resized to perfectly slide onto your fingers. Suddenly, you’re aware of the knight’s silent appraisal of you, and you run your palms down the silken sleeves, a bit self-conscious.

“Getting used to it still. To all of it, really. What do you think?”

Mingyu's grin is quick, eager. “I think you look like royalty.”

You nearly forget yourself, whatever you were meaning to say sticking to the back of your throat. Before you can allow yourself to flush at how guilelessly he answered, someone catches your attention from the corner of your vision, enrobed in sleek black. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes flash your way, and you turn away from the knight, tucking your prior thoughts away for later reflection, towards the approaching newcomer, hissing out with no real venom.

“Traitor. You lied to me.”

Kwon Soonyoung grins back at you with a one-shouldered shrug. “Technically, everything I’ve told you is truthful. I own The Dancing Spider. I run a network.”

Turns out, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t just run a network; he is the network. In your days recovering in the infirmary, through your sparse conversations with the healers’ assistants, you’d picked out the truth about your friend, the tavern owner, who, in actuality, was the second child and only son of House Kwon and the prodigious master of the Crown’s extensive network of mercenaries, sellthieves, and other rogueish informants. A Spider with a web that reaches across every nook and cranny of the kingdom.

“Whatever,” you sniff blithely, studying the man. “Lying by omission is still lying.”

He’s traded his simple clothing—which you suppose was more of a disguise for him—for an ornate black doublet, tailored perfectly to his form. There’s a spider stitched in iridescent thread at his chest, its legs radiating out from the center to the sides, encircling his ribcage. Here, Soonyoung even carries himself taller, more assured, sharp gaze steely and serious. You wonder, now, which version of Soonyoung is the truest.

“I thought you were a common house pest. Didn’t realize you were the Crown’s Spider.” You’re not sure how to tell him that you’re glad to see him again, that you appreciate everything that he’s done for you all these years, so you settle for the next most pressing thought in your head, squinting in scrutiny, “I can’t believe you had me paying you copper coins when you’re the heir to a noble House, Kwon.”

Soonyoung huffs, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulls out something that you can’t recognize. He tosses it over your way, which you easily snag out of the air. You glance down at your palm and find it weighted down by a tiny leather pouch. When you ease the drawstrings open, you spy the contents, a mixture of mostly copper, some silver coins.

“I was going to return them all, some day, and tell you the whole truth, too.” The Spider winks at you rakishly. “Though you also don’t need them anymore, hm?”

“I’ll find a use for them.” You grin back, reaching for your pockets before quickly realizing that your new silks have none. Another thing that needs getting used to; noblewomen apparently have no need for pockets, not when their attendants can hold and carry things for them.

Instead, a large upturned palm slides into view. You tilt your head up and find Mingyu reaching for the pouch, eyes alight with purpose, no matter how small, eager to serve. Your heart stutters over itself.

As if he can hear it, Mingyu flashes you a tiny smile, “Let me hold onto them for you, my lady.”

You sniff to feign indifference, drop the pouch of coins into his hand, and stride off without a word, in search of Jeonghan’s bracing presence, and a cold drink.

Having successfully found one and not the other, you stick along the wall, glass in hand, as you scan the room and its inhabitants. Amusement tugs at your lips as you watch Soonyoung bicker with Jeonghan about something you can’t quite catch from this distance. Others, whose faces and names you’ve been briefed on but haven’t been introduced to, mill around in their own circles, but you catch the shared fondness and familiarity in the way they look at one another. Trusted friends from childhood, from birth, as Mingyu had once described to you.

Even the older members of Court seem to have their established groups. Jeonghan’s parents recline in easy conversation with a woman robed in black and the spitting image of Soonyoung and the Master of Arts, whose own son, Chan, laughs boisterously in the crowd watching the argument.

You think that you’ve gone unnoticed by the room, especially from your spot between the folds of the window curtains, so you jolt, alarmed, when someone calls you by your given name.

The Crown himself has managed to sidle up beside you. Much like the lion of his family’s heraldry, he wears his hair in a thick, black mane, swept back and off of his forehead, wisps curling at his nape. There’s a curve to his mouth, but the intensity of his gaze arrests you in space. As he approaches, so close that you can smell the coiling incense on the brushed velvet of his coat, he lifts his own flute of wine between loose fingers towards your direction in greeting.

Your spine straightens, and you stammer, “Just Owl is fine.” Then, you add clumsily with a stifled wince, “If it pleases the Crown.”

“Just Seungcheol is fine,” he copies your words, smiling politely and almost sheepish, “I apologize. I don’t mean to frighten you, Owl.”

“Not at all. It’s just—” You thumb at the rim of your glass, catching a drop, ruby red, onto your finger, stealing glimpses of the Crown from the corner of your eye. “I’ve committed crimes in return for coin. I should be locked up in a prison, never mind live in the Crownsland and drink sweetwine with royalty and noblemen and ladies. Pardon me if I’m a bit…fidgety in your presence.”

Seungcheol hums a note, low and contemplative in his throat.

Even without looking straight at him, you can feel his gaze, searching and curious, at your collar, where the brand left by the Taebaek guard hides beneath your clothes. The attendants had carefully applied a salve onto the still healing wound, wrapping it with a piece of linen bandage, and then obscuring it beneath the collar of your silks. You’re no stranger to scars and find no shame in it being visible, but the first and only time Lady Yoon had seen the blemish, she’d grown pale and visibly uneasy so you’ve taken towards having it hidden away in the presence of nobility.

“You’ve bled for the Crown, so now the Crown bleeds for you.” A grin, suddenly boyish, snags at his mouth as he adds, “Metaphorically, of course.”

You smile back faintly. “I didn’t know I was doing it for the Crown. Even if I did know, I certainly would have done it for my own gains.” A quick glance around the room and its occupants, opulent and bright and merry, makes something bitter rise in your throat. “And look how much I have gained overnight for it.”

“Do you think yourself undeserving of it?”

You turn with a blink, surprised. Without an ounce of doubt, you answer solemnly, “Of course. A few weeks ago, I was an orphan and a Trough rat. Today, one of the most powerful families in the Crownslands calls me their daughter. All because I played the right game and played it well.”

Seungcheol’s gaze crosses over to Jeonghan, who is wholly rapt with his companions and unaware of your own. “I think you will find that you are not so different from your brother, Owl,” the Crown muses softly, then lifts his glass to take a long sip. Then, attention snagged by a group of crimson-robed individuals, he gestures towards them and prompts, “Handsome family, aren’t they?”

At the farthest end from your spot, Mingyu mingles with three others who are very clearly his parents and sister. As Seungcheol says, they are all magnificent, tall and elegant, shrouded in red and gilded in gold. You murmur your agreement, fascinated by the identical slant and sharp inner corners of Mingyu’s and his sister’s eyes, beautiful even from this distance.

“The House of Wolves is an old one,” Seungcheol hums, tapping his fingers along the stem of his glass, “The Kims have been around for as long as the Chois. They could have vied for the Crown at any moment in history and won it, probably. Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they’re masters of war, even in this era. At twenty, Mingyu’s father was named the youngest commander in a century’s time, under my grandfather’s reign. His mother is an unparalleled strategist, with his sister right behind her heels. Mingyu himself is one of the finest knights we’ve seen ever.”

You tear your gaze away from the family laughing together to regard the Crown cautiously. “Do you suspect that the kingdom is at risk of a coup?”

Seungcheol only chuckles, with a curt shake of his head. “No. House Kim doesn’t envy the throne. The wolves put family above all else, and nothing else will sway them.” His voice takes a thick, bitter turn when he continues. “Perhaps my house should have done the same. Maybe I would have a family yet.”

Jeonghan had told you the truth, the whole truth. The queen mother, Seungcheol’s grandmother, had slain her own son and grandson, purely out of displeasure that her husband hadn’t chosen her favorite son as his heir. She had appointed one of her loyal courtiers as the newest High Warden of Taebaek, expecting to be condemned there after the murders, in exchange for a comfortable life in the fortress. There had been a plush feather bed and a compact brazier in her cell, Jeonghan had discovered on his way to the infirmary.

A wistful haze flickers over the Crown’s eyes, and you read it instantly. It’s the grief that comes with being the sole survivor of your family. You know it so closely, so fervently, that your own heart aches.

“You are surrounded by so many who love you,” you offer, tipping your chin at the rest of the room, “And the Yoons consider you as one of their own, do they not?”

Seungcheol’s emotion whisks away, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “They do.”

“Then, I am now a part of your family as well.”

The Crown laughs, both cheeks dimpling, and it’s much lighter than anything he’s said to you all night. “Thank you, Owl. That’s very generous of you. I’ve always wanted a sister.”

At that moment, from the middle of the room’s commotion, a sudden swell of music starts up, as players with stringed instruments begin a warm up sequence. You puzzle at the sight and as people begin to pick themselves up and off of furniture.

Seungcheol shifts his weight from beside you, reaching to settle his drained glass onto a nearby side table. “And now for my true intention of coming over here: will you join me for the first dance?”

Blood drains from your face in abject horror, as you stammer, “What? I cannot dance, I’ve never learned! I’m a Trough rat, for gods’ sakes!”

Seungcheol doesn’t even try to hide the mischief glimmering in his eye, a grin easing wide open. “It’ll be short. Symbolic, more than anything, and everyone will be itching to get to dancing themselves to care about much.”

You clamp your mouth open and shut multiple times as you gape for words. “You’re the Crown!”

“You’re the guest of honor. You’d be doing me the pleasure. And I’d rather not waltz with Yoon Jeonghan or Kim Mingyu, if I can avoid it. Please, Owl. As family?”

Panic sours into irritation as you realize that you’ve been utterly, completely played by the sovereign of the kingdom.

-

Fire swirls furiously all around you. Flames flicker in a storm, with you in the eye of it. You can’t see anything past the crimson and yellow and orange blinding your vision. There are a thousand voices, saying a thousand things, laughing, jeering, mocking. All condemning you to a hell of your own making.

You wake with a start, vision flooding with black and blue and silver that chases away the bright heat. Sweat dampens your forehead, sticks your sheets to your entangled limbs. You reach beneath your pillow, out of habit more than anything, to run your fingers along the carved handle of Feather. Hovering from above, your adopted brother frowns down at you, a hand shaking you by the shoulder.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” Jeonghan offers as an explanation of his presence. “Thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh.” You sink into the mattress, exhaling a long, weighted breath. “Did I wake you?”

A shadow flickers across Jeonghan’s face as a cloud passes over the moon. “No. I don’t sleep well. Not anymore.”

You nod. Not that you can remember a time when you’ve ever slept well, but something about Taebaek and its horrors, no matter how brief your stay was, has altered your mind. Even the soft feathers of your new bed and the furnaceless warmth of your room bring no comfort to let you sleep through the night.

You shift over on the giant mattress, creating enough space for Jeonghan to slip onto it. He folds his legs neatly as he sits, knees bumping against yours. For a moment, you’re reminded of leaning against the bars of your cell wall, learning to trust one another, sharing as much warmth as you could lend. Maybe Jeonghan has the same thought; he smiles and pulls the covers over both of your laps.

You clasp your hands together tight to hide that they’re still trembling from the lingering claws of your nightmare gripping your heart. Jeonghan sees, you’re certain, but he’s too kind to comment on it. Instead, he prompts gently, “Did you enjoy yourself at the banquet tonight?”

“Yes. I enjoyed seeing you with all of your friends.” As an afterthought, you add quietly, “I was glad to see Soonyoung and Mingyu again.”

Jeonghan hums. “And what did Seungcheol discuss with you?”

“You noticed.”

“I don’t miss a thing.”

You grin. “The Crown conveyed his gratitude for my part in bringing you back home. He said that he will repay the favor for as long as I live.”

Jeonghan sighs but can’t hide the smile that curls onto his mouth. “Dramatic, isn’t he? He’s just glad that I made it back so he doesn’t have to convince someone else to be his best friend.”

You snort. Then, something that’s been nagging at you since the banquet comes to mind. “Why didn’t you serve Soonyoung when he asked for more wine?”

Jeonghan echoes your words, “You noticed.”

You give a quick shrug. “I don’t miss a thing.”

Your brother hums again, more thoughtful, serious now. “The night before my sister died, I was the last person to see her. She hadn’t been sleeping well, so she requested something warm to drink from the kitchens. I brought it to her and bid her goodnight. They say that her body was already cold and stiff when they found her the next morning. Probably, she drank the milk, fell asleep immediately, and never woke up.”

There’s an unsaid confession there, of an irrational fear that has emerged out of the tragedy. You shut your eyes against the horrible account. It makes sense now, what he had said back at Taebaek, that he felt like his hand was the one that delivered the poison.

Without thinking, you murmur, “At least she did not suffer.” Then, you hastily correct, eyes flying open, “My apologies. That was not the right thing to say.”

Jeonghan laughs; a quiet rasp of a noise, but genuine. “You, and the countless others who have told me that, would be correct. Of course, there are harsher poisons and more horrible ways to die.” He blinks hard, purple eyelids dark against his pale, moonlit skin. “Still, I cannot help but think that I was the one to deliver my sister’s death straight to her.”

You sit, still and silent, working up the breath to admit your own secrets. “It’s true that the fire that killed my family was of my doing. I was up late, reading in the owlery, even though my parents told me to go to sleep. I forgot to blow the candle out before I returned to my bed, and the flames spread quickly. It hadn’t rained for months at the time, I think. Everything was dry and hot.

“My mother woke first, told me to get up and check on the owlery, but there was no point. When I got there, the whole thing had already gone up in flames and all of the birds were dead. By the time I ran back to the house, our roof was on the ground. I just hope that the smoke killed them both before the flames did.”

Jeonghan offers no words of consolation, and for that, you are grateful. Perhaps he is the only one in this world who may understand exactly how you feel. He reaches a hand out, and when you slide your palm against his, you realize that he’s shaking, too.

“By the way, we didn’t bring you into our own home because we were looking to replace my sister,” he murmurs, voice quiet but something fierce regardless, “That’ll never be possible.”

“Of course.” You frown. “Did you think that I was expecting to? It’s very important to me that you say no.”

Jeonghan’s previously solemn face splits in two as he laughs at your bewilderment. “No. I’m just messing with you.”

Your anxiety melts away into irritation, and you’re imbued with the sudden urge to yank your hand away. As if he senses this, Jeonghan’s grip only tightens, to which you scowl, glaring to mask the relief trembling back down your throat.

“And here I thought we were having a meaningful conversation.”

“We are,” Jeonghan croons, “You didn’t let me finish.”

Though your heart still races and you’re more annoyed than nervous now, you yield and allow a smile at the sight of the harsh lines of his face easing away.

“I was going to say, we want you here because you’ve given us something more valuable than anything. You’ve granted us vengeance, and now the three of us can live in peace until the day we reunite with my sister. That, alone, is enough to love you as one of our own.”

You swallow hard, breaths shallow so as not to ruin the quiet of the night. There’s a sudden tearing in your chest, as all that you’ve denied yourself, fearing that your past would not merit you as deserving of it, settles into place right before you. A family. Warm hands around yours. A purpose beyond surviving to the next day.

Jeonghan’s eyes glitter as he muses, “I can see why you’re called Owl. You should have seen yourself just now.”

“Mingyu says it’s because he can see the moon in my eyes.” The words leave your sleep-loosened tongue sooner than you can reel them back.

Your brother nods, “He’s right.” Then, his smile turns impish. “You love him.”

You flinch as if burned. This time, when you pull your hands away, Jeonghan lets you. His bright amusement bleeds, morphed into something smudged and concerned. Shame flits over your face as heat stings your cheeks. “Don’t say something so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Jeonghan echoes curiously. “Why would that be so cursed? Are you not allowed to love Kim Mingyu? He certainly loves you.”

You bite out a dismissive scoff.

“I’m not meant for someone like him. He is not meant for someone like me.”

“Young, pretty ladies marry young, dashing knights all the time—”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jeonghan.” Breathing comes harder, mechanical, as you search for the correct words. “I’m not… I will only end up harming him.”

There was a story that your mother told you when you were a child. A story about a girl of the night falling in love with the sun, even though he burned her, even though he blinded her. Everyone condemned her, called her foolish for it, but the girl hadn’t thought of it that way. You think of yourself as that girl, hopelessly in love with the sun, scared to get close in fear of dimming his radiance. For he is the sun personified, and I am but a shadow.

Jeonghan shakes his head, wistful and pensive.

“If you truly think that way, the only one you’re hurting is yourself.”

-

“Hello, Owl!”

You’ve scarcely crossed over the threshold of the room, trailing Mingyu’s broad back, when a hearty greeting is sent your way. Sharing a glance with the knight, you peer cautiously around him to the rest of the sitting room, where a handful of the others have gathered for what Mingyu and Jeonghan described to you as a “day off”. You recognize them all, members of the Lion’s Pride, the Crown’s most trusted courtiers, children of royalty and nobility who you were introduced to at last week’s celebration: Soonyoung, your black-robed Spider; Minghao the artist; Hansol, distant cousin of the Crown; and Chan, the source of the emphatic greeting and owner of the notable laughter from the feast.

From the armchair that he’s comfortably tucked into, Chan smiles, gaze warm and curious, as if he has successfully befriended every person he has ever encountered in life. He wears emerald green, a sleek hunting dog’s design embroidered over his heart. You squirm, eager to be on the receiving end of his kindness but unsure of how to return it.

“Hi. Hello. Thank you for letting me inconvenience your days off.”

“Nonsense!” Chan exclaims. “You’re Jeonghan’s sister, which means that we’re all family now.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose as he approaches an unoccupied chaise that’s not quite at the table that the others sit at, but adjacent enough to be a part of the set. He beckons you to it, waiting until you perch carefully on one end and then sitting on the opposite. He’s close enough that you can hear the breath on his voice, but you can’t help the disappointment stirring in your stomach at the distance regardless.

“Ignore him,” Mingyu grunts, reaching for the table to pluck a handful of grapes from a platter that’s been polished to gleam. He pops a few into his mouth and crunches them with his teeth. “Chan’s just excited that there’s finally a newcomer that he can try and bribe onto his side.”

You ignore the flash of his fangs and the shape of his mouth as he chews to consider his words instead, brushing your palms nervously along the soft velvet of the couch. “His side for what?”

Reclined lazily on his own plush chair with his feet kicked over the armrests, Soonyoung grins with sharp teeth. “For anything. He likes to fight losing battles.”

“That’s not true,” Chan lifts a finger, brow pinched, “They will not let me win a single debate, even if I’m saying that the sky is blue.” He juts his mouth into a pout, and you can immediately understand why the others pester him so. “It’s quite unfair, actually. Take pity on me, Owl, won’t you?”

A laugh bubbles in your throat, sooner than you can stop it. “Sure. I can’t stand for injustice.”

“Wonderful! We’ll get along perfectly,” Chan preens, rewarding you with a sunny smile.

Minghao doesn’t look up from the sketchpad his face is buried within, but he gives a short, pitched giggle. Hansol huffs with amusement, passive expression crinkling for the first time since you’ve arrived.

From beside you, Mingyu’s head whips to you, looking as if you’ve betrayed him. “Owl, you don’t need to do all that to curry favor with him. Chan likes just about anyone under the sun who gives him the time of day. Like a puppy dog.”

“Look who’s talking,” Chan bites back immediately, without a beat. “You know that they also call you the Mutt Knight, right?”

“Hear, hear,” Soonyoung calls out mirthfully, “What are wolves, if not overfed, poorly trained dogs?”

You grin at Mingyu, who doesn’t even sulk at his friends’ teasing, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. From there, the banter dissolves away as the men attend to their own devices, your presence having naturally been absorbed into the matter of things.

Minghao’s pencil never stops, even as he looks to his friends to join in conversation or looks out the window for reference. Hansol scratches away at his own packet of papers. Judging from the rhythms he taps out against the table with his fingertips and the quiet humming, you’d guess that he’s working on a composition. Soonyoung and Chan start up a game of chess that, to you, seems to involve a lot more cheating than valid moves. Mingyu watches the game, whispering hints, real and fake, to both sides, eyes alight with mischief. You flick open the book you’ve brought with you but find yourself watching the fascinating group before you in lieu of reading the words.

Sound and silence exist in tandem, as voices call out questions and responses and jokes and jeers, then fade away without notice. They don’t make a point to include or exclude you, only give the perfect pauses for you to butt in if you have something to say. Everyone responds, whether through words or nods, and with each conversation, you find yourself loosening, learning the rhythm of this circle and this gathering. You think you’ve reached the barest tip of understanding this, their lifelong friendships and the fathomless love that they harbor for one another.

It’s so desirable that your heart aches. It’s so frightening that you wish you could hide your soul away from them all.

At some point, Jeonghan filters into the room, during a brief break between his affairs. Rapt by the conversation at hand, a fierce debate between Chan and Hansol, you don’t realize your brother’s arrival until he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead and his face swims into view, upside down.

“Han,” you mumble, pleasantly surprised, “I thought you were busy.”

“I am,” Jeonghan shrugs, puzzling over Mingyu, who has slumped onto the armrest to quietly doze. He leans to flick a nail against Mingyu’s forehead, startling him awake. “I told you to keep an eye on her, not to nap.”

You huff out a laugh, “I can fend for myself, Jeonghan. I’m alright.”

Your brother rests his palm atop your head, mussing the hairs there gently. His mouth softens into a smile. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

Jeonghan manages to settle the argument that has only gotten louder in the midst of your exchange with a sharp click of his tongue, and you watch, amused and enthralled at the way that he effortlessly silences the younger men. “Be good,” he chides with a quick glance at each occupant of the room, leans to kiss your temple in parting, and then sweeps away as suddenly as he had appeared.

As morning trickles into afternoon, the room grows warm and hazy with the scent of sunbaked linen as the breeze flickers through the curtains. Before long, your lids tug low and heavy. Everyone’s preoccupied with their own hobbies. You tuck your finger into your book to hold your place and decide to nap, just for a few minutes.

You don’t wake in a few minutes. You don’t even wake in an hour. In fact, you doze so soundly that when you do wake, you’re being roused by a gentle hand on your shoulder, blinking your eyes open to the sunset’s colors bleeding into the room.

“Wake up, Owl. I’ll walk you back to your room.” Mingyu mumbles from beside you, yawning and rubbing at his own eyes.

Disoriented and bleary, you dutifully trail along Mingyu through the corridors of the palace, not minding when he reaches behind to hold you by the wrist, guiding you through the twists and turns that you haven’t quite devoted to memory yet. The thick fog of sleep still hasn’t faded by the time you come to a stop at your door in the Western Quarter, and you find yourself frowning, disappointed, when Mingyu bids you a good evening and begins to turn away.

“Oh!”

You jump and glance up expectantly.

Mingyu pulls at a scrap of paper from his pocket and hands it over to you. When you accept it curiously, he shrugs, “Not sure what it is, but Minghao told me to give it to you. He also told me not to look until after you do.”

The paper is thick and textured, creamy in color, and it feels expensive even just by touch. You ease the crease open and blanch at the contents of it. Inside, a delicate sketch by graphite sprawls across the page. Two people sit atop a narrow couch. The smaller slumps into the larger’s side, head tipped against his shoulder, slumped and dozing and unaware of her position. The man crooks his own head down, held still and frozen in a stare. It’s a preliminary sketch, with rough lines and shading, but the one thing that the artist has captured are the faces. One slack and serene in slumber, the other fond and enamored and smiling.

You quickly snap the paper shut before Mingyu can catch a glimpse of it and thrust your hand behind your back. The bleary haze quickly disappears, as heat begins to crawl up your throat. Mingyu blinks back at you, curious, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he’s reaching into his other pocket, pulling something larger and rounded in shape from it.

“Can I show you something?”

When he holds the object up to your eye level, you scrutinize it cautiously. It’s a snarling wolf’s head, wrought in polished iron. You recognize it as a pommel, detached from the hilt of a blade, fashioned after his house’s sigil, as most noble knights tend to have. The star of his heraldry is represented by a perfectly clear diamond held in its maw, set tightly between four pointed fangs. Two mismatched gemstones, both brilliant, serve as the wolf’s eyes: a ruby and an amethyst. Mingyu’s thumb rests between the ears, the metal there dulled, as if worked away by habit.

In the midst of squirming at your stunned silence, Mingyu prattles, “This belonged to my father, and he gave it to me after I was knighted. I left it at home before I left for our journey because I didn’t want anything to happen to it. Anyway, I wanted to show you. Both of its eyes were red, for our house colors, but I had one of the rubies swapped out for a purple stone. For House Yoon—” He pauses, mid-stumble over his words, then corrects. “For you.”

Blood rushes violently in your ears. Why? Your mind swirls in question. You stare at the purple gem, you think back at the moment captured within Minghao’s sketch, you think of the way he looks at you, honeyed and tender and gentle. Why, why, why, why—

“Do you love me?” You blurt out, too frightened to even feel ashamed of how blunt the words come out.

“Yes,” Mingyu says plainly, expressive eyes burning like twin stars.

Loosened into the world so easily, the truth no longer haunts you from the periphery but attacks you head on. You wipe your sweaty palms down the front of your shirt, grimace without even meaning to. “Is it truly that easy?”

Mingyu lowers his arms and rolls his shoulders back, tightening his fingers around his pommel, brushing his thumb into the valley between the wolf’s pointed ears. He scans you for a long time as he contemplates his words.

“To love you? Or to admit that I do? Yes to both. It is the easiest thing I’ve done aside from learning to breathe.”

“Why?”

Mingyu breathes a mirthless laugh. His face crinkles into a wince, though he tries to take it in stride. “Gods, Owl. You don’t just ask someone why after they profess their love for you.”

You barrel straight through, deigning to beg while incapable of feeling the shame. “I need to know why. Please.”

Mingyu starts speaking before you can even finish, “Because you are honest. Because you are strong. You’re one of the cleverest and bravest person I have ever known. Because it pains me to see you try to be so strong on your own, and I want to be there for you when you need help. Even though you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”

Once, just this once, you want to be greedy. You want to be selfish. You want and you want and you want, without being scared to ruin it or lose it. Just this once, you let yourself want.

You have to stand on your toes to even reach to wind your fingers around Mingyu’s nape, tugging in an effort to make him duck. Surprise flickers past his face, then recognition has him dipping his head instinctually, before realization settles into the curl of his mouth, just as you press yours against it. Pleased, Mingyu hums, lips parting to nip at yours. He’s gentle and warm, eager but careful. His hands come up to your waist, canting you a few steps back into bumping against your bedroom door. In his left hand, he still holds the wolf’s head pommel, and the cool weight of the metal nudging your hip has you tipping your chin back to pull apart from the kiss. You drag in a breath to sober up from the heady rush of desire mucking up your thoughts.

Mingyu sucks in a few breaths to recover too, and then he’s crooking his head in an attempt to kiss you again. You yelp in protest, hands coming up to his chest to hold him back, “Jeonghan’s room is right there! We should—”

The heavy wooden door against your back pitches open, and a squeak forces its way halfway up your throat as you lose your balance backwards. In one swift motion, Mingyu braces you with one arm around your waist, swings both of you into the privacy of your room, and shuts the door behind him. When he turns back to you, mischief crinkles the corners of his eyes, lamplight bouncing and reflecting off of them. He doesn’t say more, leading you further into the room.

You reach the center, to where your bed stands, mattress dimpled with the pillows askew and the sheets messed up. Abruptly, you chide yourself for requesting that the attendants don’t do your cleaning for you, and even more for not having gotten into the habit of making your bed neat every morning. Mingyu barely bats an eye at your mess as he seats himself first at the closest edge, then guides you to standing before him, both hands still planted firmly over your hips, so close that your knees brush against his.

“Pretty.” His lashes flutter as he glances away, suddenly shy, confessing, “I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time now.”

Something simmers just beneath your skin, thrumming and alive. Desire, hunger, greed. All wicked sins, but nothing has ever felt more right. You curl your fingers into tight fists and realize that you’re still holding onto the scrap of paper from Minghao’s sketchbook. Wordlessly, you hand it over to Mingyu, nerves scraped raw with anticipation and terror.

He pulls his hands away to accept it, prying the page open with both thumbs. For a moment, he stares, and heart in your throat, you examine his reaction. When Mingyu finally moves, it’s to fold up the paper again and slide it into his own pocket. The pommel that he’s been holding onto all this time, he tosses over his shoulder, where it lands somewhere on your floor with a muted thump against carpet.

Then, with a laugh that sounds more like a giggle, Mingyu leans forward to grab you by the wrist, pulling you so firmly that you crash into his chest. He continues laughing, tugging and tugging, all the way until he’s reclined into laying on his back in the middle of the mattress, with you planted in his lap. From this angle looking down, you stare, awed and enamored, at the pink flush of his cheeks, the spray of hair mussed all around his head like a careless crown, the sharp flash of his fangs between grinning lips.

“Pretty,” you echo his words and smile back.

Mingyu tips his head to the side, slightly bashful, mostly pleased. His hands come up to rest lightly on your thighs, just above your knees. Though you try not to react, you can’t help but tense at his touch. He notices it, of course, and his blithe smile wavers a bit as he inquires politely, “Have you…been with someone before?”

“Sure. I’ve kissed boys before. When I was younger. Other orphans. If that counts.” You flush, mind buzzing, suddenly aware that you’re grasping for words and spitting out whatever seems apt. “But anything beyond that…” You shake your head.

“Never?”

“I…never. No. Not with anyone.”

He pulls himself back up into sitting, the intensity in his eyes softening, as he reads your anxiety. Mingyu hums quietly, soothing hands tracing up and down your sides, “That’s alright. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything at all. Just sit here like this, if you’d like.”

His voice is so tender, so adoring that your stomach pangs, cramping with desire.

“Want to,” you manage to blurt, eyes widening when you realize your honesty.

Mingyu breathes a soft laugh, “Yeah?” His smile so beautiful that your heart kicks pathetically against your ribcage. “What do you want to do?”

You dither, timid and bashful of your own inexperience. Kissing, you could initiate fine, but anything else, you’re afraid of stumbling through it too slow or too fast and messing things up.

At your silence, Mingyu traces his lips over your brow, “Bravest person I know, remember? Be brave.”

His linen shirt wraps taut over his chest, one lapel over the other, ties knotted at his side. Emboldened, you reach to tug at one, watching greedily as loop loosens and then unravels. The shirt opens up, flashing a glimpse of bare skin that instantly turns your mouth dry. You flush heavily, heat prickling up to the tips of your ears.

Mingyu laughs, a quiet puff of noise and breath, before he’s leaning forward again to ghost his mouth over your cheek, over your temple. His voice murmurs right by your ear, “Very brave, dear Owl, well done. Should I help you?”

You nod furiously, turning to hide your embarrassment.

“Ah, ah. Don’t look away.” Mingyu catches you by the chin, thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. “You’re smart. Use your words.”

You let your head be tilted up, greedily taking in the craftsmanship of his face from closer than ever. He’s perfect everywhere, even at the tiny scar over his brow that you’ve just discovered. A quiet plea rasps from your throat, “Please.”

Mingyu’s pupils blow wide and dark. His lashes flutter. “Such good manners,” he murmurs and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders.

Immediately, your gaze snags over not the sturdy line of his collarbones, which are quite distracting, but rather a severe jagged line that splits right above his heart and over his left shoulder. The regenerated skin there has turned white, stark against the rest of his burnished chest. Your breath catches, as you imagine the horrible injury that must have preceded the scar.

Mingyu assesses your reaction carefully, offering you a tender smile when you glance up at him to implore silently. He presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling, “Training accident when I was a kid. From one of my good friends, Seokmin. He cried for days after it happened. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure. Make sure to give him hell for marking me up—”

You’ve dared to press your fingertips along the edges where the healthy skin stitches to the scar tissue to trace along the line, when Mingyu cuts off with a sharp hiss. Frightened that you’ve hurt him somehow, you pull your hands away, lifting halfway out of his lap.

“No,” Mingyu urges quietly, jaw clenched, “it doesn’t hurt. Just wasn’t expecting that. Sorry.” He reaches for your wrist, guiding your hand back to him. “Feels good. Promise.”

You splay your fingers over his chest, right over the healed skin, touch so hesitant that it tickles your own hand. Warmth bleeds into your palm, Mingyu’s steady heartbeat pulsing against it.

Be brave. You hold your hand there, over his heart, and reach with the other up, knuckles dragging along the line of his neck, feeling his throat bob as he swallows heavily. Skim your fingertips over the strong set of his jaw, trace them along the pout of his mouth, the same way you’ve been imagining doing all this time. Mingyu shivers beneath you, though his skin thrums with heat, lips parting to flick his tongue out and swipe it over the pad of your thumb. When you glance up, surprised, his eyes have turned wholly black now, bright with purpose, like a loyal hound, like a wolf on the hunt.

It’s the only warning you’re given before Mingyu surges forward, bracing his hands over your waist to move you from his lap to reclining onto the mattress. He moves with gentle intent, pulling a pillow beneath your head, caressing your cheek as he pulls away, tugging at the hem of your shirt in prompt. You want to comply but turn abruptly and overwhelmingly self-conscious of the way he watches you.

In the midst of your fidgeting, Mingyu huffs a chuckle, dipping his head mere inches from yours to squint at you playfully, “Suddenly you’re shy?” Before you can retort, he shifts the angle of his face so that his mouth tickles yours. Still so thoughtful in his own desire, always letting you close the gap. You tip your head back, catching his bottom lip with your teeth.

A surprised noise catches in Mingyu’s throat, and the final bit of restraint vaporizes away. You reach to hold his face, licking into the heat of his mouth, gasping when your tongue grazes one of his sharp teeth. With your free hand, you pull at the ties holding your own shirt in place. It’s all the permission Mingyu needs to stop keeping his hands to himself.

He manages to wrest the shirt off without breaking the kiss, calloused palms sweeping over your stomach, up your ribs, along your shoulders. When you pull apart to catch a breath, you marvel at the sight of him, pupils blown, mouth slick and swollen. Mingyu smiles back, a little dopily, like he’s living through a dream. His gaze roves over every corner of your bare frame, making you quiver beneath his inspection. You puzzle, when he finds every scar and blemish on your own body, presses his fingers or his lips against each one and asks about it. You answer patiently, amused.

“Got shot at by an arrow, thank the gods he was a poor shot. That one’s from when Soonyoung was teaching me a knife trick; it was mostly my fault. My sleeve caught on fire the night that the owlery burned down.” This last one you say in a quiet rasp.

Mingyu doesn’t say a thing, only presses his lips against your shoulder once, twice. A third time, lingering and tender, before he returns to your mouth. He kisses you, whisper-soft like a prayer, then tugs away to mumble, “I regret hitting you. I should have never agreed to, should have never laid a hand on you. Shouldn’t have hurt you. It is one of my greatest failures in life.”

Your smile trembles as you whisper, “I asked you to.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was dishonorable.” He says this, and then does something just as dishonorable, if not more, by grazing his fingers along the waistband of your pants.

Something about the discrepancy makes you tip your head back in laughter. Mingyu snorts and effectively muffles your laugh by undoing the knot of the tie there, now beyond waiting for your permission. This far in, you don’t have the clarity to shy away from being bared to him entirely, but he also doesn’t give you the chance to, as he shimmies down the bed to lower his face to nip at your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

You can’t hold back the yelp that wrenches itself loose from your throat when you feel the warm swipe of his tongue laving over where he just bit. Mingyu repeats this sequence a few more times, growing bolder with the force of his teeth and the decreased distance from your folds. Then, with a quick glance up at you to scan your reaction, he finds your clit with his thumb, pressing a tentative pressure against it. You kick a leg against the mattress in a reflex response, whining at the pleasure that buzzes at your lower back and zips up your spine.

Mingyu breathes a quiet chuckle, and the puff of air ghosts over your entrance, making you flinch again. “So reactive,” he purrs, before lowering his mouth to replace his thumb with his lips. When you cry out this time, he doesn’t let up, only laughs again, deep inside his chest, and continues sweeping his mouth over your clit, parting his lips and then closing them to suck gently. The noises loosened make you flush heavily, from your chest all the way to your cheekbones, but he continues on, shamelessly. Only when he’s satisfied enough, Mingyu shifts his weight from both elbows to one, to trace up and down your folds, tantalizingly, before crooking a finger in.

Throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath, you moan at the same time Mingyu groans. There’s a pressure, light but foreign, that you greedily adjust to as Mingyu flexes his finger in deeper and works it back out. He continues this motion on and on, setting a rhythm and building an ache inside you. You think that you could be satisfied, just like this, when he presses in another finger, soothing the added pressure with a firm suck around your clit.

Abruptly, the band that’s been slowly tightening over your stomach snaps, and you come, unexpected, with a wordless shudder. Mingyu barely reacts, notching his fingers up and into you as he laps up the rush of juices spilling from your folds. When you whine at the oversensitivity wrought from the steady wide strokes of his tongue, he finally pulls away, shushing you with a wet kiss against your thigh.

Mingyu pushes an arm against the bed to sit up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, simpering and looking terribly proud of himself. He leans forward to give you a kiss that you taste yourself on, and you’re much too riled up for words now, so you tug at the ties of his pants with needy hands, shyly regarding the outline of his cock straining against the linen. Mingyu laughs into the kiss, gently swatting away at your hands to reach up and circle a nipple with cold fingertips. You hiss at the sensation, trying desperately to ignore the way he grins as he teases, clicking his tongue, “So impatient.”

When you reach for his waistband again, this time he allows you to undo the knot, though his own impatience shows when he shoves the fabric the rest of the way down and kicks his ankles free of them. He’s impossibly hard, tip messy and shiny as it drips with arousal. You’re fascinated by the amount of restraint Mingyu exhibits, despite being so affected. He’s leaning back, unmoving, watching you, and you realize that he’s allowing you the space to act first. You push yourself into sitting and lean to brush your palm against the underside of his cock. He’s heavy in your palm, skin remarkably warm and soft like velvet. There’s a moment of pause as you hesitate, contemplating, and then dip to lick at the slick sheen coating his head, humming at the clean taste of him.

The sound that rips from Mingyu’s throat is loud, pained, and lewd. His stomach tenses. For a moment, you think that you’ve hurt him, until he gently pulls your mouth off of him with a hand over your shoulder.

“I think—” He trembles, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in a heavy breath. “I think we should save that for next time.”

You grin, triumphant, and let yourself be guided back onto the pillows. Mingyu pulls his breathing back into a steady rhythm, roaming his hands up and down your body, over your sides, along the swells of your chest, across your stomach. You stare up at him, smitten by the reverence in his expression as he beholds you.

His large palm sweeps up the underside of your thigh, all the way to where it stills at the back of your knee where it crooks. He swipes his thumb there, once, twice, and then maneuvers your leg to wrap around his waist, heel pressed against the small of his back. Mingyu leans to hold himself by the base, sweeping the length of his cock over your messy folds in a dizzying motion that makes the both of you moan. You still your breath in anticipation, thoughts and vision and hearing fuzzy as he murmurs something you can barely decipher.

“You’ll tell me the moment that something hurts, or makes you feel uncomfortable. If you want to stop, we stop.” Mingyu pauses for your reply, then makes your mind collapse entirely by brushing your clit with his weeping head. “Owl, yes?”

You whimper, desperate to move onto something, anything. “Yes!”

“Good girl.”

He presses in and through, painfully careful, tortuously gentle. There’s an unfamiliar ache that you hold your breath against, until Mingyu presses all the way in. Once fully seated, he pauses, kissing you on the cheek, on the forehead, mumbling to ask if you’re doing alright. He lets you quiver through a few breaths, effortlessly patient, eyes glittering the whole way through, and then only shifts with a relieved smile once you give him a nod.

Heat curls deliciously in your stomach as he builds a rhythm, thrusting in and out, hips rolling fluidly. The room fills with the sound of your breaths mixing, of your pleading whimpers and content whines, of the slick slide of Mingyu. You grasp for anything your hands can find, twining over dampened sheets, scratching at the firm give of Mingyu’s sides, lacing with the fingers that he offers you, soothing and bolstering.

It doesn’t take long to be worked back up to the precipice of intense pleasure, and before you even realize it, there are short, clipped sobs being forced from your chest. You tug at the hand interlocked with yours incessantly, pleading greedily for more, more, more. Mingyu obliges faithfully, canting his hips forward more forcefully, planting a foot against the mattress so that he can shift the angle at which he thrusts up into you. He bends over in half to catch your mouth in a kiss that’s mostly panting, teeth catching at lips and tongues flicking over each other.

Mingyu lowers his forehead to yours, uncaring that there’s hair and sweat sticking to skin. He stares into your eyes, and despite the dim of the room, there’s a golden glimmer piercing through the heady cloud of pleasure in them. “Gods,” he breathes, followed by the sound of your name, “I love you so much.”

Without even meaning to, you let go of the restraint that you’ve been grasping at so desperately, keening in one breathless sound, as your throat catches. The ache that’s been building in your stomach snaps, in equal parts violent and relieving, and heat spreads like an icy prickle, in your lower back, at your nape, down your inner thighs. Your senses heighten past the extreme, and you feel everything in twofold, every drag, every caress, Mingyu’s breath puffing onto your shoulder as he rolls his hips, more languid now, to help you through the peak.

“There you are,” Mingyu soothes, lips skimming over your cheek, over your jaw, over your mouth, grinning wicked as you’re left speechless and panting for breath, “Beautiful girl.” He hovers over you, kissing you again and again, until you’re squirming, ticklish. When you recover enough that your vision clears, you clench around him, reaching for his jaw to tug him back into a kiss.

A tortured groan tears from Mingyu’s throat, but he’s shaking his head when you try to deepen the kiss and pull his hips back towards yours. He lifts entirely up and off of you, shuddering with a sharp hiss on the sensitive slide out.

You frown. “But you didn’t—”

Mingyu silences you with a chaste kiss. “That’s alright. I don’t need anything but for you to feel good.” He smiles, so guilelessly, that you don’t doubt a thing that he says.

-

Hours later, the night has deepened into a blue-black so dark that even the lamps are barely more than an orange glow in the corners of the room. You’ve spent the entire time since, tangled beneath the sheets with Mingyu, dozing in and out of sleep, murmuring in and out of conversation, kissing and touching and laughing.

“Do you think I’ll ever understand what it means to love and be loved?”

Mingyu lifts his head from where it’s nestled over your stomach, which makes your fingers tug gently from where it’s been threaded through his hair. Light dances in his eyes curiously as he hums, “You were loved. Are loved. Can you remember what it feels like?”

You try not to think of the past, especially not into the deep recesses of your mind where exists memories of the world when there was an owlery full of life and sound and color, a home that looked and smelled more like a library, every seam overflowing with paper and ink and paste. When the two people who loved you more than themselves were still alive. For Mingyu, you try to reach into those depths now, wincing to yourself when distant memories scrape painfully against your bleeding heart. The gentle brush of a furtive kiss against your forehead, careful not to wake you, when your father had retreated back into the bedroom after finishing his work late. Your mother’s warm, guiding hands that taught you how to seal an envelope neatly, to tend to an owl’s injured foot, to cradle books as if they were made from gold.

The tender softening of your heart. The desire to reach and to touch and to caress. The blurred boundary that exists between thoughts and feelings, where you act because you want to and not because you should. The urges that you resolutely shut out of your life in order to harden yourself against a world that didn’t love you.

You nod, hesitant. There’s a whole litany of words that your tongue itches to say, but they all sound like excuses. Breath shuddering in your chest, you mumble, “I’m afraid I won’t know how to love you the way that you deserve.”

Mingyu’s stare doesn’t waver. His mouth brushes once over the scar on your shoulder, then again over the one on your throat. “That’s fine. As long as you’re willing to try. Even if you fail.”

Your stomach pangs as you behold him. Mingyu, who has been created to love and to be loved. Mingyu, sun kissed and sun beloved, the closest thing to perfection that you’ve ever seen.

“You don’t deserve failure.”

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, visibly inattentive to your hesitation. His gaze grows dark, lids heavy, and before you can think to hold him back, his imploring fingers hook beneath your chin to lift your mouth to his. Despite yourself, you indulge him, breathing a whine when your bottom lip snags on one of his sharp teeth. A rumble builds in Mingyu’s chest, one that you feel beneath your fingertips when you splay them over his bare chest in a weak attempt to push him away. He bites again, intentionally this time, a quick, delicious sting, before he lets you.

You scowl, a little breathless. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

A perfect brow arches maddeningly. “Oh? So am I. I feel very seriously about this.” A cloying touch brushes over your bare hip, and you fight off a shiver.

“Mingyu.”

He laughs, carefree and happy. You wonder how he can manage to be, when it feels like your own heart is bleeding out. Mingyu shoves himself onto his hands to sit up, blankets slipping and pooling at his lap. Everything is distracting, from his elegant waist, the vast expanse of sun burnished skin, the terrible scar over his chest that has knitted back together white, the jut of his mouth, the slant of his eyes, to the sweat-damp strands of hair feathered along his forehead.

“Don’t look at me like that, if you mean to be serious,” he groans, and you flush, unable to help yourself. He shakes his head to clear the fog in his own eyes, then clears his throat to prompt your attention. “Owl, I mean this as the truth and nothing else, so please don’t find offense in it. I’m very blessed to be loved immensely by my family and my friends, and I have an overabundance of love to give. I do not, and will not, regret giving it to you. And if you happen to fail in returning it, I will not fault you, nor will I abandon you for it.”

Apprehension and wonder and reverence stills your tongue. When thought returns to your mind, you blink hard, forcing back the ache rising in your eyes. “You mean that, truthfully?”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples, as he reaches to swipe his thumb beneath your eyes.

“Promise. On a knight’s honor. On my life.”

-

“Oh, perfect. Knight, please get off my Owl. I need to speak to her.”

You lift your head from your book, wincing at the ache in the crook of your neck from not having moved for a few hours. The sitting room has turned fragrant with the scent of sunlight and oranges, as the warm early summer air filters through the open windows, gauzy curtains swaying and shifting in a peaceful dance. The rest of the chaise that you’re perched on has been haphazardly occupied by a certain knight, whose head rests on your lap as he naps, breaths even and quiet.

Uncaring of how his entrance has disturbed your peace, Soonyoung stands expectantly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, brow arched in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he stares down at the man, pretending to be a lap dog.

Mingyu doesn’t budge from his spot, doesn’t even lift up to look, as he growls, “She’s not your anything. Bug.” It’s hardly a scathing insult, especially coming through a lisp made even clumsier with sleep.

“Down, mutt. It’s important. And just so we’re clear, she was my Owl, long before she was yours or Jeonghan’s.” Soonyoung rolls his eyes at you, quirking his mouth into a crooked smile. “I preferred things before you acquired the knight as a guard dog.”

You shut your book, reaching to tangle your fingers at the soft, recently shorn hairs at Mingyu’s nape, smiling when he makes a soft purr in response. “Hush, Soonyoung. I quite like having him around.”

Soonyoung mock gags, though there’s a fondness on his expression that whisks away when he grins, sharp teeth, even sharper eyes.

“Owl, how would you like to help me run a network?”

A glob of saliva floats on the drink atop your tray. You immediately regret it. Your tongue feels dry, and who knows when your next break will be. There's no time for a glass of water. Serving in time keeps the customers content.

You shouldn't be doing this.

Familiar applause echoes against the gold draped walls and wood floor, reaching the stage in an offbeat rhythm that doesn't match with the song that was just finished.

There was a time when the sole idea of singing to a pleased crowd that idolized your every move put stars in your eyes. When your dream sat first on your list of priorities, what drove you to push harder and keep on living life restlessly until you'd eventually fulfill it. That person, full of hope and willingness, would tell you to keep on going. That person would never consider giving up. That person would've never spat in a regular's drink and served it to him so naturally like you're doing.

Since you were little, music was the way to disconnect from reality, even for just a little while. You used to stick your ears against the wall to listen to your neighbors' wind-up phonograph for as long as possible.

Instrumentals made life manageable. As long as there was a song playing in the background or a neighbor practicing close by, being secluded in your home wasn't so bad.

A woman's voice on a record for the first time changed everything. In that moment, music stopped being for those with time and money to spend on instruments. If you had a voice, if you had a tuned ear, you could be part of the magic too.

It so easily became your dream that it being impossible didn't cross your mind.

The singer smiles at the men not taking their eyes off her. Helen is a master at keeping the crowd's attention, with her short icy blonde hair clipped clean to the side. She told you once, the only advice any of the singers has ever given you, that showing the side of your neck could attract any men within watching distance. You never followed said advice, but you've yet to witness an instance where it didn't work for her.

When the musicians behind her begin a new song, with a seductive saxophone melody and low double bass, the applause dies down and conversations strike up again.

"Enjoy your drink, Mr. Baker."

You set the new drink by his previous empty glass. His yellow teeth appear behind the rising corner of his mouth, his wrinkly gaze not rising from your chest.

He points to the stage as he puts his pipe down on a silver holder. "When are you getting up there alone, gorgeous?"

You prop your free hand on the table, looking straight at his face while showing a better view of what he wants. The fake smile you've mastered feels almost natural to put on.

"After the next Canary," you reply, voice sultry. "Will you stay to watch me?"

At that, his eyes finally see yours. His pale fingers graze yours on the table. Your skin prickles, urging you to get away. He lifts an eyebrow, finally registering your question, and nods you off. He sips on his drink, unaware, as you leave. You hear the bartender's light chuckle as you pass by the bar. He saw you spitting on the man's drink.

As much as you learned to endure the constant flirting attempts and unsolicited touches, you also came to realize that it's the only way to get by without being a singer full time. Every server girl does it as well. If you're not on stage, you need to gather as much attention as possible.

The stage schedule is always the same. No matter how hard you try, how many times you ask, how many men you manage to hold off until closing time, you're never allowed a solo during prime time. At best, you're Helen's third back-up vocalist.

The free jazz show starts at 7.pm, the same time every weekend. The bar plays 78s from the record player in the middle of the sitting area until every table is full, and then, the show starts. The first singer always has it harder. If she's lucky, she'll have the rest of the lineup in her shadow. The luck of the second canary depends solely on the previous performance, and so on. It's in the 9-10.p.m window, when pockets get loose enough and men lose interest in their wives at home, that the Canary gets the most attention. Powerful men don't stick around until their heads hurt and their breath stinks of whiskey. Without fault, by the time you're on stage, your crowd consists of only canned single men wasting the little money they have left.

In the meantime, you've learned to take desperate measures.

When you make them believe they have a chance, when you let them look and don't budge at their advances, some men delude themselves into staying late. When the clock hits half past twelve in the new day, the microphone is in your hands and the double bass accompanies your voice. Only every other table has its chairs occupied, but you know it'd be worse if you weren't showing a bit more leg skin than the rest. That's what works for you, not the neck.

Hidden in the dark at the back of the bar, Harold's silhouette watches you put on your show. His judging glare, always present when you're the view, can be felt from afar. You know a speech of how awful you did will wait for you after you're done.

At 1 am sharp, weak applause follows the dying music and your cut off microphone. Harold escorts the last two drunk men out of the establishment as you escape backstage. They always ask about you, about your tacit promises. You never deliver.

"Thomas Baker was asking for you," Harold enters the small canary changing room after you. "Again."

You register the disdain in his voice. It hasn't changed since he got you the job.

It doesn't matter how many wealthy men you hold back until closing. It doesn't matter if you sell them the most expensive illicit alcohol available at the bar. It doesn't matter that they keep coming back for you, maintaining the speakeasy open with investments and daily splurges. What you do is never enough to earn what you want the most.

Since the Prohibition, most bars across the country shut down, as the primary reason for the wealthy class to attend was the alcohol. But not only did the men lose their source of entertainment outside of their homes, musical joints were declining in popularity as well, and with them, your chance at dedicating your life to jazz.

Everything changed one night at the Grand Central Terminal.

You were determined to leave the city. You took the clarinet your parents worked so hard to buy and the few nice clothes you had, and headed for the train station. Your dad had sent a letter to a distant cousin of his, and you were set to stay with her for a while. The city wasn't for you anymore. Or so you thought.

You arrived at the station with enough coins for a one way pass for yourself. The man on the other side of the cabin scoffed seeing your hand and saw you off the line. Railroad passes had raised its prices days before your decision, without your family's knowledge.

It was a cold February afternoon and you sat there for hours. Each time the line for buying passes was empty, you argued with the worker, pleading for him to let you get on the next train, but nothing you said convinced him.

When the last train of the day was set to arrive, to take off later and end the day at the station, you took one last chance.

"I can send my father to pay the rest!" You pleaded over the worker's sigh. "Please, I need to take the train."

"You're not the only one, lady." He didn't spare you one glance, focusing on the passengers stepping down the Chicago train.

Stylish women with long simple dresses covered the station, accompanied by their equally well dressed husbands, fedoras on their heads and full bags on their hands. The man you had been arguing with all day posed a fake smile in front of the wealthy, ignoring you once more. You'd learned to ignore rich people's judging stares and insulting low mutters long before, so the wave of high class assholes didn't make you budge.

"Look, lady, I'll get in trouble if I let you in. Come back first thing tomorrow with the correct amount and you'll be on the way." The ticket seller tried once more seeing you wouldn’t relent even with waves of people on the way.

"Please, you don't get it—"

"Is everything okay here?"

A man appeared behind you, standing in the line you were blocking from forming. Even taller than you, the hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but you were confident it was not you he talked to.

"Apologies, sir, she was just leaving. What can I help you with?" His client attending smile quivered, but when you stepped out to let the man through, it felt like you lost.

How long would you have to wait until your parents get a spare dime? You thought. The train was going to leave without you on it, your distant aunt would wonder why you hadn't arrived until you sent her a letter explaining everything. Your future would be put on hold, again.

The strange man's deep black gambler hat drew your attention. He was dressed in the latest fashion, expensive fabrics and bougie cologne noticeable from afar, but had no ring on his finger. Had he just come from the Chicago train? Or was he escaping from New York City like you? Your answer came in quickly after the thought ran through your head.

"Do you play, miss?" He asked, nodding his jaw to the clarinet in your hand.

Few times had someone treated you with respect. 'Miss' wasn't a word you heard directed to you often, especially without an arrogant tone. The corner of your mouth tipped upward feeling his attention, and you showed your old, faded gold clarinet with pride.

"Yes, sir. I carry music everywhere I go." It sounded foolish the second it left your mouth, but it was true.

Whether you were home, in your sewing classes with your elderly neighbor, or in the streets searching for the cheapest prices to buy ingredients for dinner, music was your driving force. You sang, whistled and hummed every song you memorized. Mrs. Clarence loved showing off his brand new 78s player, and you urged her to as well in between sewing techniques.

"I have a place where you can play and earn a few dimes for it." The stylish man offered. "We need talented singers to keep the place afloat."

"Are you offering me a job, sir? You haven't heard me play or sing." You asked, bewildered.

"Please, Call me Harold." He winked and stretched his hand. "And I sure am, miss…"

You told him your name with a shake of his hand.

Had he heard you begging for a boarding pass? It didn't really matter at the time. That night, you thought in the moment, God had shown you that not all was lost. Leaving your home, your parents far away, wasn't ideal, you knew it on the way to the Grand Terminal. Instead, you were presented with an opportunity to have a life of your own, playing music and singing like you've always wanted in the city where you'd thought the music scene was blurring away.

You would have never thought how simple-minded you were.

There's a blister on your left big toe. You've gotten used to them over the years, as using the same dancing shoes to work every day has worn them out, its soles hard and no longer breathable as they used to be. You take a peek around the deserted joint. Harold's nowhere to be seen, probably in the basement counting the earnings of the day down to the dime. You decide to take your shoes off and finish cleaning the tables without them.

This is the time you love the most. No one has stopped the 78s player, and the saxophone takes over the song in a magnificent solo. It's one of your favorites the joint plays. You hum along the music as you wipe spilled liquid from the tables and set the half-empty glasses on a tray.

The rest of the girls finished their closing duties while you were on stage, leaving you on your own. You prefer it that way. You don't like sharing a change room with judging women who think less of you because of your stage tactics. Muttered comments about your closeness with Harold once bothered you. Every stare was impregnated with unwarranted jealousy, and you were shut off. Yet the promise of singing for hours on end to a crowd made it bearable, even if it seems to grow distant as the days pass.

"Night, Y/N," you hear as a hand touches your back. You smile back at your friend, voice low in your goodbye return. "Don't arrive too late."

Sophie, hardly swayed away from her own opinions, is the only performer who doesn't ignore your existence. Maybe calling her a friend isn't entirely accurate, but having someone to talk to in dead moments backstage saved you from breaking down in tears many times. She offered you the spare room in her cousin's apartment when you most needed it. You keep to yourself, and she doesn't cross your boundaries. With her off the clock, only one other worker is left on the bar floor with you. And you couldn't wait any longer for the alone time.

A couple tables over, crossing the threshold of the bright stage light to the dim warm lights hovering over the bar, Jeonghan empties and cleans the glasses left half-full by men who prefer to follow the server girls around and dirty talk to their ears.

You walk away from your, now finished, duties to the sound of Jeonghan's question. "First time defiling a client's drink?"

He dries off a glass and sets it in front of your unofficially assigned seat.

The lighting in that part of the joint makes it hard to properly see, however, Jeonghan manages to keep the place happy and the customers entertained well enough, making him the clear favorite of the owners.

Before you prop down on the faded brown wooden chair, Jeonghan's already pouring gin and a splash of seltzer in the glass.

"A lady should not reveal her secrets."

On the way from its place to your lips, Jeonghan drops an ice cube and a slice of lime on your drink. He cares about the excellency of his cocktails. You care about unclenching your back muscles and forgetting the night.

"That was the last pour of my most expensive bourbon," he deadpans, but you catch the corner of his mouth tipping upwards. "You should have spilled it on his ridiculous hat."

"I like having the upper hand." You smile at his chuckle.

The cold drink burns down your throat as you watch Jeonghan slowly cleaning his space. He's accustomed to having your eyes on him, and your silence doesn't scare him off. You hum the last tune on the 78 as he moves around and dances lightly, the smell of different mixes of alcohol disappearing with the time.

Since the first time you were let down by Harold and his promises, Jeonghan gave you a space to slow down and let go of everything weighing you down. He was done for the day, putting on his hat to leave, when you stepped down the stage from the performer's door and sat down on his bar. He let you go on and on about Harold promising a prime time stage time for you only to take it away after. He served you a glass of his favorite bourbon and heard you complain without getting his eyes off you.

For the first time since entering the place, your past or your relationship didn't matter to someone.

You sip on your drink, letting it wash down every heated stare staining your skin and all the shameful words you had to say in the day.

It was all for nothing.

Tomorrow would be the last free show until the following week. Today was your chance to impress the joint's favorite clients and encourage them to invest in the place. Your chance to secure a spot during prime stage time on Sunday. It shouldn't have been a surprise that, to Harold, what you do for the place will never be enough.

"It's very idiotic for him not to put you on up there." Jeonghan's voice does a circle around you. You take your eyes off the lightless stage to find him leaning on the stool next to yours.

"He revealed the schedule?"

Doesn't matter how much it happens, each time fills you with embarrassment. You're just not good enough. Coming to that conclusion wasn't easy. How come something you love so dearly doesn't come naturally? How come, no matter how much effort you put into every walk, every glance, every word and song, you don't get better? Jeonghan being the first to hear the news makes it even worse.

"I heard Helen gloating about getting 9 again when she left the basement," Jeonghan explains, tone soft as if you were about to break.

"She'd pay you more attention if she knew how much Harold's parents like you more than him," you chuckle. You know how much it hurts being ignored because your job isn't deemed worthy enough.

"You talk as if I care." His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit there, lingering, incomparable to any others. "This place doesn't deserve you."

"I have nowhere else to go," you whisper, afraid to speak it into existence. "My family needs me to work."

You close your eyes and hide behind your hands, blocking tears from forming against your will. You haven't seen your parents in so long. At least they get the money you send them, you know as much because they write grateful letters back that you keep in a box under your bed.

The warmth from on your thigh spreads all across your body as Jeonghan stands in front of you, knees touching and hands cupping your jaw. He softly holds your head high, away from hiding, to look up at him.

"You can go back to them. You're not a prisoner here."

"You know I can't do that." You lean into his touch, his thumb caressing your cheek and the faint smell of his soap reaching your nose. "They can't see me like this, I told you."

"They want you to be happy, not miserable for a few coins."

"I will be happy, one day, far from this place. Only then, I can return."

Jeonghan doesn't argue with you. It's a topic you've touched on many times, and he knows your answer will be the same, that you can't run away from your only opportunity.

You jump at the sound of a door handle. Jeonghan puts enough space between your bodies before Harold and Tim make their way up the basement into the ground floor of the bar. But their blond heads barely nod your way, chuckling together about money issues. They get out the back door without turning back. You go seen but unacknowledged.

Though if they'd seen you two, really saw you, you doubt Harold would care. He hasn't cared about what you do off the stage in a long time, but you'd hate for Jeonghan to be on the receiving end of his anger.

"I have an idea." His hands are back at the sides of your face, as if the close call didn't matter.

You lock eyes again, a hopeful glint behind his makes you unable to look away. His thoughts are often unreadable, unpredictable. He tucks a strand of curled hair behind your ear and parts his lips looking at his hand go down your jaw.

"They could've seen us," you warn as his face enters your personal space.

Jeonghan's lips find yours in a mix of sighs and matching gin breath. He holds you close in his embrace, the feeling of his chest against yours replacing the bar digging into your back. You melt into his touch and his unmoving lips pressing yours with quiet passion, savoring the fleeting moment you get with him.

The lingering peck leaves you breathless. Neither of you want to part ways, but Jeonghan does so with a smile painting his face.

"We won't have to worry about them much longer."

"Did you see Mr. Miller paying with a $500 bill?"

"I bet he's giving out more of those downstairs."

"He could spare one for me."

The only empty cushioned chair in the changing room was opposite from the conversations being had, but the loud, proud voices of the Canaries allowed you to hear even the faintest switch in tones.

It was a special performance that day, as the speakeasy had to close early due to heavy policing in the neighborhood. Before any customer could get so drunk they had trouble taking a taxi home, Harold's parents announced the 9 p.m show would be the last of the day. Men were ready to spend the highest dollar bills they had in their pockets, it didn't matter that their play time was cut short.

Helen, Ruth and Anna were taking up all the mirror space, rushing to leave their faces with no trace of make-up and staining the old mirror in the process. Nothing was natural about the lipstick colors they chose, and as their painted cupid's bows disappeared with the swipe of a damp towel, you understood that their goal was drawing attention. Natural make-up wasn't in fashion anymore. You needed to understand their strategies to garner attention on stage.

"Mr. Davis stayed until the end," Helen announced to the room. "I thought he would leave before the show as he always does."

"Nothing a wink and a peek below the shoulder doesn't fix for you," Anna replied, and the three of them giggled in unison.

"Maybe I can convince him to make friends downstairs next Friday," Helen reasoned. "I'm sure his wife wouldn't mind."

"Harry would love that—"

"That is if Yoon doesn't do it first," Ruth interrupted the cheeky conversation, gaining a choir of groans in response.

Sophie was slowly getting undressed on the chair next to yours. She acted like she had all the time in the world, uncaring about what happened around her, but you knew she was listening to every word the others said. The look you two shared nearly took a chuckle out of you.

"He's always watching our stages with such serious looks," Anna added.

"I bet he's the one Harry says tries to convince his parents to change the show schedule," Helen offered, and the discussion continued while you feigned deaf ears.

You knew little of bartender Yoon then, but it was clear the women's view of him was skewed by something you couldn't quite comprehend. The few words you exchanged with him during your serving shift had been nothing but polite. You did feel his eyes on you during that day's show, but decided to push the thought aside. It had just been your first time being a background singer for Helen, and she had been so stern when giving you directions not to steal her show, you doubted anyone was looking anywhere but at her.

You were sliding down your natural-colored stockings when Harold knocked on the ajar door. The three of them batted their eyelashes at him, greeting him with soft tones you haven't heard from their mouths ever before, but he paid them no attention. Their brows frowned as he called your name and asked you to step outside.

If gazes could burn, your body would've been rendered to dust in the swipe of a brush.

Sophie patted you on the back as you stood up. She didn't have to, she barely knew you, but the quiet support helped you get rid of the nervousness of a sudden one to one talk with the boss.

Harold had told you the day before that he'd watch you closely. You knew his review was coming, that it'd be the time to prove yourself worthy. Had he liked it? Would he recommend you for a solo stage? Back then, it didn't matter what time slot you were given, if it meant you could stop serving and were allowed to sing your favorite song, by yourself, to a crowd.

"A lot of important clients watched tonight's show," Harold started. And indeed they had.

You had practiced the moves the entire week, the correct ways to sway your arms to match the other background singers, when to accentuate your hips and legs, but never to wink or tuck your hair. You knew the songs from beginning to end, your neighbors were surely tired of hearing you practicing reaching the low notes from dusk til dawn. You were to support Helen on her show, while simultaneously proving you could sing and follow instructions with hungry, wealthy eyes on you.

Maybe, if Harold was pulling you aside, was to tell you good news. Maybe practice and willingness was finally getting you somewhere.

"Did the owners watch the performance?" You asked, hopeful enough to earn a sigh from him.

"Were they in the audience?" He retorted. You felt silly to even ask. "I will tell them when to watch you."

The reality was becoming clearer by the second, but you still questioned him. "Then, how does the schedule work?"

"When our highest paying customers ask for you, when they stay for you and put your name on the bill to tip, then, you can earn your spot."

"That wasn't—I thought I was here to sing, no, you asked me here to play music. I'm no hoofer."

"I brought you here to keep the joint open. We keep it open with clients willing to empty their pockets every night, either downstairs or with the shows."

He didn't continue. You knew what he meant.

That morning, Harold had kissed you in his bed, watched you preparing breakfast and talked about the importance of that night's show. For a moment, you felt special. It was you he wanted his hands on when not working, it was you who he found in the city wilderness and helped when he didn't need to. That Harold wasn't the same you witnessed inside the walls of the joint.

Everyone saw you going home together each night, it was not a well kept secret. You endured judgment while he put on a façade in front of his parents. It wasn't love per se, why you stayed, it was a desire for something more.

The wooden floor creaked as he waited for your answer. You couldn't look up, ashamed of your too high expectations. "I'll do better."

By the time you finished changing your stage clothes and getting rid of the extravagant makeup, the place was deserted. The Canaries had left while you were with Harold, then he and a woman's voice you couldn't quite recognize passed by the changing room door, followed by his parents while you were cleaning the mirror enough for a reflection to look back.

Will Harold be waiting for you to come to his bed tonight? The thought did nothing, save for bore you. He liked you enough to slip his manhood between your legs until your inner thighs were slick with his release and he sighed against your neck, but never showed the infatuation outside of the walls of his home, and you were starting to grow tired. As quick as he reached his peak, he'd fall deeply asleep without having laid a finger on you, or he'd stay silent when Helen or Anna or Ruth made fun of the repeating schedule. Sooner or later, you knew he'd grow tired of you.

It was a needed uncomfortableness, you thought. You'd keep him happy for the time being and keep your place in the joint. If you weren't needed for the weekly jazz shows, then you had to prove your worth. You had to prove you were needed for it to stay afloat.

At least, you then learned of an alternative, thanks to Harold's running mouth when stressed. You could allure wealthy men without compromising much of yourself. A peek of skin, a soft touch to the shoulder, a mind game between your words and their need to be in women's eyes. Taking longer to return so Harold fell asleep alone was the easy fix you thought of. Later, you could find a new place to sleep. If money was the prime issue, you'd focus on that instead of the owners' son.

The bartender stayed late often, you knew he liked keeping an eye on the place, which is why you didn't find it odd that he was wiping down the cupboards when you stepped down the side of the stage.

"How late is it to ask for a drink?" You asked, mindless of his schedule after work.

He recognized you as you walked across the bar. He smiled and propped two freshly clean glasses in front of the middle stool, as if his closing tasks ceased having importance. "I always have time for one of our stars."

"I would not call myself a star," you chuckled, avoiding his eyes. "I only made my debut just today."

"I'm aware." He didn't ask what you wanted and neither did you tell him. He placed an ice cube in the two short glasses and poured the same amount of an orange-leaning liquid in both. He then grabbed the closest one to him and lifted it as a cheer. "Our finest bourbon as a celebration of your first show and six months working here."

You mirrored his motion, unable to fight the shock showing in your face at his words. The liquid stung down your throat.

"You know so much about me, but I must apologize, your name I don't recall." Your voice doesn't quiver, yet he smiles in understanding.

You thought of yourself to be important back then, so much so that you didn't bother meeting the workers unrelated to the stage. That was clear in your audacity to go and ask for a drink when he was supposed to leave.

Oh, if you knew how little it mattered one server whose dreams were unimportant.

"Your stage companions call me Yoon," he replied, playing with the rim of his glass but paying it no mind.

"They do, but that is not your name."

The corner of his mouth lifted at your rebuttal. He drank what was left of his drink and set it aside to wash again, yet he didn't take his eyes off you.

"Bartender Yoon Jeonghan, pleasure to meet you." He dramatized a shake of hands, allowing you both to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. "What brings you to wallow with a stranger at such hours of the night?"

As quickly as you could, you withdrew your hand from his. How, you didn't know, but Jeonghan reading your behavior so easily rippled a tremble down your veins. Concealing what was on your mind came with a stage job, acting a certain way to appeal to the audience was key, yet Jeonghan read there was something hidden behind your walls within seconds of meeting.

"Work troubles, you know," you attempted to swerve the conversation. He saw through it, you realized by his smirk still present, and you should've known he would. "I would not want to bore you."

"Countless men have come to get a drink and to let out their issues to a stranger like me." Jeonghan didn't give up on his quest. "And, to tell you the truth," he continued, "they all think of themselves to be infinite times more interesting than they are. I doubt you could be as boring as them."

After time and time hearing Harold and the other performers speaking so highly of the clientele, it was refreshing to hear someone else having similar opinions to yours.

That watchful Jeonghan made you chuckle, your cheeks warm due to the alcohol, and gave you a sense of comfort. You could've put him in trouble if you disclosed what you were conversing about, yet he spoke his mind regardless, all so you could open up.

"Well, I am sure I'm not the first one going through this, but I will tell you because you're making time for me." Your glass clinked against the bar, empty, along with Jeonghan's stare focusing on your next words. "Harold brought me to sing on the stage, and today was finally the day when the owners were supposed to watch me and decide if I had what they wanted."

"I see…" Instead of moving to wash your glass, he poured more bourbon in it.

You drank it all at once. "I feel like a fool. I should have known it wasn't all he wanted."

"Hmm," Jeonghan hummed in acknowledgement. You were unsure with which statement he was agreeing. "His parents have been worried about low income, not so kindly advising him to find new investors."

You didn't know how to react. Yes, you were ignorant regarding the joint's business, but you didn't think it would have repercussions on you. Very idiotic. You knew women weren't allowed in the basement for a reason, yet you never bothered to ask Harold. You heard the Canaries conversations about satisfying certain men, yet until that day, Harold had never asked you to do it as well.

At the rage of his parents, he took it out on you and your dream. You were stupid to think you were special in his eyes.

"Glad I'm not the issue here." Your tone came out lower than intended.

"It's not very nice what he's doing to you, but no, I believe he has other things to worry about."

Jeonghan waited in silence, letting you soak up the events of the night. He didn't need to stay behind, go over his working hours, and you didn't want to hold him back either.

It didn't hurt that Harold didn't love you. It didn't even hurt that he was using you, because, arguably, you were using him too. He needed you to keep the place open, and you needed the place open to do what you have always wanted.

And you weren't the only one he was using, if the flowery perfume out of your price range you smelled on his bed, and that he hadn't gone back to look for you were clues of it. That moment, you pitied whoever he had between his arms instead of you. Poor woman wouldn't be satisfied by his refusal to find a female's pleasure place.

"He's not very worried about me, I'm sure of that."

"He's a rake," Jeonghan declared. You wanted to agree, but a smile was all you could muster. "And a selfish one."

You knew the joint was empty, that you and Jeonghan were the only people lonely enough to be there still, but not even the dim lights and background silence eased your nerves of speaking that way out loud. "You cannot say those things!"

"I've known him for long, he knows my thoughts." His serious tone and growing smirk threw mixed signals your way, but it was nothing you could argue with. "And, apologies if my assumptions are unfounded, but you don't seem infatuated with him as the others."

"I suppose I am not, not anymore."

You didn't have to think about your answer, it had become clear earlier. Whether the other stage girls were in love with Harold or were pretending like you, an act in your demeanor must've revealed your truth to Jeonghan. You didn't have to pretend.

"How do you know all of this? No one remembered that I started working six months ago today." You were rather evident in your search for his truth.

"I like to keep an eye on what happens under this roof."

Jeonghan held eye-contact for an undecipherable amount of time, as if his statement wasn't anxiety inducing.

"Will you let the owners know that I was badmouthing their son?"

"That would put me in a difficult position, would it not?"

"I guess it would."

As long as your rendezvous remained unknown to the rest of the workers, you didn't mind that Jeonghan observed and understood everything you thought you were properly disguising. You knew Jeonghan wouldn't reveal what you said, at least if he didn't want to come into trouble by hearing Harold being deprecated and doing nothing about it, or worse, deprecating him as well.

At that moment, you felt weightless. You enjoyed the thought of a person understanding you beyond what you present to the world, without having to explain yourself.

You broke the silence before the night turned longer. "I'm sorry for compelling you to stay here. I shall leave now. Thank you for hearing me."

"You were no bother." Jeonghan's hands tidied up the space, yet his body was turned your way. "Are you going to find him?" He asked, a mix of shy and curious and another feeling you couldn't pinpoint.

"That is not your concern," you snickered. "I have a bed to sleep on. My life does not revolve around him."

"Good." The line of his lips fought a smirk.

You turned around with a smile. You needed to get out of there. "Good night, Jeonghan."

"You're welcome any time."

His voice sounded distant as the back door came closer. You couldn't turn back to watch him. He couldn't see your reaction. And the invitation remained on the air, a flicker of hope.

You did take Jeonghan up on his offer. It wasn't the plan. But like many things that are out of people's control, you didn't anticipate disappointment to become a constant in your life.

Week after week, show after show, client after client, each time that Harold dismissed you, excusing his actions as part of an elaborate plan to keep his family's speakeasy open, you understood that nothing you did was ever going to satisfy him.

Helen reigned the stage each weekend, her shadow filled by you and your voice. Her numbers changed weekly, yet her final song remained the same, as did the way she commanded the attention of the men sitting at the back with ladies on their laps. Your body danced mechanically, your voice in tune with the melody you practiced, your weekly routine of trial, and trial, and trial, and failure. It never changed, save for your eyes getting looser, finding Jeonghan's just in front of the liquor section. He hadn't lied that night.

He was always watching. And he always welcomed you at the end of the night, glass propped on his station, ready to listen to you talk. Most times you complained about Harold, other times you asked Jeonghan to take your mind off everything. And, on rare occasions, you both chose to stay silent, enjoying the other's company while finishing tasks.

Jeonghan became a key part of your day to day life swiftly, like a thread going through silk.

One night, you were set to talk to Harold after not seeing him for weeks.

After your first show, he had vanished, never invited you over to his place again, never sent sweet looking smiles with more behind them. His trips to Chicago were longer, his time on the gambler's table as well. It was like you didn't exist. It wasn't his kisses or his touches you missed, you realized after the first few days. There wasn't anything to miss. What you needed was reassurance that you weren't dragging yourself through the mud for nothing.

You found Harold on the way out of the basement, behind Mr. Miller and Mr. Davis and... with Helen peppering kisses on the side of his neck.

It wasn't surprising. You weren't together, he owed you nothing, and she resented you for being with him and probably jumped at the chance. Your eyes locked with hers as she smugly continued. You didn't want to pity her, but she didn't need to draw the owner's son's attention to get what she wanted. She was talented and easily the favorite Canary out of all of you. You didn't blame her at that moment for wanting it all, but rather despised Harold for taking advantage of her.

The talk went as quick as a flick of Helen's hair. Harold wasn't interested in you anymore, and he reluctantly agreed to talk to his parents about giving you more time on stage.

The realization hit you in the shape of warmth flushing your chest. There was only one person you wanted to tell the good news to: the quiet bartender whose late night conversations had become your favorite part of the job.

Being on the stage alone was everything you thought it would, and simultaneously nothing like it.

The week prior you spent perfecting your number. Filling a 30 minute slot by yourself was no easy feat, but it was a type of stress you welcomed. You sang your favorite songs during every free time you got, picking and choosing the ones that sounded nice together, matching with elegant thought out moves. You watched the other girls perform during the week, a smaller audience since the non-weekend shows were expensive, and informed yourself what the clients liked more.

Not only you had to impress with your talents, you had to keep an audience in awe of you. It wasn't as hard as it seemed, but you wanted to stand out. Doing what worked for the other Canaries wasn't the way to remain in people's minds. It was an interesting study.

Jeonghan didn't see you that week. Not that you had no complaints for him to chuckle at, but you were so focused on excelling that you had no time to spare.

That Saturday, you stayed up until 3 in the morning fixing old stitches on your best gown. It wasn't the most fashionable, it wouldn't compare to the previous looks the audience was going to see, but it was yours. You weren't going to hide behind the fancy dresses in the changing room. Your performance had to be authentic.

You practiced your make-up to flatter your eyes, undoubtedly the part that was going to be watched the least. If the men weren't looking at your leg cutting through the opening you made on your dress, then you had to look them in the eye and, for that moment, giving them a chance to fall.

And your work wasn't in vain.

You did finally arrange a show and performed it in front of an audience. Yet, as soon as you got on stage, time appeared to change its workings, because your dream was over faster than a pour of water.

Song after song, melody after melody, the last thing you thought of was how long you had been waiting, or that less than a third of the tables had clients sitting on them, sober enough to watch you. It was okay, because the light was finally on you, singing your heart out and bringing your imagination to life.

You had to step down the stage eventually. Unfortunately. Your show was the last of the day, and people started leaving as soon as the clocks indicated it was 1 in the morning.

As always, you were the last Canary to leave. The technique to be off by the time the last client leaves was to start cleaning tasks during the last show of the night. The men left were either too drunk or too into flirting with another woman to care that they were essentially being kicked out as soon as the music stopped

You reached the table floor after changing back into normal clothes, maybe more disappointed that you were alone than from the poor audience you had to entertain. The yellow lights over the bar were still on, giving you a flicker of hope that erupted into flames when you heard shuffling sounds behind you.

Jeonghan stood between the empty tables, beside the bar's expensive record player. The wind-up phonograph was kept safe in a glass case that could only be opened with one set of keys. Jeonghan, you saw, had them in his hand with that exact purpose.

You dodged and fixed chairs left messily standing on the way, with a smile that didn't match working over hours and cleaning up people's messes. "You will get in trouble if they see a scratch."

No one was allowed to touch the record player. Not even Harold.

"I could blame it on Mr. Davis, it would be believable enough," Jeonghan joked. Mr. Davis was known for being clumsy when drunk, even breaking several glasses, but that idea didn't ease the little anxiety. "I'm careful, you shouldn't worry. I'm good with my hands."

He gave you no time to fix your breathing. Hiding from your sight, there was a big envelope he opened with ease. You couldn't recognize it, and you watched in awe as Jeonghan gently placed the fragile record on the player. Everything he touched held a delicate feel, even the large needle placed on the fragile record, until every piece was in place.

You had never seen a player being put together so closely before, and his casualness left you in awe.

"Do you own one?"

"I do," he replied, closing the glass case once more, now with a new record in, ready to play. "Do you?"

"Oh, no. I wish." You shouldn't have felt embarrassed, you knew Jeonghan wasn't asking out of spite, but rather genuine curiosity. "My parents couldn't afford it. Our neighbors had one and I would listen to the records they played over the wall. I've seen one up close, but neither my neighbor or her husband dared to touch it when I was around. I loved being in their home, but they were right to not let me get too close to their player. I would've broken it with one touch."

He nodded at your story, smiling to himself. "Why don't you get one for your home now? Your neighbors would be jealous."

"I don't live with my parents anymore, and my neighbors passed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry." Jeonghan aimed to lay an assuring hand on your shoulder, but hesitated and went back to lay on the player. "Why don't you live with your parents?"

You realized then how vague you had been when talking about your living situation. You couldn't blame him for asking.

"That's a conversation to be had with a drink in hand," you chimed.

It had been a while since you stopped feeling guilty about asking for drinks at night. Jeonghan chuckled lightly at your non-answer request, and turned on the player before heading back to the bar. It always took a little while for the music to start, so you followed him.

By that time, you'd become familiar with the different illicit alcohols available at the bar. The Prohibition didn't stop Jeonghan from finding the best of the best.

"Try this one today."

He slid a glass over to where you were sitting. The usually orangy liquid was now clear as water, with tiny bubbles fizzled on the sides and a slice of lime as decoration. Jeonghan was on a self-imposed quest of finding your favorite drink. You did not have one, and that did not stop him.

"It's gin tonic," he replied to your unasked question. "Sweet and sour."

"Different." You had become accustomed to the drinks he served to most men, the ones that were thick and bitter and couldn't be drunk quickly unless one was already dizzy.

"More your style," he simply replied.

Jeonghan's eyes followed your every move, your fingers draped around the cold glass, your lipstick-stained lips on the rim, your throat gulping down the drink he's been thinking about for weeks.

It was a bartender thing, he thought. He wanted to see you, his most unusual client, satisfied.

The condensation formed around the glass left your lips wet after setting it down. You licked them clean, the faint taste of the lime slowly overpowering the bitterness of the gin.

"That was just as strong as last week's bourbon," you joked.

Jeonghan's face was unreadable. He stared in silence as you let the taste of another sip wash down your throat. Once you got used to the after-taste bitterness, the drink was enjoyable, the perfect mixture of bitter and sour, with just the right amount of sweet.

"I think we found it," he said under his breath.

His mouth opened and closed, hesitant. You preferred the silence to what you knew was waiting for you after he asked what he wanted.

It was then when the record player decided it was time. A soft hum of a low bass invaded the space, cutting through your avoidance and Jeonghan's wonders. You recognized it within the first note.

"This one is my favorite!" You jumped off your seat, already imagining what it would be like to sing a song like that one. "I wanted to perform it today, but I could never do it justice."

"I heard you singing it on Tuesday, liked it, and bought a 78."

Even when you didn't spend time together, he paid attention. You didn't think anyone had heard you singing, but you should have thought Jeonghan would.

"Are you secretly rich? These are a rare kind!"

Jeonghan chuckled, going around the bar like he owned the place. "You would be surprised at how many drunk men tip you when you hear their affairs."

"Oh, am I not the only one you share drinks and secrets with?"

"They could be future investors, it's my job to be kind to them," he deadpanned. "I spend time with you because it is what I want."

His words should have not elicited such a warm rush of blood, yet it coursed through your system against your will. The dim lights might've hidden your face, but if Jeonghan was going to notice something, was your body becoming more shy the closer he got to you.

"How did you come to work here? I haven't asked." He knew your story, your problems with Harold. You took the opportunity to skew the conversation away from what made you flush.

Jeonghan held a hand high, stretched so his palm faced the dimly lit ceiling, and motioned for you to take.

"I will tell you over a dance."

You had no proper attire. The shoes you bought months ago were starting to get worn from everyday use. Your gown was purposely a discreet brown, knee long, unlike dancer dresses with vivid color and short to allow the legs to move.

If it was any other man asking, you'd politely refuse. A woman shouldn't be dancing with whoever asked, and being under-dressed was wrong too.

Yet, Jeonghan was no stranger. You had always struggled to make friends, and this feeling of easiness you had never felt with anyone. Every day, you found yourself wanting the clock to be over, for the joint to be empty, all so you and Jeonghan could have your late night talks.

You took his hand and bowed with a thickening smile.

To the rhythm of your favorite song, Jeonghan placed his other hand just above your hip. He guided you to turn in slow circles, as much as the little space available let you.

His stare burned a blush on your cheeks, but you refused to return the gaze. Harold was the only man you had ever been so close to, yet it would have been ridiculous to compare anything you lived with him to how you felt at that moment.

Jeonghan wasn't imposing, he wasn't making the situation to leave you with no choice. From the placement of his hands, to the polite distance between your chests, you were alone in a room that wouldn't welcome another person until the next morning, and you didn't doubt you were safe.

"So, how did you find this place?"

"I hope this doesn't break your trust in me," he began. What a start! "Harold's parents, Homer and Celia, took me in when I was little."

"That is… a big piece of information," you couldn't avoid stumbling over your words. "I guess I should not be surprised."

"Why?" He scowled, finding your little shock amusing. "They are hardly here, and Harold does not care to hide his dislike for me even if I choose not to say we were raised together."

"Yes, the owners might not be seen here, but you forget, Harold's personality does not change in his home. He hates you over the normal amount for a co-worker." That earned a chuckle from him, and your closeness allowed his breath to fan your face. "So, they offered you a job and he hates you because the clients prefer you?"

"I asked them to place me here," he revealed, smile fainter than before, "I felt like I owed it to them. I didn't want to depend on other people, even if they never complained about having to spend money on me. But I was always on Harold's bad side. He didn't like sharing with a street kid with no family, and didn't like being put boundaries by his parents either."

"I'm sorry, that must've been awful. His parents sound nice, I've never spoken to them."

"Yeah, his—our parents, they were good. I always knew me and Harold weren't the same, and they've made mistakes when raising us, but they meant well. I live on my own now, and came to like this god-forsaken joint. I'll have my own one one day, maybe when the Prohibition lifts."

When it came to family dynamics, there was little comfort you could offer Jeonghan at that moment. However difficult your home life was, it couldn't compare to being taken in by strangers when you had no one left. You didn't want to sour the evening further, but you had to talk after him.

"I'm living with Sophie, do you know her?" Jeonghan nodded. "At the beginning, I accepted when Harold invited me to his place, not only because I thought I meant something to him," you were ashamed to accept it out loud and decided to look down to the wooden floor to continue, "I needed somewhere to be without my parents.

"I know I should be grateful I have a mom and dad who took care of me even in the toughest moments, but I couldn't bear it any longer. I couldn't bear to see their relationship becoming more about tolerance than love. Some time between working to maintain our home and having to raise me and my unattainable dream, their fire just burned away, and being home was not comfortable and safe anymore, but rather draining."

"Have you gone back since?" His touch hardened in reassurance.

"No," you replied, frozen in place. "Have you?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

He didn't ask for more from you, which you were glad for. Jeonghan remained silent, let you rest your head on his shoulders and swayed you in a non-dance until the song ended.

The silence was suffocating. You felt warm all around from being in Jeonghan's hold, fearing he'd feel your heart beating so fast he'd think you were having a heart attack. And maybe you were. You had just openly spoken out loud the worst thing you have ever done.

"I hope you don't think of me as a horrible person," you whispered.

You couldn't bear the thought of ruining the one good thing you had managed to gain while stepping over people to achieve a stupid dream.

"I would never think of you that way." Two fingers held your chin high from your hiding place, and you had no other choice but to look up at Jeonghan. "Everyone has their reasons. It would not be fair to judge you for doing what you had to."

"I abandoned my family for a foolish dream that has not worked out. It's been a year, and I have barely taken one step in the right direction."

"Expecting to accomplish a lifelong dream without a fight would be foolish, not this. You're working hard, and it paid off today. You were amazing on stage." He sounded sincere. "It was like no other show I've seen."

Tears were dripping down your blushed cheeks. Even then, Jeonghan managed to make you smile. "It was over so fast, I barely remember a thing."

"Trust my word. You have nothing to fear. Be confident in your talent."

"You should talk to the owners about me then, now that I know why they like you so much."

"Harold will duel me if I do so."

Your giggle elicited a matching chuckle of his. He held you closer than before, with both of his hands on your lower back. You welcomed the change in topic and a lessened atmosphere, and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"You're not awful for being with him either."

Jeonghan acknowledging your past with Harold was like a punch in the gut. It wasn't a secret, and you had complained about it countless times with him, but it was always you who did the talk. You had assumed he pittied you, as you pittied Helen.

"I was a fool for thinking he saw something in me. I wanted to feel that spark."

"He's the fool if he doesn't see how special you are."

You felt a stool digging on your skin, just below where Jeonghan's hands had taken place. You had stopped dancing at some point, you weren't sure when, but you were back to the yellowy darkness of the bar.

"Do you think this place is good for us?" Jeonghan raised a brow at your question, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not legal, but good to get somewhere after."

"Are you perhaps planning on leaving?" He joked, yet a tint of disappointment was evident in his tone.

"I don't know. I'm not there yet, but maybe in the future, when I'm better settled."

You saw in his eyes, there were more questions on his mind. You didn't explain further, already nervous due to his sudden closeness.

You were pinned between the stool and his wide shoulders, at the mercy of his want to never end the conversation.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," he settled on saying. "Being around Harold must be hard."

"It's not because of him, but rather his unwillingness to fulfill the promise he made me. Leave it to me to put my trust in a questionable man."

You wanted to laugh at your life choices. Looking back, it should've been obvious that after denying him more unsatisfying sex, he'd put you aside and pick another impressionable woman. Jeonghan didn't find it very funny.

"I could talk to Celia, if you want me to," he offered with the utmost sincerity you had accustomed to hear from him.

"There's no need. They'll come one day and I'll impress them."

He nodded, unsatisfied. "Would you tell me if you needed me to?"

"Jeonghan, it's okay. I'm not telling you this to manipulate you into helping."

"I know you are not. I'm—I want you to know that you can trust me."

Jeonghan looked as if he was pleading you to.

It would not be fair to make a comparison, but you couldn't help it. You thought about the men you saw every day. The men rich enough to buy the world. They came to the bar, bored of their perfect, simple, safe lives, and eyed women who faked interest in them. A self-centered life that stained every corner of the speakeasy, except for the bar.

All the men you came to know were exactly like one another. Drunk wealthy cheaters who cared for no one but themselves. Of those qualities, Jeonghan couldn't be farther from.

"I do," you sincered. "I trust you."

"Good." He exhaled.

Your words relaxed him in place, and he was somehow closer to you than before. He towered over you even when his back was no longer stiff. It felt like a final wall crumbling down. Jeonghan could see even your ugliest parts. The shameful parts, the foolish ones, the ones who chased a dream. You hadn't scared him off.

His dark eyes locked with yours, like a mirror of your thoughts. He had also shared his story. Was he feeling the same as you? Like you could talk about anything with him forever?

The last ounce of trust you had leaned into a 'yes, he did'.

Your heart tugged with something new. Something that made your stomach boil and your skin burn where Jeonghan was touching.

His gaze hadn't derailed from yours. He was watching every thought going through your mind. The trust you felt seemed like something more. You trusted Sophie too, but it wasn't quite the same. If whatever it was, Jeonghan felt it too like you thought, then it'd be no problem.

Your eyes traveled down his face, analyzing his expression as best as you could with the poor lighting. You got caught up on the lower half, on his lips slightly parted to exhale.

Jeonghan crossed the line first.

He was hesitant as he pressed his lips on yours. The touch was soft like no other, giving you a way of breaking it if it was not what you wanted.

Before he could step away and leave a peck as simply that, you cradled the back of his neck, pushing him harder against you. At your encouragement, his hand grabbed your jaw and guided you to him. You both sighed and relaxed into each other, as if you had been waiting a lifetime to feel a kiss like that.

Jeonghan's other arm wrapped around your waist and lifted you over the stool. Your lips molded together, unwilling to separate even when changing positions. You hadn't realized how much you wanted Jeonghan to be the one to make you feel all that you were missing. He kissed you with a purpose, and whatever it was, you weren't going to get in the way.

His tongue licked over your top lip and deepened the kiss. It was indecent and filthy, wrong in every sense of the word, yet stopping was nowhere present in your mind.

Jeonghan led the kiss just like he had led the dance: slow and caring and with only you in mind. Every sound that escaped from you set him in the correct direction. You let him take care of you, let him explore the only part of you unknown to him.

You followed his hand on your jaw and his fiery kiss wherever Jeonghan guided you. His thumb swiped over your lower lip and you opened up to him. He tasted the remains of his drink and erased any trace of someone else. He didn't know he was the only one you had ever really wanted, the only one capable of blurring everything around you and making you focus on the electricity flowing with every touch of your lips.

Your foreheads leaned on the other as you broke the kiss. You breathed on each other, the reality of what happened dawning on you.

"This is wildly inappropriate," you sighed out.

Jeonghan couldn't hide the smile your breathless words elicited.

"We wouldn't want to be improper in such a distinguished establishment."

Of course, Jeonghan was unable to spend a second without making you giggle even in the tensest situations.

Your hands drifted down to his chest, feeling the way it filled with air under your touch. He pushed his hips between your legs, slowly as to give you time to reject more advances. Your lack of stocking lets you feel him directly. You wanted nothing more than to continue feeling him, to let him show you that touching and kissing could feel desirable.

"Is this okay with you?" He asked as his fingers raked down the side of your back.

You nodded and looked into his eyes. He touched and gripped at your chest and thighs over the fabric of your dress, testing each reaction you gave him. You were too reactive to every touch, but he kept going, with more fervor each time you squirmed.

"Did he ever—"

"No." Harold never touched you, not like that. Harold didn't make you sigh onto his lips, didn't draw you to chase his touch, didn't care to know what you liked.

To say that Jeonghan was shocked would've been underplaying everything that went through his mind.

"That damn louse." He hardly ever sweared, but every bit of information you gave him made everything more intense.

He lowered his face and placed kisses down your jaw. You sighed into the thick air around you. Everywhere was on fire, and you didn't want Jeonghan to ever stop.

His hand found the hem of your dress, hiked up above your knees as his hips pushed you two closer. He found your inner thigh, and you shivered.

"You've only been with him?" Jeonghan dared to ask.

"Yes, but—" You were clueless as to how to best explain. He waited for you, halted his touches until you were ready. "He never really touched me. I got him off and he fell asleep."

Jeonghan was shocked once more. "I'd get a good laugh if what you tell me wasn't too outrageous."

"I guessed men were all like him. I have not heard other canaries complaining about their experiences with him."

"Did you complain about him with others hearing?" He tilted his head to the side with a smirk. Except for him, he meant. You shook your head. "Were you okay with me touching you?"

He talked so openly about such an improper topic, you had to hide your face on the crook of his neck so he wouldn't see you blush.

Sex was never something you were allowed to talk about. You touched yourself when the moon was high in the sky, covered your mouth so no one would hear. When Harold was soundly asleep, you twitched at his side searching for what you gave him hours before.

Instead of answering Jeonghan's question, you found his hand under the skirt of your dress. He had distanced from where you wanted him the most, massaging just above your knee. You slid his palm up your inner thighs until his fingers grazed over your underwear. You pressed your head against his clavicle at the feeling.

"Do you want me to touch you? I need you to say it." Jeonghan pretended your reactions had no effect on him, yet the heavy rise and fall of his chest told you another story.

"Please, touch me."

His other hand found your jaw under his shoulder and lifted it up so his mouth could find your neck. "I can make you feel things he never did." He whispered in your ear.

Burning fire coursed down your body into your pulsing core. Jeonghan touched where you felt damp and groaned against your neck. Anything other than your hand was foreign to your core. Even Harold's hard hadn't ventured higher than the pressing skin of your thighs.

"Relax for me."

You obeyed without much thinking, opening up your legs further.

Jeonghan's fingers drew circles where you felt most sensitive. It was a stark contrast to the times when you were desperate enough to touch yourself. Those times had been rushed, shameful even. You didn't want to spend so much time chasing something you weren't sure you deserved.

Yet, in that moment, you wanted to drown in Jeonghan's slow, thoughtful touches. He grazed over every point that went often overlooked. He listened to your reactions, your moans and deep inhales in his ear, and went back to replicate each one of them.

"You sound so sweet," he purred as he pressed harder against your core. "Has he heard you moaning like this? I'd wager he hasn't. He doesn't deserve you."

Every word coming out of his mouth sent shivers down your spine. You could feel your underwear getting uncomfortably wet, sticking to your core and letting you feel each swipe of Jeonghan's fingers better.

"Jeonghan," you sighed into his neck. Your hands gripped the sides of his coat, pushing his chest and arms inevitably closer to yours. "I—"

"Let me make you feel good, like you deserve."

A gush of cold air snuck between your thighs. Jeonghan had moved your underwear to the side. The pads of his fingers touched your wet lips gently, getting you accustomed to the unfamiliar skin. Your hips jerked in his direction, pressing his hand harder against you like you never felt.

"I want—" your thoughts were clouded by his fingers circling the spot that made you gasp. It felt immoral to want it, it felt wrong to even ask it, but Jeonghan kept pleasuring you without a second thought. He wanted to give you anything you asked. It couldn't possibly be as wrong as society deemed it, not if it felt so good. "Make me feel good, please Jeonghan."

Jeonghan let all the air out of his lungs in relief.

Everything became too much for you to handle. Jeonghan let go of everything shielding him from pleasuring you like you deserved, according to him. Every swipe of his fingers against your wet core was thought out, with one purpose.

Your dress stretched far more than it should. It gave in to the pressure of Jeonghan holding your legs open as you trembled on his stool. You heard fabric ripping somewhere along your thighs, but nothing mattered over the bubbling feeling at the pit of your stomach.

Jeonghan muttered, praising nonsense against your ear. Your body reacted to each word with a jerk of your hips, yet you registered nothing beside kisses on your neck and frantic fingers chasing your release. You tugged at his hair, gripped his arms muscles, held on to every bit of his body available within grabbing distance. He was so impossibly close, his hand so impossibly wet gliding over your core.

It wasn't gradual like you were used to. No. Jeonghan pressed on your clit and bit your earlobe and you were done for.

Flames burst without warning across your entire body. Your vision went white. Your knees closed on his hips, holding on to Jeonghan as you quivered against his hand. He kissed along your neck until he found your lips again. You kissed him lazily, letting your breathing go back to normal.

That was how it was supposed to feel? Your throat felt coarse from sounds you didn't even hear you were making. You had never felt too in tune, yet disconnected from your body, known yet unfamiliar.

"Tell me how you feel," Jeonghan asked, demanding yet shy.

"I had never—I didn't know it was like that." Words were hard to find.

Jeonghan let you settle down. He cleaned his hand on the sink and cleaned the mess between your inner thighs. It all felt too intimate, too real. The reality of what you did was dawning on you fast. You two were nothing, and you let him take you like it was nothing.

"Is everything okay?" Of course, Jeonghan read you like an open book. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You looked down his body, the shadow of his hardness drawing your attention. He made you feel good and you didn't give him anything in return. You were just like Harold.

"I'm sorry. It was all too much," you replied first to his question. You nodded to his hips and asked, "Do you want me to…"

"No need." Jeonghan shook his head, fighting a smile. "Let's go outside."

He had a case of cigarettes in one hand, and stretched the other for you to take.

The back of the bar shone with one streetlight on. The street on the side was clear, as the mandatory curfew would start less than an hour later. Jeonghan lit the cigarette and handed it to you. You inhaled softly. You didn't want the smell to carry onto Sophie's place and raise more questions from her part.

"We could open a proper joint some day," Jeonghan proposed, smiling to himself at the idea. "You'd have all the stage time in the world."

His voice echoed against the grey wall in front of you. There was no reason for him to think of something like that, which only made you match his smile.

"Are you making future plans with me already?" You laughed it off incredulously.

Jeonghan had an easy way for your spiraling thoughts to stop. He brought you back to the real world with a crazy thought and a quirked smile. He was the Jeonghan that made your work days bareable, he wouldn't let you overthink about how wrong everything you felt was.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, and you tingled with the remainder of being pressed against him.

"I'm serious! I like it here but not for it to be my life, and you don't like it here that much either."

"I can't disagree with that."

Could you do it? It was another dream added to your growing list. Opening a jazz bar with none other than Yoon Jeonghan. The thought was crazy enough, but he had said it out loud. He had put it out into the world.

thank you so much for reading! i didn't start writing tihs with the idea of doing it in parts, but life happened :( I'll get to writing the last part asap!

The manager’s eyes brighten at that, and he gestures toward a display near the back. He begins explaining the merits of several electric refrigerators, their ability to preserve food longer, the mark of a modern household. Pa listens intently as the man opens doors, points out compartments, lists features meant to impress.

Pa runs a hand along the smooth metal, thoughtful. Then he turns slightly toward your mother. “Charles would like this, wouldn’t he?”

Charles.

The name settles in your chest the way it always does. Charles Whitmore. Your fiancé. A man born into old money and old expectations. The engagement had been arranged long before either of you were asked how you felt about it, two families aligning their interests with practiced ease.

He is polite to a fault, always saying the right thing, always standing straight, always mindful of who might be watching. Reputation matters deeply to him, perhaps more than anything else. Appearances must be maintained, traditions respected, nothing ever allowed to stray too far from what is deemed proper.

You don't hate him. Charles is not cruel, nor careless. He treats you with courtesy and kindness. Yet, there is something about him that feels distant, like a man already married to the life expected of him.

You suppose that, in his eyes, this refrigerator makes sense. Another sensible purchase. Another step toward a well ordered future.

You know better than to interfere. Decisions like these are not meant for you. Your role is to agree when spoken to, to smile when appropriate, to trust that the people who know better have everything under control. So when your parents’ attention remains fixed on the manager and his endless explanations, you take the opportunity and slip away.

You wander past the polishes appliances until something tucked slightly to the side catches your eye. A phonograph rests atop a polished wooden cabinet. Your fingers brush the edge of the cabinet, tracing the smooth finish, then hover near the horn. You imagine music filling a room, imagine evenings softened by sound rather than silence.

“Do you like it?” Assuming the question isn't for you, you don't answer. You continue looking at the phonograph until the lack of response becomes noticeable. You glance up.

A man stands nearby, watching you with a faint smile.

You point to yourself, unsure. “Me?”

He nods.

“Uh… yes. No. I mean,” you falter, embarrassed. “I was just looking.”

He chuckles softly and steps closer. “It’s a good one,” he says, gently. “Clear sound. Strong needle. If you take care of it, it’ll last years.” There is a warmth in his voice as he speaks, a fondness, like he is talking about something dear. “Music sounds different on these.”

You listen, drawn in despite yourself. Somewhere between his explanation, your focus drifts. You notice the shape of his eyes, expressive and bright, the way his hair falls slightly out of place, the softness in his smile that feels entirely unpracticed.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Kim Mingyu,” he answers.

You smile. “Mingyu. Do you like it?” you ask, gesturing to the phonograph.

His eyes light up, and he continues, speaking about music, about evenings spent listening. You nod along, asking small questions wanting to hear him speak more. You do not realize how long you have been standing there until a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

You turn to see your parents waiting, already prepared to leave.

“It was nice to meet you,” you say softly. “Mingyu.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he replies.

“See you again,” you add, unsure whether it is something you are allowed to say.

You settle back into the car, skirts smoothed, posture proper, the familiar weight of your parents on either side of you. The door closes with a dull thud, sealing you back into your place.

Your father is the first to speak. "Charles is coming home tonight,"he says, almost casually. "We should start planning about the engagement now."

Ma hums in agreement, asking him if there is anything to be prepared for the meeting with their future son-in-law. You nod when expected, a small sound of acknowledgment leaving you, though the words barely reach you at all.

Your gaze drifts instead to the salesroom window as the car begins to move. Through the glass, you spot him. Mingyu stands near the display, hands resting on the cabinet, his attention elsewhere now.

As the car begins to move, the image shifts, the glass carrying him farther and farther away until he is nothing more than a shape behind light and reflection. You do not look away until the salesroom disappears from view.

A few days roll by, slow and uneventful, until you find yourself out again, this time for dress shopping.

Martha is with you today, like always. She has been there for as long as you can remember, lingering in the background of your childhood. If anyone has ever known you in all your unguarded moments, it is her. She is older than you by years, and yet indulgent enough to let you forget that sometimes.

The shop is bright and filled with fabric, layers of silk and lace draped over polished counters. You move between racks with a lightness you rarely allow yourself, lifting skirts, holding them up to your frame, spinning just enough to feel the fabric sway.

“Careful,” Martha chides, arms already full of garments. “You’ll wrinkle everything before we even get to the fitting room.”

You slow, offering her a sheepish smile that you know she cannot resist. She sighs, shaking her head, but her lips betray her.

You both leave the shop with bags in hand. you insist on ice cream, dragging Martha along despite her protests about sugar and melted hems. You buy two cones— chocolate for you and vanilla for her.

She sets the shopping bags down with visible relief, flexing her fingers as you press the second cone into her hand.

“For me?” she asks, surprised.

“For you,” you say simply, already taking a step ahead.

“Miss,” Martha calls, juggling the cone and bending to pick up the bags at the same time. “Wait. These are heavy.”

You glance back, walking backward now, licking at the edge of your ice cream. You smile at her, bright and teasing. “Hurry up, Martha.”

And then you bump into someone.

Your steps falter, ice cream nearly slipping from your hand as you instinctively step back preparing yourself for an apology.

"Oh!"

It's him.

For a moment, you simply stare, surprised in a way that steals your breath. You had not expected to see him again. At least not like this. And yet, a quiet, unwelcome gladness settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, then pause.

“Mingyu,” he says followed by your name. “You were at the shop the other day.”

“I was,” you say, warmth creeping into your voice. “How do you know my name?”

He nods. “Heard it that day, at the salesroom. It was pretty hard to forget you—it.” He quickly corrects himself.

Your cheeks warm at that, and you shift slightly, suddenly aware of the way you are standing, the ice cream slowly melting in your hand. Your gaze drifts, then settles on the flowers in his hand—a modest bouquet of lilies and sunflowers.

You glance around and realize where you are. A flower shop sits just behind him, its door open, the scent of petals lingering in the air.

"Are those for your lover?" you ask, even thought you know you might be overstepping, you kind of envy the woman he thought of while buying these.

“No,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words. “No, I'm not in a relationship.”

Your eyes flick back to the bouquet, questioning without meaning to be.

“Oh,” he adds, realizing, a soft laugh escaping him. “These are for my grandmother.” He scratches the back of his neck, shy, almost boyish. "She really likes sunflowers."

"That's so sweet."

His eyes meet yours, and for a second the look he gives you feels thoughtful, curious, like he is seeing you rather than simply looking at you. You glance away first, suddenly conscious of your ice cream, the slow drip threatening your fingers.

He laughs softly. “It's melting.”

You look down with a small gasp. “Oh. Right.”

You fumble for a napkin, and before you can properly manage it, Martha appears at your side, bags in hand, eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

“There you are,” she says. “I turn my back for one moment.”

You smile innocently. “I ran into someone.”

Her gaze shifts to Mingyu, assessing but kind. He straightens instinctively, offering a polite nod.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Martha hums in response, then looks back at you. “Shall we continue, or are we planning to block the pavement all day?”

You suppress a laugh. “We were just leaving.”

Mingyu steps back to give you space, though there is reluctance in the movement. “It was nice seeing you again,” he says. “I didn’t expect—” He stops, smiling instead. “I’m glad I did.”

“So am I,” you say quietly.

Mingyu shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on the bouquet as if wanting to continue this conversation with you but the way Martha was gaping at him suddenly made him aware of how long he had been just standing their and admiring you.

“Well,” he adds, lifting the bouquet slightly, “I should take these."

You nod. “Of course.”

You hesitate, then add, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

His smile returns, warmer now. “I’d like that.”

You walk a few steps before Martha speaks again, her pace unhurried, perfectly measured beside yours. The street noise rushes back in, filling the quiet he left behind.

“Well,” she says at last.

You glance at her. “Well what?”

She gives you an amused look. “You seem to have developed a habit of bumping into interesting people.”

You feel your face warm. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Martha replies, adjusting the bags in her hand. “Accidents can still be interesting.”

That earns a sheepish grin from you. You lick at the melting edge of your cone, buying yourself a moment. “He was just someone I met once before.”

“Ah,” she says, drawing the word out. “Just someone.”

You walk in silence for a bit, the street opening up ahead of you, warm and alive. Then Martha speaks again, gentler this time.

“He seems kind.”

You glance at her, surprised. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” she replies.

Your steps slow slightly at that. You say nothing, because you do not trust your voice to remain steady.

Martha squeezes your arm briefly as you walk. “It’s nice to see you laugh like that,” she adds. “You don’t do it enough these days.”

You look down, smiling to yourself. “Neither do you.”

She scoffs. “I laugh plenty. Just not at men who bump into me on the street.”

The next time you see Mingyu, it is raining.

It falls with no warning, one moment the sky is clear, the next it opens up entirely, rain pouring down hard enough to scatter people off the street.

You stand beneath the narrow awning of the post office, hands tucked into your coat, watching the rain hit the pavement. A letter has just been sent, sealed and addressed carefully to your brother.

You miss your brother terribly—you had been inseparable since forever. But he left years ago, chasing work the city could not offer him, and ever since, his visits have been few and fleeting. So, now you settle for letters instead.

You snap out of your thoughts when the sudden gust of cold misty air hits you. You have no umbrella and your empty hands make that painfully clear. Midst of debating whether to make a run for it or not, you notice someone step closer, shoes stopping just short of the edge of the shelter. You glance up.

Mingyu.

“Hello,” he says first, a little breathless, like he had not expected this either.

“Hello,” you reply, surprised and quietly pleased all at once.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, then quickly adds, “I mean, not here here. Just… the post office.”

You smile faintly. “I was sending a letter. To my brother.”

He nods, understanding softening his expression. “I had some installation work nearby,” he says. “They needed help setting something up inside.”

For a moment neither of you speak.

“Why are you standing here?” he asks.

You lift your palms slightly, as if the answer is obvious. “No umbrella.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping the tip of his umbrella lightly against the ground, using it for support as he settles beside you. “That would do it.”

The rain pours down relentlessly, filling the silence between you. Without quite deciding to, you shift a little closer to him, drawn in by the warmth radiating from his body as the chill settles into your bones. You tell yourself it is only that, that you are cold and nothing more, an excuse you cling to even as you know better. He smells like lavender and the thought stays with you longer than it should. If he notices the way you move nearer, he gives no sign of it, says nothing.

You wait, half expecting him to speak, while he seems to be doing the same, both of you lingering in that quiet moment, unsure of who should say something first.Then, as if by instinct, you both step forward at the same time.

“Why aren’t you—” you begin.

“Do you want to—” he says.

You stop, then let out a soft laugh. Mingyu too laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly shy. You gesture for him to continue.

He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Would you like to share an umbrella with me?” he asks, words tumbling slightly over one another. “I mean, the rain does not look like it is stopping any time soon, so…”

You look at him, something warm blooming in your chest. “You would not mind?”

His head jerks toward you immediately. “Why would I mind?”

You giggle softly. “Then… yes. I would like that.”

His smile comes easily now. He opens the umbrella and steps out into the rain, pausing just ahead of you, holding it steady. You join him, the space beneath the umbrella small but enough. His arm brushes yours as you fall into step together.

The streets glisten underfoot, puddles rippling as drops fall on the ground. He matches his pace to yours without thinking, slowing when you do, angling the umbrella whenever the wind shifts.

You walk beneath the umbrella together, the space close but careful, his arm steady as he shields you from the rain. The street gleams under the downpour, puddles breaking apart with every passing drop.

“Well,” he says, glancing down at you, “this is not how I imagined my afternoon.”

You smile. “You did not plan on rescuing strangers from the rain?”

“Hardly strangers,” he replies. “We have collided twice now. That feels intentional.”

You laugh. “By that logic, I should start watching where I walk.”

“Please don’t,” he says easily. “I’d miss the chance.”

You shake your head, amused. “Do you always say things like that?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” he admits. “Which is unfortunate, because it seems to happen often around you.”

“That is good to know,” you tease. “I was beginning to think you were just naturally bold.”

He scoffs lightly. “I am many things. Bold is not one of them.”

“You did offer to share your umbrella,” you point out.

“After standing there far too long debating it,” he says. “I almost convinced myself the rain would stop out of politeness.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “I am glad it didn’t.”

He smiles at that, adjusting the umbrella as you turn a corner. “So am I.”

A gust of wind cuts through the street, blowing rain beneath the edge of the umbrella. Cold drops kiss your sleeve and cheek, making you flinch.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, adjusting the umbrella, angling it closer. “The wind has a mind of its own.”

“Much like you,” you tease. “You seem to appear when least expected.”

He laughs. “I will take that as a compliment.”

You feel warmth bloom despite the cold, rain still tapping insistently against the fabric above you. You open your mouth to reply when the sound of wheels rushing over wet stone grows louder.

A motorcar barrels past the edge of the street. Before you can react, Mingyu reaches out and pulls you toward him. The car speeds by, splashing water onto the empty stretch of road you had been standing on moments before.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, loosening his grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You shake your head, still a little stunned. “No. It’s fine. I just—”

You trail off, suddenly aware of how close you are now, how the umbrella shelters you both, how his hand lingers near yours as if reluctant to pull away entirely.

He clears his throat, stepping back just enough to give you space. “You were saying?”

You blink, then laugh softly, a little breathless. “I… honestly do not remember.”

Mingyu just laughs, shaking his head.

The walk slows as you turn onto your street, the rain easing just slightly, as if it knows the journey is nearly over. Your house comes into view, its windows lit warmly against the darkening evening.

You smile, a little shy. “This is me.” As you reach the gate, you turn to face him. "Thank you,” you say. “For walking me home. And for the umbrella.”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “I’m glad I could.”

When you step a bit away from him, you notice one shoulder of his his coat is noticeably darker, damp from where the rain had slipped in while he made sure you stayed dry.

“Oh,” you say, frowning slightly. “You’re wet.”

He glances down, then shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. It’s no problem.”

“It is,” you insist. “You got wet because of me.”

“It’s just a coat,” he says quickly. “It’ll dry.”

You hesitate, then reach out, fingers brushing the fabric. “Let me have it,” you say. “I’ll get it cleaned.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—”

“Please,” you say, more earnestly now. “Otherwise I’ll feel really bad.” You do not realize you are pouting until his lips twitch, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

“Well,” he says, surrendering, “I suppose I don’t stand a chance.”

You brighten immediately, taking the coat from him with care. “Of course.”

He smiles at you, rain still falling lightly around him. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” you reply.

You watch him leave for a moment before stepping inside, the door closing softly behind you. The house is warm and quiet. You hold the coat a second longer than necessary.

It smells like him.

You are halfway up the stairs, still holding onto that quiet, foolish smile, when a familiar voice stops you.

“Where have you been for so long?”

You turn slowly. Pa sits on the sofa, cup of tea cradled in his hand, watching you over the rim. Opposite him, legs crossed neatly, posture impeccable, is Charles.

The smile fades.

“Charles,” you murmur, more to yourself than to anyone else.

Pa’s expression hardens. “You are to be married soon,” he says sharply. “It is not appropriate for you to be wandering about like this. ”

Your fingers tighten around the railing.

Charles lets out a small laugh. “Uncle, do not worry,” he says smoothly. “Everything will change once we are married.”

He looks at you then, expectant, waiting for agreement. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Another soft laugh from him, unbothered. He sets his hands on his knees and turns back to your father. “May I spend a little time with her alone?”

Pa gives him a small smile. “Of course! There's no need to ask me, you are to be married anyway.”

Charles stands and gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

He goes ahead of you, already climbing as if this is his house. You follow a step behind, slower, your stomach tightening with every stair. You already dread the conversation waiting for you.

He enters your room first.

Charles looks around with polite curiosity, eyes moving over the shelves lined with books, the desk cluttered with loose papers and half finished thoughts. His lips press together. He clicks his tongue once, quietly.

“You still…write,” he remarks, glancing at the chaotic pile of papers on your desk.

When no reply comes, he turns to face you, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “I came as soon as I landed,” he continues smoothly. “There is much to prepare for, and I thought it best to ask your opinions on certain things.”

You nod. “Of course.”

His attention drifts downward then, to your hands. You are holding a coat you do not recognize as yours, the fabric dark damp, which he assumes is because of the rain. As he looks closer, something shifts in his expression. He inhales lightly, once, then again. The scent clinging to the coat is unfamiliar. Not the soap used in this house. Not yours.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“You were out longer than expected,” he continues, voice still calm. “People notice these things.”

“I was delayed by the rain,” you say.

He hums. “You should be more careful. Soon, your actions will reflect on both of us.”

There it is. The thing he always returns to.

He glances back at your books. “You will not have as much time for these after the wedding,” he says lightly, as if discussing the weather. “A household requires attention.”

You manage a small smile. “I imagine it does.”

Charles steps closer, his voice warming, softening into something meant to reassure. “You will adjust,” he says. “I am sure you will.”

You look up at him. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek before tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You know I care about you, right?" his voice warm.

You nod, though your grip tightens around the coat.

He smiles and puts his hand down. "Well, I should let you rest. You must be tired."

He leaves your room your room a moment later, the scent lingering, the weight of the coat still warm in your hands.

You close the door behind him and cross the room, the weight of the moment finally settling into your bones. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms spreading out against the covers as a long sigh leaves you. The ceiling blurs above you as your thoughts tumble over one another—the conversation, Charles, the future laid out so neatly for you, whether you want it or not.

You turn your head and your gaze lands on the coat resting beside you. The faint scent still clings to it, unmistakable now in the quiet of your room. Your lips curve into a small, private smile before you can stop it.

You can't wait to meet Mingyu tomorrow.

The next noon, you ask the driver to park a little distance away from the store.

You sit there longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the small bag in your lap. You check your reflection in the hand mirror once, then again, then a third time, smoothing hair that refuses to be out of place. You inhale. Exhale. Too many times to count.

It is not like you are meeting Mingyu for the first time, but all those times before were coincidences ,and this was somewhat planned and you wanted to look presentable for the first time.

When you finally step inside, no one rushes to greet you the way they did when you came with your parents. You are simply another presence in the room, and strangely, you do not mind. It gives you time to look around the store— to look around for the one you came here for.

You spot him in the corner.

Mingyu is bent over a machine, sleeves rolled up, hands busy adjusting something delicate and precise. His brow is furrowed in concentration, hair falling forward just enough to look careless. There is grease smudged faintly along his fingers, his focus so complete that the world around him might as well not exist.

He does not seem to notice when you get near him. You clear your throat to get his attention.

He looks up, surprise flashing briefly across his face before it softens into a smile. He straightens quickly, wiping his hands on a cloth nearby.

“You look really busy,” you say, smiling.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little breathless. “No! No, actually, just finishing up.”

For a moment, you simply look at each other. Then you extend the bag toward him.

“I came to return this.”

He takes it, curious, and peeks inside. The coat is there, neatly folded. And beneath it, a small box, wrapped carefully.

He pauses. Frowns slightly. Then opens it.

Inside rests a small brooch, simple but elegant. He looks up at you, confused.

You smile. “Thank you. For yesterday.”

“I was just—” he begins quickly. “I mean, I was just doing my job.”

You shake your head. “It is not your job to walk me home safely.”

“But—”

“Take it, Mingyu,” you say gently. “Thank you for yesterday. I really enjoyed spending time with you.”

Color creeps up his neck, unmistakable. He clears his throat, closes the box, and places it carefully back in the bag.

“It’s no big deal,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“It is to me,” you reply.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, his smile changes into a softer one. Mingyu hesitates, shifting his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the bag in his hand.

“Um,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Do you want to maybe… have lunch together?”

He barely lets the words settle before he rushes on, tripping over himself. “You know what, it’s okay. You must be busy and I should probably get back to work and—”

“I am not busy,” you say quickly.

He blinks.

“And lucky for you,” you add, smiling, “I am actually very hungry.”

His expression brightens instantly, relief and excitement mixing in a way that makes it hard not to smile wider. He comes around the table in a few quick steps. “Well, that’s great. If you could just wait a moment, I’ll clean up real quick.”

You nod, watching as he moves with surprising speed, wiping his hands, setting things aside, already halfway back to you before you expect him to be.

“Ready,” he says, a little proud.

You step out together, the bell above the door chiming softly behind you. The street feels different in daylight, livelier, warmer.

“Do you have a place in mind?” you ask as you walk.

“I do,” he says immediately. “There’s this small cafe down the street. Nothing fancy, but they serve really good sandwiches. And soup. Their bread’s always fresh. I have lunch there almost every week, actually.”

He keeps talking, filling the space easily, telling you about which days they bake extra, which seat near the window gets the best light, how the owner remembers his order without asking.

Then he stops.

“…But,” he says slowly, glancing at you, “I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

You tilt your head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well. You know. Because you’re…”

You understand what he means without him finishing it. You scoff, leaning a little closer. “Mingyu, you seriously underestimate me. I love food,” you say, dragging out the words, “and I’m very glad you’re taking me with you today.”

He smiles at that, a little shy, and you feel a small flutter at the corners of his mouth.

Soon, you reach the cafe. The bell above the door chimes as you step inside, and the owner, a round, cheerful man with a perpetually flour-dusted apron, greets Mingyu warmly.

“Mingyu! Back again, eh?” he says, eyes lighting up. “And… who’s this pretty lady?”

Mingyu clears his throat, slightly flustered. “This is… uh… my friend,” he says.

The owner laughs, clapping him on the back. “Ha! You seem to know a lot of pretty ladies, lucky bastard!”

Mingyu’s cheeks pink instantly, and you can’t help the small twinge of jealousy that prickles your chest. Who else has he brought here before?

You both head to a table in the corner, Mingyu moves ahead of you pulling out a chair for you. You don't think much of it, head filled with questions.

You pick up the menu but can’t resist. “So… who else have you brought here?” you ask, voice light but teasing.

“Huh?” he looks genuinely confused.

“The owner said you know a lot of pretty ladies,” you explain, glancing at him, “so I was just wondering… which other pretty lady you’ve brought here.”

Mingyu shakes his head. “I’ve never brought anyone here. You’re the first.”

You can’t help but smile— he looks like shy bird.

He continues, his voice dropping slightly. “He… he once saw me with a customer, and since then he’s been on my back. He’s crazy… no one is prettier than you.”

You feel the heat rise immediately, cheeks warming, heart skipping.

Mingyu seems to realize it too, his eyes flicking to yours, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

“Let’s… let’s order,” he says quickly, clearing his throat, and lifts his glass for a large gulp of water. You hide your smile behind your menu, trying not to look too pleased, but failing spectacularly.

The cafe visit passes in a blur of laughter, shared bites, and easy conversation. The walk back to the salesroom is comforting— you get to know about Mingyu's obsession with reading books— one thing you both had in common among other things.

The conversation drifts effortlessly, touching on little curiosities and passions, until the shop comes back into view, and the comfort of the walk lingers long after.

When you reach the entrance, you pause. “Thank you again, Mingyu,” you say, smiling. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, his own smile warm, a little shy.

Mingyu watches you go, shoulders tense for a moment, eyes following your figure until it disappears from sight. He doesn’t even notice the hum of the street around him.

A voice cuts through his thoughts. “Are you in love, my boy?”

Mingyu jumps, spinning around to see Jeonghan peeking over his shoulder, smirking.

“What?” Mingyu says, heart suddenly racing.

Jeonghan's smile turn into a genuine one. “You're carrying a torch, oh my god.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu insists, brushing it off, though his voice wavers.

Jeonghan just shakes his head and sings, loud and teasing, “You are in love, so in love…” before turning back to his work with a triumphant grin.

Mingyu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not in love, okay? She’s just… a friend.”

Jeonghan, still smirking, hums teasingly, “Loooveeee…”

“Shut up!” Mingyu snaps, red creeping across his ears, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. You linger in his thoughts far longer than he cares to admit.

Much to Mingyu’s quiet dismay, a week passes without a single glimpse of you.

He keeps himself busy, or at least he tries to. He throws himself into work, fixes machines with more focus than necessary, lingers longer than usual while locking up. Still, his eyes wander. Every other day he finds himself passing the flower shop, slowing near the post office, pretending he has errands when really he is only hoping. Each time, he leaves with empty hands and a heavier chest.

He even postpones his monthly trip to the bookstore, something he never does, telling himself he will go next week when his head is clearer. It never quite is. By the end of the week, the absence feels loud enough that he gives in and heads to the bookstore anyway, convinced a stack of fresh pages might help.

It is there, between shelves and spines, that the heavens finally take pity on him.

As he turns into another aisle, he bumps straight into someone. He looks up, already forming an apology, and then his breath catches.

Your name slips off his tongue with an unmistakable excitement.

He blinks, half certain he has imagined you, then immediately stiffens, realizing how creepily cheerful that must have sounded. You, on the other hand, look delighted.

“I’m so happy to see you,” you say, eyes bright. You glance around at the shelves. “Are you here to buy books too?”

His shoulders ease as he smiles. “Yeah. I was starting to think I’d never run into you again. I’m glad we met like this.”

“I’ve been busy this week,” you say. “My birthday preparations took over everything and—.” Then, quieter, almost lost between words, “I missed you.”

He stills, surprise flickering across his face. Thinking how wrong it might have come off as, you shake your hand quickly.

“No, no” you rush, cheeks warm. “I mean—it was fun spending time with you. I missed spending spending with you.”

His laugh comes easy, relieved. “I missed you too.”

“Really?” you ask, smiling.

He nods, then tilts his head. “It’s your birthday? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

You laugh. “How could you? I never told you.”

“Well,” he says gently, “happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you reply, then pause. “It’s tomorrow. If you’re free… I’d really like you to join.”

You pull an invitation card from your purse and hold it out to him. He takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he grips it too tightly.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll try to come.”

Before you can say more, a familiar voice calls out to you from the front of the shop, reminding you that you have to leave, that your father will be home soon. It's the same woman he saw you with the other day.

"Just a minute, Martha." you call back, then turn to Mingyu once more. “I really hope you’d come.”

You give him a smile, warm and lingering, before moving away to check out your books.

Mingyu stands there a moment longer than necessary. The faint scent of vanilla trails in your wake, already missed. He looks down at the invitation card in his hands, thumb brushing the edge, a small smile settling on his face.

He folds the card neatly and slips it into his coat pocket, right over his heart, before finally turning back to the shelves. The books blur together now, their titles meaningless. His mind is already elsewhere, already counting the hours, already hoping.

For the first time all week, the wait feels bearable.

Mingyu stands outside your house longer than he should, invitation card folded and unfolded between his fingers. The place is lit up like it is holding its breath, windows glowing warm against the night, laughter slipping out through the walls. He looks down at himself, suddenly aware of how little he belongs here, and for a brief moment, he considers turning back.

But it is your birthday.

So he straightens his coat and steps inside.

The house is transformed. Garlands of soft lights trail along the banisters, flowers spill from vases in careful arrangements, pale ribbons woven between them. Music hums low and elegant, conversations overlapping in polished tones. Everyone looks effortless and expensive, silk dresses brushing marble floors, tailored suits pressed sharp. Mingyu feels like he has walked into another world, one he is only meant to observe.

He accepts a glass of wine from a passing servant, murmurs a thank you, and drifts toward the corner of the room where he can breathe. He tells himself he will just wait, wish you well, and leave quietly.

When you appear, the room seems to notice before him— conversations pause, heads turn. You descend the stairs in a burgundy floor-length gown with intricate black beadwork, a fitted silhouette, and you look—you look angelic.

Compliments follow you down the steps, voices praising your beauty, your grace. You thank them all with a practiced smiling but your eyes wander around the room looking for a particular someone.

When your eyes land at him your smiles changes to a warmer one. You lift a hand and wave. Mingyu lifts his glass in return, heart thudding a little too fast.

You start toward him but are intercepted, pulled gently into another conversation.

Fifteen minutes go by and eventually the cake is brought out, candles lit, people crowding close to feed you the first bite.

A man, who's almost Mingyu's age, stands constantly beside you, too close for his comfort. Mingyu does not know who he is, but the sight leaves something unsettled in his chest.

He looks away, focuses instead on the table beside him. Cheeses laid out in careful rows, shapes and textures he has never seen before. He takes another sip of wine, pretending to study them, pretending he does not feel out of place. Mingyu knows that he shouldn't be feeling all this, he shouldn't be here at the first place, he shouldn't…like you.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He turns startled.

You are there, smiling up at him, close enough that he can smell your perfume.

“Happy birthday,” he starts to say.

You do not let him finish.

You take his hand, and without a word, you pull him gently toward the stairs, away from the noise, away from the watching eyes, leaving the party humming behind you as you lead him upstairs.

As you both reach the terrace you turn to face him, hands still warm from his. You tilt your head, eyes bright with expectation. “So?” you ask.

He blinks. “So…?”

You tut playfully, lips forming a small pout. “You know,” you say, dragging it out. “You’re the only one who hasn’t given me a gift.”

His eyes widen just a fraction. “I—” He hesitates, then exhales. “I was going to—”

You chuckle watching him stutter as if caught doing something wrong. "It's okay, I was just joking."

Mingyu's hand reaches to his pocket, feeling the box inside. He hesitates for a bit before taking it out and handing it to you.

“It’s not that good,” he rushes out. “I couldn’t think of anything and I didn’t know what you’d like and I’m terrible at this, I swear—” Mingyu keeps on blabbering which stops when he hears you gasp.

A locket with your name engraved on it.

Before he can react you step forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his chest. He freezes for half a second—then his arms come around you, tentative, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

“I love this,” you murmur, voice thick. “A lot.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re crying.”

“I am not,” you sniff, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are glossy, smile soft. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You glance back down at the locket, fingers tracing the engraving. “Help me put it on?”

His hands brush your neck as he fastens the chain, careful, reverent. When he’s done, his fingers linger for half a second too long.

Mingyu’s hands drop back to his sides, but you can still feel the ghost of his touch at your neck. He clears his throat. “It looks… nice on you.”

You turn to look at him properly, "thank you, for this." you motion to the locket which rests beautifully on your neck now. "And for coming today. I would've have been really lonely today."

"Anything for you." Mingyu whispers.

What began as chance meetings quietly turned into something deliberate. You started sneaking out at late hours, excuses ready on your tongue, just to steal a few moments with him over shared snacks and hushed laughter.

The salesroom became familiar, almost comforting, its corners holding pieces of your routine now. You knew the creak of the floorboards, the hum of machines, the names and habits of the people who worked there. Jeonghan, who always seemed to be around, took an immediate liking to you, greeting you with exaggerated bows and relentless teasing, much to Mingyu’s embarrassment.

Bookstores became another refuge, aisles and back corners offering privacy. You were rarely together in open spaces, a rule Mingyu insisted on, always careful, always wary of being seen. You thought it unnecessary, even foolish, argued with him more than once, but he never budged, his concern quiet and unyielding.

When the walls of public places felt too thin, you found yourselves retreating to his house instead—talking, reading, doing your own things in the same room.

The more time you spent at the salesroom, the more curious you became about the machines themselves. You asked questions endlessly, about gears and levers and sounds, watching the way Mingyu’s hands moved as he worked.

You knew you distracted him, could see it in the way he paused mid task to answer you, so one evening you asked properly, if he would teach you how one of them worked, a phonograph sitting proudly near the front. He had smiled then, surprised but pleased, and agreed.

Now it is past ten, the city outside long settled into sleep. Jeonghan has already gone, leaving the closing to Mingyu as promised.

The salesroom looks different at night. When Mingyu switches on the small table lamp, only one corner of the room is washed in warm yellow light, the rest sinking into shadows. The phonograph sits between you. Mingyu rolls up his sleeves and begins to explain, careful and patient, pointing out each part, his voice softer than usual in the quiet. You nod along, eyes following his hands more than the machine itself.

“Now you try,” he says, stepping back to give you space.

You do exactly as he showed you. Or at least, you try. The needle slips, the sound comes out wrong, and the machine gives a weak, pitiful noise. You freeze, then burst into laughter.

“Gently,” he says, guiding your hand. “You rush things.”

“I am being gentle,” you protest, concentrating far too hard.

You try again but the needle slips.

"Wow. So impressive." Mingyu says flatly.

You swat his arm. “You’re a terrible teacher.”

“I showed you exactly what to do.”

“And I did exactly that,” you insist, fiddling with the machine again, tongue peeking out in focus.

He stops correcting you. Just watches. The way you lean closer, the way your brows knit together in concentration, the way you smile to yourself when the sound almost comes out right. There’s something soft in his gaze now, something unguarded, like he’s already lost a battle he never meant to fight.

“Careful,” he murmurs, quieter. “You’ll break it.”

“Then you’ll just have to fix it,” you say lightly, not looking at him.

You both might have been a bit too loud, because you hear footsteps echoing outside the door.

Mingyu stiffens. “Oh shit.”

In one quick motion, he switches off the phonograph, plunges the room into darkness, and tugs you down with him beneath the table. You let out a small, breathless giggle before you can stop yourself, the thrill of it all bubbling up. His hand comes up instinctively, covering your mouth as he leans close.

“Shh,” he whispers.

You nod, eyes wide, laughter trapped behind his palm. You don’t struggle. You just look at him, close enough now to make out the shape of his face in the dark.

The footsteps pause. Mingyu holds still, barely breathing, eyes scanning the sliver of light beyond the tablecloth. Seconds stretch. Then the steps move on, fading into nothing.

Slowly, his attention comes back to you.

He lowers his hand, careful, hesitant. “You alright?” he whispers.

You nod again. He breathes out, relief softening him, and then he notices the way you’re still looking at him. He says your name, barely more than a breath.

He leans in too, instinct overtaking sense, and then the reminder settles heavy in his chest—this is wrong, you are engaged. He pulls back abruptly and tries to stand, forgetting entirely where he is.

Thump. Mingyu's head hits the table. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his head.

You reach for him immediately. “Are you alright?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he says, then straightens, suddenly all nerves. “I think the guard’s gone. We should leave. Before we get caught for real this time.”

You nod, even as disappointment settles quietly in your chest. You follow him out of the darkened salesroom, heart still racing.

On your way back, you don't talk as much as you do usually. He drops you off a little distance away, careful as always. You slip back into the house quietly, shoes in hand, heart still racing but unworried. Pa and Ma would be fast asleep by now. You climb the stairs on light steps, already picturing your bed, when a voice stops you cold.

“You shouldn’t be out at this time.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “Martha,” you whisper, clutching your chest, “you scared me.”

“And you doing this scares me,” she replies, unimpressed.

You resume walking, Martha following close behind. “Doing what?” you ask, though you already know.

“Spending time with a joe,” she says, lowering her voice, “and that too this late.”

You sigh. “Martha, not you too.”

Inside your room now, you slip off the coat and place it carefully on the chair. You sit at your dressing table, fingers moving automatically as you unclasp your jewellery, the quiet ticking of the clock suddenly too loud. Martha stands behind you, arms folded.

She calls your name softly. “It was fine till the birthday party. But I fear this is escalating into something that will put you in a difficult position.”

You turn your head slowly. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, then says it anyway, voice dropping at the end. “I've been noticing how you've changed since you've met him. You can't do things like this—like sneaking out of the house late at night, like lying to your parents, like… like falling in love.”

Your eyes widen as if she has uttered something forbidden. “Martha!”

She exhales, tired. “Love can be fickle, dear. Mingyu is a nice person, no doubt. But you are engaged. And if anyone even gets a whiff of what you’re doing, it would do great harm. To Charles. To your family. To him” Her voice softens. “I care for you, honey. I’m worried about your future.”

You say nothing. Just look at her through the mirror.

Martha sighs again, defeated. “You should sleep. You have breakfast with Charles tomorrow.”

She leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

You turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back at you looks unfamiliar, cheeks still warm, eyes too bright. Your gaze drifts to the coat resting nearby, still carrying his scent, faint and unmistakable.

You swallow.

You, in love with Mingyu?

Charles insists on breakfast outside, saying it would be nice to have some time alone before the day properly begins. You agree, though a part of you would have preferred the quiet safety of home. The café he chooses is refined, all polished tables and hushed voices.

He pulls out your chair for you, smiling. “You look well this morning,” he says, warm, familiar. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes,” you reply, managing a smile of your own. “Thank you for asking.”

You talk easily at first, about small things, about the weather, about the wedding preparations that seem to follow you everywhere. Charles asks your opinion on flowers, on the guest list, on trivial details, listening attentively, nodding as if each answer matters. A server approaches, a young man fumbling slightly as he pours water, spilling a few drops onto the tablecloth.

Charles’ expression hardens instantly.

“Do be careful,” he snaps, sharp and cutting. “This isn’t a roadside stall.”

The server stammers an apology, face flushing as he hurriedly wipes the table. Charles waves him off with an impatient gesture, already turning back to you.

“Honestly,” he says lightly, as if nothing has happened. “Standards seem to slip more every day.”

Your chest tightens. You glance at the server retreating, shoulders hunched, and something twists painfully inside you. You think of Mingyu, of his patience, his quiet respect, the way he spoke to everyone as if they mattered. The contrast is jarring.

Charles fixes his sleeve, turning to you with a tight smile, and continues to talk. His voice is steady and composed, but the words drift past you without settling. Your mind keeps wandering back to Mingyu, to the warmth of his laugh, the way he looked at you like you were something rare. Martha’s words from the night before echo again, heavier now, harder to ignore.

“—and the guest list should be finalized by next week,” Charles says.

You don’t respond.

“Darling?” he tries again.

Nothing.

He says your name once more, firmer this time. “Are you listening?”

You blink, startled, pulled back into the present. “I’m sorry, what?”

He studies you for a moment, concern flickering across his face. “I was saying we need to decide on the venue for the rehearsal dinner. Mother prefers something formal. I thought perhaps the Whitmore estate would be suitable.”

“Sounds good,” you say automatically.

He continues, warming to the subject. “We’ll need to schedule fittings, and there’s the matter of the invitations. I want everything to be impeccable. People remember these things.” He smiles at you, reaching for your hand. “I want our life to begin properly.”

You nod, but the thought makes your chest feel hollow. You try to imagine it, standing beside him, building a life that looks perfect from the outside. But you can’t picture your heart racing the way it does with Mingyu, can’t imagine laughing without restraint, or feeling seen in the quiet moments.

Charles squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be happy,” he says, certain. “We’ll be very good together.”

But inside, you know it isn’t the same. He doesn’t make your pulse quicken. He doesn’t linger in your thoughts when he leaves the room. Your heart doesn't beat for him the same way it does for Mingyu.

And that realization settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable.

You push your chair back suddenly, the sound scraping a little too loud against the floor.

“I need to go,” you say.

Charles looks up at you, startled. “Go? Now?” He sets his cutlery down, confusion clear on his face. “Where do you need to be? I can have the driver take us.”

“It’s something I just remembered,” you reply quickly, already reaching for your bag. “You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

He studies you, concern creeping in. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” you say, softening your voice. “I’m fine. Truly.” You manage a small smile. “Thank you for breakfast, Charles.”

You don’t trust yourself to say anything more. You turn and leave before he can ask another question.

The car ride is quiet. Your hands twist in your lap, thoughts racing, heart pounding with a strange urgency you don’t fully understand. When the driver slows near the salesroom, you step out almost before the car comes to a full stop.

You take a few hurried steps forward.

Then you stop.

Not far from the entrance, Mingyu stands with a woman you don’t recognize. She’s close to him, closer than you’ve ever been in public. She reaches up, brushes his hair aside with easy familiarity, laughing at something he says. He bends slightly toward her, smiling, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t like the way it looks. You don’t like how quickly your throat tightens. You don’t like how small you suddenly feel.

Without thinking, you turn back.

You open the car door and slide in, avoiding the window. “Take me home,” you say quietly.

With only a month left to the wedding, everything around you moves at a relentless pace. There are fittings and meetings and lists that never seem to end. And yet, in the quiet moments between it all, your thoughts betray you. They drift to Mingyu. To that night at the salesroom. To the way you stopped going there after seeing him with that woman. You have not spoken since.

“I like this one. What about you, honey?” your mother’s voice pulls you back.

You lift your eyes to the mirror. The gown you’re wearing is white and luminous, silk falling softly against your figure, delicate embroidery catching the light with every small movement. It is beautiful. Effortlessly so. Anyone would look at you and see a bride ready for her future. You look at your mother’s reflection and nod, smiling.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s lovely.”

She smiles back, pleased, adjusting the veil with gentle hands. “You look radiant,” she says, proud.

The drive home is quiet, the gown carefully packed away, your mind still elsewhere. When you step inside the house, setting your things down, a familiar voice carries from the sitting room.

You stop short.

You freeze for half a second before your heart leaps. “Joshua?” you call out, disbelief turning into joy as you rush forward.

He barely has time to brace himself before you throw your arms around him. He laughs, arms wrapping around you just as tightly. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You pull back just enough to look at him, smiling so wide it almost hurts. “You have no idea,” you say, hugging him again, holding on like you’re afraid he might disappear.

Joshua pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, annoying way that means he’s knows everything.

“Well,” he says slowly, lips twitching, “I’ve been told you’ve been acting… strange.”

You frown. “Strange how?”

He hums, pretending to think. “Quiet. Distant. Smiling at walls. Very unlike my little sister.” He leans closer, mock-serious. “Someone even said you look like you’re about to bolt at any given moment.”

You scoff and jab him lightly in the stomach. “Stop listening to gossip.”

He laughs, catching your wrist easily. “I knew it. Hit a nerve.” His voice softens as he lets go. “Big wedding coming up. Guess that’ll do that to a person.”

You shrug, suddenly finding the carpet very interesting. “It’s just… a lot.”

Joshua studies you for a moment, the teasing fading into something gentler. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

Joshua spots your mom hovering near the doorway and immediately lights up.

"Ma," he says fondly, stepping past you. He bends down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

She laughs, swatting lightly at his arm. “Flatterer. When did you get so smooth?”

“Born this way,” he grins, then glances back at you, eyes sparkling. “Clearly the good genes skipped someone, though.”

“JOSHUA,” you protest, shoving him again.

Joshua laughs, pinching your cheeks, muttering how cute you are.

You both settle at the long dining table, the chandelier above casting a warm, honeyed glow over polished wood and porcelain. Joshua leans back in his chair, watching you with that familiar, knowing grin.

“So,” he says lightly, reaching for a napkin, “my little bookworm—found any new treasures lately?” His eyes flick past you, toward the doorway. “Martha tells me you’ve been frequenting the bookstore more than usual these days.”

Martha appears right on cue, placing a small plate between you—warm buttered scones dusted lightly with sugar, still smelling faintly of the oven. You shoot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. Traitor. Martha, unfazed, merely smooths her apron and disappears back into the kitchen as if she hasn’t just exposed you.

Joshua is already helping himself, breaking a scone in half and popping a piece into his mouth. “Mm,” he hums. “Still undefeated.”

“Just trying to give myself a break from all the wedding preparations,” you reply, reaching for one yourself. The scone flakes softly between your fingers, crumbs scattering onto the plate.

He turns toward you then, expression softening. “That makes sense,” he says gently. “Don’t push yourself too hard, yeah?” He dusts his hands together, clapping off the sugar and crumbs before resting them on the table.

Joshua stands, nudging your shoulder with his hip as he passes. “Go rest for now. You look exhausted.” He smiles, warm and teasing. “You can play tour guide later—I expect a full tour. It’s been far too long since I’ve been home.”

Two weeks slipped by. The city moved on, the house filled with florists and seamstresses and quiet congratulations, and suddenly the wedding was no longer an idea but a date looming only two weeks away.

Your father insisted on hosting a party in your name, something grand and respectable, something that would assure everyone that everything was exactly as it should be. You smiled when required, stood where you were placed, listened when spoken to. And all the while, missing Mingyu felt like a clean cut under silk.

If anything, the nearness of the wedding had only made it worse. The farther you forced yourself from him, the more he occupied you. Every time you thought of going to the salesroom, of finally speaking, of ending this ache properly, something tightened inside you—fear, duty, cowardice, you didn’t know—and you would turn back before you ever reached the door.

Now you sat before the dressing table as Martha did the work for the evening, brushing your hair, pinning them with floral hair pins.

The party echoes faintly downstairs—laughter, music, glasses clinking but it felt miles away. You already know how it is going to be— greeting people with a put on smile, mingling in small talk with people you've never even met, searching every face without meaning too for a particular someone—someone who won't even be here.

"I miss him."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You lift your eyes to the mirror to look at Martha behind you. Your reflection wavers, lips parting as if the truth has been pressing against them for days, waiting.

"I miss him," you breathe. "I miss Mingyu."

Her hands still. Just for a second. When she meets your gaze in the mirror, there’s no surprise there—only a tired sort of pity that says I knew this moment would come. She exhales softly and resumes tying your hair, gentler now, as though you might shatter.

You don’t wait for her to speak.

“It’s everywhere,” you say, words tumbling out. “When I wake up, when I try to read, when someone laughs and it isn’t him. I keep telling myself it will pass—that it has to—but it hasn’t, Martha. It’s only gotten worse.” Your fingers curl into the edge of the dressing table. “I haven’t even seen him and still he’s… still there. Like he’s carved himself into me.”

She swallows, her eyes lowering for a moment before lifting again. “Oh, my dear,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I try,” you continue, voice trembling now. “I truly try to think of Charles, of my family, of what’s expected. I try to be grateful. But when I imagine the rest of my life…” You trail off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t disappear from it. Mingyu doesn’t disappear. And that scares me.”

Martha’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, warm and grounding. “I was afraid of this,” she admits quietly. “Not because you’re wrong to feel it—but because love like that… it doesn’t listen to reason.”

Your eyes sting. “Am I terrible for this?”

She leans down, resting her forehead briefly against your hair. “No,” she says firmly. “You’re human. And you’re in love.”

"You're in love?" Your head snaps to the door.

Joshua stands there, one hand still on the knob. He’s dressed sharply—as always—in a dark three-piece suit, waistcoat snug, his hair is neatly combed back, but his expression is anything but composed.

He steps into the room slowly, eyes moving from your face to Martha, then back to you.

“Who are you in love with?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. “It’s not Charles, is it?” A short, humorless laugh escapes him. “The way you’ve been acting this past month—I doubt it’s Charles. So then who is it?”

You say nothing. Your gaze slips away.

Joshua’s jaw tightens. He studies you for a moment, something clicking into place. “Is this the person that caused your frequent visits to the bookstore??” he asks quietly.

Silence.

His voice rises. “I’m asking you something!”

The dam breaks. You fold in on yourself, sobs tearing out of your chest as apologies spill from your lips—soft, broken sorrys that don’t even make sense anymore.

Joshua says immediately, crossing the room. He grips your shoulders, firm but careful, forcing you to look at him. His eyes soften, then harden again with disbelief. “The wedding is in two weeks,” he says, slower now. “And you’re—” He exhales sharply. “In love?”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “Does he love you too?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

Joshua stiffens. “You don’t— you don’t know?” His grip loosens. “Does he even know you love him?”

Another shake of your head.

His hands drop completely. He turns away, pacing the room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he stops in front of you.

“Go tell him.”

You look up, stunned. “What?”

“Go tell him,” Joshua repeats, voice firm, resolved. “Tell him you love him.” He meets your eyes fully now. “Whatever happens after that—we’ll deal with it after. But you don’t get to suffocate like this in silence.”

Your breath catches. “But the party—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he cuts in without hesitation. “I’ll make excuses. I’ll lie if I have to.” His expression softens, just a little. “You’re my sister. I won’t watch you marry someone while loving another.”

The room feels suddenly too small. Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Joshua steps aside, gesturing toward the door.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Before you convince yourself not to.”

The music from downstairs still hums faintly through the walls as you slip out of the house, shoes in your hands, heart racing louder than the party ever could. You move down the back steps, past the hedges, into the waiting car Joshua arranged without questions.

Your chest aches the whole way. Fear, hope, guilt, relief—everything tangles together until you can hardly breathe. You think of his laugh, the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching, the restraint that always sat heavy on his shoulders. You think of the woman you saw him with and how it twisted something ugly and unfamiliar inside you. You don’t even recognize myself anymore, you think. But you know this—you can’t lose him without trying.

When you reach his building, you barely wait to steady yourself. You knock one too many times to be polite. The door finally opens.

Mingyu stands there, hair slightly mussed, sleeves rolled up, confusion flashing into shock the second he sees you. Your name slips out of his mouth.

“I love you.”

The words tumble out before you can lose your nerve. “I love you, and I have for some time now. I tried to stop it. I swear I did. I tried to be sensible, to be good, but every time I stayed away it hurt worse.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going. “I hated seeing you with someone who wasn’t me. I hated the person I became because of it—jealous, restless, reckless—but I hated even more the thought of never telling you.”

He just stares, stunned, whispering your name like it’s something fragile.

“I don’t care if it’s inconvenient or foolish,” you press on, tears burning your eyes. “I don’t care if it ruins everything I’m supposed to want. I only know that I—”

“I love you too.”

The words cut clean through you. You freeze, just for a heartbeat, as if your mind can’t quite catch up. Your gaze drops to his mouth.

You finally kiss him with all the weeks you lost, all the words you swallowed, all the wanting that never had anywhere to go.

He exhales against your lips, hands finding your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The door shuts behind you without either of you noticing.You cling to him, fingers fisting in his shirt, heart pounding wildly as if it finally knows where it belongs.

Kissing him is nothing like you rehearsed in your head on all those sleepless nights. In your imagination it had been softer. This isn’t. This is messy and immediate and a little desperate, like both of you have been standing on opposite sides of a locked door and someone finally turned the key.

You pull back only long enough to breathe, but he follows you instinctively, forehead brushing yours, his nose grazing your cheek as if distance, even an inch of it, is suddenly unacceptable.

"Need you." you whimper around his lips.

His eyes search yours for a second, just making sure—and whatever he finds there breaks the last bit of restraint he had left.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. One hand slides from your waist to your back, flattening against your spine, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him startles you. You can feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven, matching the chaos in your own chest. Your fingers slide up into his hair, and he makes a quiet sound against your mouth.

He pulls away just barely, his thumb brushing your cheek, slower than any movement so far, as if he’s reminding both of you to breathe. Your chest rises and falls unevenly anyway. You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding his shirt until his other hand gently covers yours where it’s fisted in the fabric.

“You’re okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but the word doesn’t come out. You can barely think past how close he is—how every place he’s touching you feels suddenly more sensitive than it has any right to. He kisses you again. Your shoulders relax under his hands, and you lean into him without realizing, trusting the steadiness of his grip.

His mouth leaves yours and for a second you think you did something wrong. Then his lips brush the corner of your jaw.

You inhale sharply. His hand slides slowly down your arm. Your fingers curl into his shoulder to steady yourself as his mouth traces lower.

He pulls your skirt up, revealing your wet undergarment. He pulls your panty down.

"Oh baby." He sighs as if he's seen the gates of heaven.

His face moves closer to your heat. He licks you slowly from hole to clit, humming pleasantly at the taste, making you clasp a hand over your mouth.

He slowly drags his tongue, circling your clit, before sucking it hard, making you arch your back.

His fingers and tongue work in harmony—curling inside you, as he ruins your pussy.

The stimulation causes you to clamp your thighs around his face. Mingyu's fingers dig on your hips, as he pulls away from you, gasping. "You good, love?"

You sigh out loud. Unable to form any words, you just nod. Giving you a small smile he dives back, tongue fucking you. His index finger moves tauntingly inside you, his thumb never leaving your clit.

Mingyu whispers soft endearments, each one followed by another long lick that makes your hips buck against his face.

"Mingyu—" you gasp as his tongue explores your insides. Your body starts throbbing profusely as heat builds up in your cunt, his digits going knuckle deep before pulling out again, just to thrust all the way in, hitting every single nerve that leaves you cumming in no time, letting out a soft, choked moan as your entire being spasms and trembles with exertion.

Mingyu laughs as he pulls his tongue out of you, his face still pressed on you. He gives your clit one final kiss before getting up to kiss your mouth.

His lips linger against yours, as though savoring the simple fact of being allowed to be this close to you. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there is nowhere else he needs to be but here, with you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his smile barely there but unmistakably tender. His hand slides from yours to your waist.

He exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice thick with feeling. “For choosing us—for choosing me.”

He leans in, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t.

Morning comes softly in his house.

Light slips in through thin curtains, settling over the familiar walls and the quiet hum of a city just waking up.

You turn your head to see Mingyu still asleep beside you, one arm flung loosely above his head, hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look younger.

The sight of him sends a strange, tender ache through your chest. Last night feels almost unreal now, like something you might’ve imagined if the warmth of him weren’t still right here.

As you sit up slowly, you feel the mattress beside you shift.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You turn back to him, smiling before you can stop yourself. “Good morning.”

He blinks at you for a second, then smiles too—slow, disbelieving, like he’s still making sure you didn’t vanish with the night. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist, grounding himself. “You’re still here.”

“I am,” you say quietly. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

That does something to him. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way he exhales. He sits up beside you, close but not crowding, as if he’s relearning how to be with you without restraint.

Neither of you talks about what comes next. Not the wedding. Not the fallout.

For now, there’s just the morning light, the shared silence, and the simple, terrifying truth that you chose each other—and for the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest eases.

Mingyu presses his forehead to yours, gentle this time, reverent.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says.

You believe him. It's going to be alright. You just need to talk to your father and—it will be fine, you tell yourself.

By the time you reach your house, the weight of reality settles in. You pause at the door longer than necessary, fingers resting on the handle. You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and step inside, already wondering how to begin saying what can no longer be unsaid.

When you step into the sitting room, it feels like walking into the quiet before a storm.

Your father is seated on the sofa, spine straight, hands resting on his knees as if he has been waiting for this moment. Your mother sits beside him, her shoulders drawn in, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Joshua stands near the wall, leaning against it, arms crossed tight across his chest. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on the floor like he already knows what is coming.

“Where were you?” He asks too calmly, his voice stripped of warmth.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You don’t trust your voice.

He takes a step forward. “Where were you?” he repeats, deeper now, heavier.

When you still don't answer, his control fractures. “You spent a night in another man’s house,” he says, his voice rising, anger breaking through at last. “And that too a regular fella. Did you forget that you are engaged.”

Your mother gasps, "darling—"

"He's not just anybody, I love him." You finally find your voice.

He lets out a sharp, humorless huff. “Love.” He paces once, agitated. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone for this childish love. I don't care, you can show all the love you want after you’re married to Charles.”

Your eyes sting. “I can’t marry someone I don’t love.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he huffs. “After everything that has been arranged. The invitations. The guests. The name attached to ours.”

"I hear myself very well," your voice becomes bold. "This is the first time I ever decided something for myself,and you cannot tell me to change it."

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he says at last, voice cold and final. “If you insist on shaming this family, then stay out of my sight.”

Joshua straightens slightly. “Pa—” Your father lifts a hand without looking at him.

Your mother reaches for his sleeve, shaking her head gently. Tears brim in her eyes, but she keeps her voice steady.

“Please,” she says. “This is still our daughter.”

Your father pulls his hand from your mother's grip and looks away from you, as though the sight of you pains him. "Stay out of my sight."

You turn to leave.

In your room, you sit heavily on the edge of the bed before letting yourself fall back against the mattress, still in yesterdays dress. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks and shadows, feeling hollowed out and sore in places you didn’t know could ache but no tears come. Your heart is filled with satisfaction. After all for the first time in your life, you chose yourself, and the weight of that choice presses gently, relentlessly, against your chest.

A knock comes not long after.

You sit up.

Your mother enters first, her eyes glassy, lashes wet. Joshua follows her in, closing the door quietly behind them, as though sound itself might shatter you.

Your mother crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into her arms. You fold into her instinctively, breathing her in, the familiar warmth of her holding you together.

“Oh, my darling,” she whispers, her voice breaking despite herself.

Joshua lingers near the foot of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense. “You did nothing wrong,” he says firmly, as if daring the world to argue.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you murmur into your mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers. “But I would rather you be brave than obedient. I would not want my daughter to be stuck in a loveless marriage.”

Joshua exhales. “Don’t carry all of it tonight,” he says. “Pa is… Pa. He’ll come around. Maybe not soon. But someday.”

You look between them, heart aching but full. “I hope so.”

Joshua hesitates, then moves to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A crooked smile tugs at his lips. “Seeing you spend the night outside, I'm taking everything went well."

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You glance at him, nodding, a shy smile curving your mouth.

Joshua lets out a satisfied hum. “Well,” he says, leaning back on his hands, “I’d really like to meet the bee’s knees who managed to make my sister fall head over heels.”

Your smile softens, something warm blooming behind your ribs. You don’t answer—don’t need to. The way your eyes drift, the quiet in your breathing, says enough.

Your mother watches the exchange, her expression easing. She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, slow and tender. Then she cups your face fully, studying you the way she did when you were small, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“Rest now,” she whispers. “You’ve been strong enough for one day.”

You lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again as they leave. Your chest still aches, the future still uncertain, but beneath it all is a steady warmth. Because now, you have Mingyu with you now.

Things do not fix themselves overnight. You learn that slowly.

Your father still does not acknowledge Mingyu’s. Mingyu, to his credit, never pushes.

Joshua, on the other hand, is a lost cause.

They take to each other like they have been separated at birth and only just reunited. Inside jokes form within days. They argue over food, over music, over which one of them would survive longer in the wild.

Sometimes you sit between them, listening to them bicker, both talking over each other, and you realize you're playing gooseberry in your own relationship.

But you don't mind.

Your mother warms to Mingyu quietly, the way she warms to all things she trusts. She notices the way he listens when you speak, the way he reaches for your hand without thinking, the way his voice softens around you. She asks him if he’s eaten, if he’s tired, if he’s happy. She presses an extra helping of food onto his plate and says, “You’re too thin.”

You see the way his eyes shine at that.

Life is calmer now—not easier or perfect, but you're happier now. You and Mingyu build something slow and sturdy. Morning routines. Shared silences. Arguments that end in laughter or apologies murmured into skin. Love that does not demand you shrink or bend.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and the world feels far away, you lie beside him and think of the girl you used to be—the one who thought love was something that happened to you, not something you chose.

You chose this.

You chose him.

And when Mingyu turns to you in the dark, half-asleep, arm pulling you closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you know—with a certainty that settles deep in your bones—that whatever matters remain unfinished, whatever bridges yet await their crossing, you are, in that moment, precisely where you are meant to be.

“Are you coming out or what Mingyu?” His father shouted, causing Mingyu to flinch and cl;umsly open the carriage door and face his entire family. 

He could see his fathers eyes that weren't burning with rage, they were worse. They were cold, a flat, wintry grey that seemed to look right through Mingyu as if he were a broken tool rather than a son. There was a heavy, downward pull to his features, a weariness in the brow that signaled a total loss of faith.

Mingyu moved toward the greeting party, his boots sounding like hammer blows against the frozen stone of the courtyard. Every step felt heavier than the last. He kept his chin level, his own face a mask of practiced, royal indifference, but his eyes were betraying him, searching for even a shred of warmth in the line of figures waiting for him.

He found his mother standing a half-step behind the King. He expected her to reach for him, to offer some small, secret sign of comfort, but as he drew closer, she remained perfectly still. Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were white against the dark velvet of her gown.

Worse than her stillness was her gaze. She wouldn't look him in the eyes. Her head was tilted just enough that her shadow obscured her face, her eyes fixed pointedly on the ground at his feet. The shame radiating from her was a physical thing, cold and suffocating. It was a silent confirmation of everything he had feared on the ride home: in her eyes, he wasn't a son returning from a heartbreak; he was a disgrace returning from a failed investment.

The air in the courtyard seemed to thin, leaving Mingyu with nothing to breathe but the icy scent of his own failure.

He sighed, pushing past his entire family and walking into the palace, not wanting to damage his already broken heart any further.

“Mingyu!” His father called, but Mingyu didn’t turn around. He couldn’t, he couldn’t stand another lecture. Another reason he was a failure. 

As the oldest son in the family, the pressure was always really high for Mingyu compared to his younger brothers. He was almost five years older than his next brother. He felt like he had to give up his own childhood for the crown compared to his brothers who got to experience the joys of  being a royal, while he got to experience the difficult decisions, the late night study sessions for court, and the ballroom classes were always his least favorite, but because he was the oldest, he always had to do all of those things alone.

The first time Mingyu's father was truly mad at him was when he was eight years old and had spilled ink all over his outfit meant for the evening’s ball. He was trying to draw out a map of Celesita by memory when he knocked over the ink vial, spilling the ink all over his royal red jacket and white pants. 

“Did you do this?” His father asked, crossing his arms with a stern look on his face. 

“Yes father,” Mingyu murmured, bowing his head. Not wanting to look his father in the face. 

“This was custom made for the ball tonight Mingyu! We don’t have another one!” Mingyu winced at the raise of his fathers voice, but nodded. 

“I know father, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“What are we going to do now?” A heavy, jagged sigh escaped his father’s lips, and he closed his eyes, his palm pressing hard against his brow as if he couldn't bear to look at the ink-stained boy a second longer.

“We can get a new jacket and pants dear,” Mingyu’s mother spoke up from beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder to try and calm him down. 

“Yes, but…” his father sighed, “fine. Just go change before I change my mind.” 

With a final, jagged nod, Mingyu turned and ran to find something clean to wear. Yet, the moment he slipped past the doorway, he slowed to a halt. The sharp silence between his parents had broken into a low, urgent murmur, and he found himself leaning back against the wall, listening to the conversation he was never meant to hear.

“The boy is a nuisance! I truly do not know what to do with him,” his father’s voice rang out, the words punctuated by the rhythmic, heavy thud of his boots pacing the throne room floor. The sound echoed into the hallway, each step feeling like a strike against Mingyu’s chest.

“He is trying his best, Minhun,” his mother’s voice followed, softer, but carrying a weary edge of its own. “He is only a child. You are too hard on him.”

“He is the future King of the North!” his father snapped, the pacing stopping abruptly as if he had turned to face her. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the shouting. “He cannot rule a kingdom if he cannot even rule himself. He cannot be King and continue to act like... this.”

Mingyu stood frozen against the cold stone, his small hands clutching the ruined fabric of his jacket. The word this, hung in the air like a sentence, making him feel small, clumsy, and utterly inadequate for the crown he was born to wear.

Before Mingyu could hear the rest of his father’s disappointment, before the air could be sucked out of his lungs by another cold, clinical assessment of his flaws, he turned and ran. He didn't wait to hear his mother’s defense or the King’s final verdict. He simply fled down the hallway, the sound of his own frantic breathing drowning out the muffled voices behind him.

He didn't want to hear what a King "should" be, because he already knew what he was: an eight-year-old boy with ink-stained hands who would never be enough to fill the silence of the throne room. That was the day he learned that his best was a currency that held no value in the Frost Citadel, and he had been saving up his silence ever since.

The weeks following the cancellation of the engagement were a blur of cold stone and suffocating duty. Mingyu’s life became a relentless cycle of council meetings that stretched into the early hours, tense family dinners where the clink of silverware was the only thing breaking the silence, and desperate alliance strategies scrawled across parchment. He hadn't had a single moment to breathe since his return from Hespros, it was as if his father believed that if Mingyu were kept busy enough, the shame of his failure would simply be worked out of him.

The only respite Mingyu found was in the dark, quiet hours of sleep.

It was the only time he didn’t feel like a disappointment carved out of ice. In his dreams, he wasn’t the prince who had let a five-year investment crumble, nor was he the man upsetting villagers with news of heightened taxes or broken trade routes. When he closed his eyes, the crushing expectations of the Frost Citadel finally fell away, leaving him in a temporary, merciful void where he wasn't failing anyone, he was just a man, alone and at peace, but he was sleeping a lot more than usual. 

“Why are you always sleeping?” His youngest brother asked during one of their daily dinners. It had been painfully quiet most of dinner, and the question caught him off guard. 

Mingyu choked on his food, coughing into his fist as his father sighed and rolled his eyes, before raising an eyebrow. “Why are you sleeping so much boy?”   

He wasn’t sure what to say. That it was to try and escape his own disappointment and expectations or if it was because he had been worked to near death. 

“I’ve been staying up later with the advisers to think of alliance strategies father,” Mingyu sneered, trying not to start a fight with his father. “It is all work to benefit us.” 

“It may be beneficial for us, but what about you boy?” His father asked, leaving MIngyu to stare in disbelief. 

“Beneficial for me? When have you ever thought about what’s beneficial for me? My whole life has been to further your political ambitions. I’m trying to be a good son and try to be in your good graces but it’s still not good enough for you!” MIngyu exclaimed, emotions finally snapping causing his voice to crack. “What do I need to do for you to finally be proud of me!” 

“Everything I have done, I have done for you!” the King roared, his face contorting into that familiar mask of severe disappointment. He slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the crystal. “I have spent twenty years pushing you to be a great king, and you have done nothing but fumble every golden opportunity I placed in your hands!”

A sharp, hysterical chuckle broke from Mingyu’s throat, a sound devoid of any humor. It was the sound of a man who had finally reached his limit.

In a blind flash of rage, Mingyu practically lunged over the table, his fingers clawing for the man who had never seen him as anything more than a tool. He would have reached him, too, if it weren’t for the sudden, desperate weight of his brothers. They scrambled from their seats, throwing their arms around his chest and shoulders, their boots skidding on the polished floor as they fought to hold him back.

“All you have done!” Mingyu screamed, his voice raw and cracking as he fought against his brothers' grip. “All you have done my entire life is tell me exactly how much of a failure I am! You didn't build a King, you built a ghost!”

A heavy, mocking silence filled the room as Mingyu’s father slowly shook his head, the gesture full of a weary, cutting disdain. He pushed his chair back with a harsh scrape against the stone floor and began a slow, predatory walk around the table until he stood mere inches from Mingyu. The brothers’ grip on Mingyu’s arms tightened, but the King didn't flinch.

“You may not think what I did was beneficial for you,” his father began, his voice dropping to a lethal, low hiss. He leaned in, his breath cold against Mingyu’s skin. “But you’ll see, when the crown is finally crushing your own skull, that a kingdom doesn't need your 'best', it needs what I tried to make you.”

Before Mingyu could find his voice, his father spat the final words directly into his face and jabbed a blunt, heavy finger into the center of his chest, right over his heart. It wasn't just a gesture; it was a strike, punctuating the years of inadequacy he’d forced upon his son. With a final, sharp scoff that echoed off the high-vaulted ceiling, the King turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room, leaving the heavy oak doors to groan in his wake.

Princess Y/N had heard the whispers that traveled across the borders, carried by wind and gossip. She knew the story of the Princess of Celestia and the Prince of the North. A five-year promise that had dissolved into nothing. She had even heard the scandalous detail of how the Princess had chosen her own guard instead, a story that felt like a spark of rebellion in a world of cold stone. To Y/N, there was something devastatingly romantic about choosing love over a crown, a narrative of freedom she secretly envied.

Unfortunately, her own story was not destined for such a poetic escape.

Her father had made his expectations abundantly clear, his voice as immovable as the mountain ranges that bordered their lands. There would be no secret romances or runaway hearts for her. She was to be the anchor of an alliance, the signature on a treaty. The tournament scheduled for the following week was not a celebration; it was a cold, public auction for her hand in marriage.

She was the prize at the end of a gauntlet, and as the banners began to rise and the princes of the surrounding realms began to arrive, Y/N realized she wasn't looking for a winner. She was waiting for the one man who looked just as trapped as she was.

“You look really pretty today, honey,” Y/N’s mother said, her voice cutting through the quiet of the dining hall with a gentle sort of warmth. She was watching Y/N with that knowing, slightly amused smile mothers always seemed to have, especially since Y/N had spent the last ten minutes staring at a piece of toast like it held the secrets to the universe.

“Hmm?” Y/N asked, her voice slightly thick with the remnants of her daydream. She smoothed her skirts, trying to regain the composure expected of a Princess who was about to be put on display. Her mother merely chuckled softly, repeating herself with a patient tilt of her head. “I said you look very pretty. Is that the dress you intend to wear to the tournament next week?”

Y/N offered a non-committal shrug, her fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of her current gown with an air of practiced indifference. “I don’t think so,” she replied, her gaze sharpening with a sudden, quiet spark of defiance. “I want to wear my red dress. The deep crimson one.” It was a bold choice, a color of blood, fire, and war in a court that preferred its princesses in the soft, muted pastels of submission.

Her mother’s eyebrow arched toward her hairline, a silent acknowledgment of the "statement" such a gown would make. In their world, red was not a color for a quiet bride; it was the color of a woman who intended to be seen on her own terms. After a long, contemplative moment, her mother let out a soft sigh, the sound of a woman choosing to pick her battles. She gave a small, accepting nod, realizing that if her daughter was to be a prize in a tournament, she at least intended to be a fire that the suitors would have to be brave enough to touch.

"Aren't we all supposed to be wearing gold, though?" Y/N’s younger brother chimed in, his voice full of that annoying, helpful innocence only a sibling could manage. Y/N whipped her head around to glare at him, her eyes narrowing as she defended her fashion rebellion. 

"Everyone else will be wearing gold," she countered with a sharp, playful grin. "I will be wearing red. It is a tournament being held in my name, after all. I think I’m allowed to stand out."

The rest of her brothers scattered around the long breakfast table broke into grins, ducking their heads to hide their giggles behind their juice glasses. The youngest brother quickly mumbled an apology, hunching his shoulders in a mock show of defeat to avoid further sisterly wrath. The tension of the upcoming week seemed to lift for just a second, replaced by the familiar, messy energy of a family that actually liked each other.

Y/N couldn't help but roll her eyes at their antics, though a small, genuine smile tugged at her lips. She reached over to affectionately ruffle her brother’s hair, messing up his carefully combed look before darting out of her seat. She didn't wait for a formal dismissal; she was already halfway to the door, her mind spinning with thoughts of the "Tournament of Iron" and the mysterious, brooding Northern Prince who was supposedly on his way to her doorstep.

“Don’t forget your dance lesson before lunch!” 

The heavy oak doors groaned as Mingyu pushed his way into the throne room, the sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings like a warning. He already had a knot forming in his stomach. His mother usually made it a point to keep the "Queen" and the "Mother" strictly separate. if she wanted to talk to him, it happened in the gardens or over tea. Inviting him here, into the heart of the citadel's power, meant the Mother was gone. Only the Queen remained.

The air in the room was freezing, thick with the scent of old parchment and extinguished candles. As he stepped further in, his boots clicking sharply against the polished black stone, he realized he wasn't just meeting his mother. The entire royal court was draped in shadows along the walls, their eyes following him like silent predators. His advisors were there, whispering in hushed tones that died the moment he approached, and his brothers stood in a rigid line, looking unusually somber.

At the center of it all sat his father, King Minhun, looking as if he had been carved directly from the northern ice.

“What’s going on?” Mingyu asked, his voice sounding thinner than he intended in the vast space. He came to a halt, his gaze darting from the grim faces of the council to his mother’s tight, forced expression. The sheer number of people in the room felt like a physical weight pressing against his chest. "I wasn't aware the entire court was required for a family discussion."

His father didn't move a muscle, but the atmosphere in the room shifted, growing even heavier. "This is no longer a family discussion, Mingyu," the King said, his voice dropping like a stone into a deep well. "This is a matter of survival for our crown. One you are going to settle."

The King didn’t rise from his throne; he simply leaned forward, the gold of his rings catching the flickering torchlight.

“The failure of the Celestia alliance has left us in a precarious position, Mingyu,” his father began, his voice devoid of any parental warmth. “Our coffers are thinning, and our enemies sense blood in the water. We need a new anchor, one that is sturdier than the last.”

A courtier stepped forward, unrolling a heavy scroll that bore a seal Mingyu didn't recognize, a sunburst pressed into vibrant red wax. The colors were too bright, too loud for a room this gray.

“The Southern Kingdom is opening its gates,” the King continued, gesturing vaguely toward the scroll. “Princess Y/N has reached the age of marriage, and her father has called for a Tournament of Iron and Wit. It is a competition for her hand, a trial meant to find a King worthy of their sun-drenched throne.”

Mingyu felt a cold, familiar dread settle in his marrow. “A tournament? You want me to go and perform like a circus animal for a girl I’ve never met?”

“I want you to win,” his father snapped, finally standing. The movement was sudden and sharp, cutting through Mingyu's protest. “This isn't about romance, and I don't care for your pride. The Southern trade routes are the most lucrative in the world. If you secure that alliance, our debts are erased and our borders are safe.”

His father walked down the steps of the dais, stopping only when he was close enough for Mingyu to see the flinty, unforgiving depth of his eyes.

“You will leave by sunrise. You will go to the south, and you will show them that the North does not break. If you fail to win her hand, Mingyu, don’t bother sending word. There won’t be a place for you here when you return.”

Mingyu stared back at his father, his breath hitching in his throat as shock and horror washed over his face. The words felt like a physical weight, heavier than the fur-lined cloak on his shoulders. For a second, he thought he might have misheard, that this was some cruel, elaborate test of his loyalty, but the cold, steady gaze of the King told him otherwise.

The silence in the throne room turned jagged. He looked at the advisors, who were watching him like a specimen under glass, and then at his mother, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. The realization that he was being auctioned off to the highest bidder, just weeks after his life had crumbled in Celestia, made his blood run cold.

“You’re sending me away,” Mingyu whispered, the words barely audible. “To a kingdom I’ve never seen, to marry a woman who is essentially a stranger, just to fix your balance sheets?”

“I am sending you to do your duty,” his father corrected, his voice like grinding stones. “A Prince does not have the luxury of ‘shock,’ Mingyu. He has the responsibility of results.”

Mingyu felt a bitter laugh bubble up in his chest, though his face remained a mask of pale disbelief. He looked down at his hands, hands that had spent years writing letters to a girl who chose her guard, hands that had tried to build a future that was now ash. Now, those same hands were being expected to wield a sword and a charming smile to win a prize he didn’t even want. He wasn't a person to them anymore; he was a failing investment being moved to a new market.

The shock didn't explode into a shout or a plea; instead, it seemed to freeze him from the inside out. The horror that had been written across Mingyu’s face slowly bled away, replaced by a terrifying, hollow blankness. He stopped looking at his father as a son looks at a parent and started looking at him as a subject looks at a tyrant.

The warmth he had tried so hard to maintain, the part of him that still hoped for a kind word or a bit of understanding, simply snuffed out.

"I understand, Your Majesty," Mingyu said. His voice was flat, devoid of the tremor that had been there only seconds ago. It was a cold, mechanical obedience that made even the advisors shift uncomfortably in their seats. He didn't look at his mother. He didn't look at his brothers. If he was being treated like a tool of the state, he would act like one.

He gave a shallow, perfectly executed bow, the kind of bow you give to a stranger you don't trust. Then, without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel. His cloak flared behind him, a dark shadow against the stone, as he strode toward the exit. Every step he took away from the throne was a step further into the silence he had been building his whole life. He was done trying to be "good enough." From now on, he would be exactly what they made him: a weapon of iron and ice.

The transition from the North was an assault on Mingyu’s senses. As the carriage rolled across the Southern border, the biting wind was replaced by a thick, humid heat that made his heavy furs feel like a leaden weight. The vibrant greens and blinding golds of the Southern Kingdom felt offensive after the muted greys of his home.

By the time the palace came into view, Mingyu was a shell of a man. He sat rigidly against the velvet cushions, his jaw set so tight it ached. He wasn't looking for a princess; he was looking for the end of a nightmare.

When the carriage finally came to a halt in the bustling courtyard, a servant stepped forward to open the door. Mingyu stepped out, and the heat hit him like a physical blow. He didn't look at the flowers or the fountains. He kept his eyes fixed on the stone beneath his boots, his expression a mask of cold, unapproachable ice.

But then, he felt it, the prickling sensation of being watched.

High above, on one of the palace balconies, Y/N stood leaning against the marble railing. She had been watching the stream of suitors arrive all morning, her eyes glazing over at the sight of preening lords and shouting knights. But the man who just stepped out of the black-and-silver carriage was different. He didn't look like he was there to win a heart; he looked like he was there to survive a trial.

Mingyu tilted his head up, his gaze instinctively finding hers.

For a heartbeat, the world went quiet. He saw a flash of brilliant, defiant red. Her dress,standing out against the gold of the palace walls. She didn't look away, and neither did he. He didn't offer a bow, and she didn't offer a smile. Instead, they just stared at one another across the distance. Two people caught in a game they hadn't asked to play.

Mingyu was the first to break contact. He looked back down, his expression hardening even further as he followed the chamberlain inside. He didn't realize that up on the balcony, Y/N’s grip on the marble had tightened, her curiosity finally piqued by the prince who looked like he had brought the winter with him.

“That’s Princess Y/N,” a voice remarked from beside him.

Mingyu whipped his head around, his guard already up. He found himself face to face with Prince Jeonghan, the future King of Hespros and the older brother of his ex-fiancee. The sight of him was like a ghost from a past life.

“What are you doing here?” Mingyu asked, his voice stiff.

Jeonghan didn't seem bothered by the cold reception. He simply opened his arms for a hug. The two of them had practically grown up together. They were meant to be brothers by law, and for years, they had been brothers by choice. Despite the mess in Hespros, the familiar sight of Jeonghan’s easy smile felt like a strange anchor in this humid kingdom.

Jeonghan shrugged as he pulled back. He looked around the vibrant courtyard with an air of casual boredom. “My father is still upset that I’m not married. Now that my sister has been ‘taken care of,’ I’m the new target for his frustration.”

Mingyu nodded slowly. He hadn’t heard much about his ex-fiancée since the day he’d left Hespros in disgrace. He had been too buried under the weight of his own kingdom’s problems and his father’s relentless disappointment to go looking for updates that would only hurt.

“How is she?” Mingyu asked after a few moments of heavy silence. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his heart hammering a hollow rhythm against his ribs. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted the answer, but the ghost of his old life wouldn't let him leave the question unasked.

“She’s happy. Her and Jeon have been traveling around the kingdom for the last month. Gives me room to get stuff done, I suppose,” Jeonghan shrugged.

He said it so casually, like he wasn't dropping a weight right onto Mingyu’s chest. For Jeonghan, it was just a family update about a sister who had run off for love. For Mingyu, it was confirmation that while he was being shipped off to the highest bidder, the girl he was supposed to marry was out there living the life he had once dreamed of having with her.

Mingyu felt a bitter knot tighten in his throat. He looked away, his eyes scanning the crowd of noblemen and knights who were all laughing and drinking the Southern wine. They all looked so eager to be here. They looked like they actually believed in the fairy tale of winning a princess.

“Traveling,” Mingyu repeated, the word tasting like ash. “Must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

Jeonghan’s expression shifted, his playful smirk fading into something a bit more observant. He reached out, clapping a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder and squeezing it. He could probably feel the tension in Mingyu's muscles, the way he was wound up like a spring ready to snap.

“It’s a different world down here, Mingyu,” Jeonghan said quietly, his voice dropping so the surrounding courtiers couldn't hear. “Don't let the heat get to you. And definitely don't let your father's voice stay in your head the whole time you're here. You look like you're heading to a scaffold, not a tournament.”

“The princess? Do you know anything about her?” Mingyu asked, looking back up at the balcony, but the girl in the red dress was gone.

Jeonghan shook his head, looking up at the empty marble railing where she had just been standing. “Only family lineage. She is the only woman in the family, has four brothers, and from what I’ve heard, they’re all incredibly protective. People call her the jewel of the south, but they say she’s got a temperament like a wildfire. She’s not the type to sit quietly and be won.”

Mingyu felt a dull thud in his chest. He didn’t need a wildfire. He barely had enough energy left to keep his own heart beating, let alone handle a princess who would likely hate him for being there. The thought of four protective brothers also meant this wouldn't just be a test of skill; it would be a week of being watched by four men who probably wanted to put a sword through any prince who looked at their sister the wrong way.

“Great,” Mingyu muttered, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that was new to him. “So I’m competing for the hand of a woman who doesn’t want to be married, surrounded by brothers who want me dead, all for a kingdom that’s too hot to breathe in.”

Jeonghan laughed, the sound loud and bright against Mingyu’s gloom. He gave Mingyu’s shoulder another heavy shake. “That’s the spirit. You’re finally starting to sound like a man who has nothing to lose. Trust me, Mingyu, that makes you the most dangerous person in this courtyard.”

Mingyu didn't feel dangerous. He felt tired. But as the trumpets began to blare from the palace gates, signaling the start of the welcoming feast, he straightened his back. He let the "Reserved Prince" mask settle over his features, his eyes turning as cold and flat as a frozen lake. If he was going to be a pawn, he was going to be the most immovable one they had ever seen.

The accommodations were nice. They weren't overly fancy, but they were comfortable enough.

Each contestant in the tournament was given their own room, equipped with a bed, a desk, and a fireplace. Although the space wasn't large, it felt cozy and served its purpose well. It was exactly what Mingyu needed\. a place to recharge and disappear after a long day of being watched.

He dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence of the room pressing in on him. Back home, his room was vast and cold, filled with the pressure of his father’s expectations and the ghosts of his failed engagement. Here, in this small, neutral space, he was just another number in a tournament.

The servants had left a schedule for the upcoming week on the desk. There were four main events that every contestant was required to participate in: Archery, Jousting, Strategy, and Combat.

Mingyu looked over the list with a grim sort of focus. He knew exactly where he stood. Combat and Jousting were his territory; he had spent years on the training grounds of the North, where the weight of a sword was the only thing that felt real. But Archery and Strategy were a different story. Those were skills he had never really mastered, and the thought of failing publicly in front of the Southern court made the knot in his stomach tighten.

He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes tracing the lines of the schedule. In the North, strategy was his father’s domain, and archery was for the scouts. Mingyu was a soldier, a man of direct action and heavy iron.

If he was going to win this, he’d have to dominate the physical rounds enough to make up for whatever mess he made during the others. It was a gamble, but as he stared at the small fireplace in his room, he realized he didn't really have a choice. He wasn't just fighting for a princess anymore; he was fighting to keep the only life he knew from being stripped away

After about an hour of unpacking his things and polishing his sword, he decided to explore the castle and see if he could find the dining hall in time for dinner. 

The palace was beautiful. In a way, it reminded him of Hespros, with its grand, arching ceilings that seemed to reach for the sky. But where his old home felt manicured and controlled, this place was alive.

Plants were everywhere. Green vines spilled over the white stone balconies, and flowers he couldn't name bloomed in every corner, filling the air with a sweet, heavy scent that felt almost suffocating. The architecture was open, designed to catch the breeze, making the entire palace feel like it was breathing.

Even as he walked through the halls, his boots echoing against the mosaic floors, Mingyu couldn't help but feel like an intruder. The North was made of sharp lines and grey stone; it was a place of survival. This kingdom was made of light and growth. It was the kind of place that invited you to relax, but Mingyu only felt more on edge. He was a creature of the winter walking through a greenhouse, and he was acutely aware that in a place this vibrant, it was impossible to hide.

“Are you lost, sir?” a voice asked from behind, startling Mingyu out of his thoughts.

He jumped, whipping his head around with his hand flying to his heart to steady the sudden spike in his pulse. Standing there, only a few feet away, was the Princess.

She was still wearing that same striking red dress he had seen from the balcony, but her hair had been swept up into an elegant arrangement, a sharp contrast to the loose, wild waves he had noticed earlier. Up close, the heat of the palace seemed to radiate off her, or perhaps it was just the sudden, overwhelming reality of her presence.

“Ummm?” Mingyu stuttered. He looked around frantically, trying to claw back even a shred of his composure. He was supposed to be the cold, unshakeable Prince of the North, but standing in front of her, he felt like a boy caught sneaking through a garden he didn't belong in. “Yes. I think so.”