The cold bite of steel pressed harder against Yoonha's throat. Every breath she drew was shallow, trembling, as the soldiers' eyes locked onto her like wolves circling prey.
This is it. Dead in a history textbook footnote, unidentified intruder. Perfect.
Her throat worked to force out words, any words, when the chamber doors cracked wide once more.
The sound silenced the guards instantly.
The click of sandals against stone echoed, measured and deliberate. Yoonha dared to turn her head, careful not to slice herself against the waiting blade.
A man entered—a little older than her, though not by much. He walked with the kind of steadiness that bent the atmosphere around him. Tall, lean, his dark hair tied back with a strip of gold. A simple circlet rested against his brow, catching the flicker of torches. Not heavy with jewels, but enough that the soldiers stiffened straighter.
His eyes—sharp, arresting—swept across the scene and landed on her.
Her stomach flipped. His gaze wasn't soft; it was the clean edge of a blade, honed by suspicion and pride. And yet, beneath that steel, a glimmer of… *something else*.
The soldiers slammed their fists to their chests in salute.
"Preah Ang Suya," one stammered, voice suddenly reverent.
Prince.
Yoonha fought the impulse to topple backward again. Prince? Actual royalty?
The man's steps halted before her. He studied her as though dissecting a puzzle piece that didn't belong.
"Min ai?" His voice was deep, even, but each syllable drew lines of command.
The soldiers erupted in overlapping words, explaining, shouting. One jabbed his sword closer toward Yoonha's skin as if to prove his point.
Prince Suya raised a single hand. The blade hesitated, then lowered—just slightly.
Yoonha's lungs finally expanded enough to gulp air.
"Th-thank you," she whispered, though she doubted he understood English any more than she understood him.
Suya tilted his head, the faintest crease forming between his brows as if dissecting her strange tongue. He crouched slightly, enough that his eyes aligned with hers, though still cautious as if she might sprout claws.
Yoonha flinched at his nearness. His features were sharper now from up close: a straight nose, high cheekbones carved like statues she'd seen outside, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
"I'm… not a spy," she said slowly, pressing a hand to her chest. "No… spy. Tourist." She mimed holding a camera, clutching an invisible lens and clicking.
For a brief, ridiculous second, silence stretched.
Then—it happened—the faintest twitch at the corner of Suya's mouth, almost like amusement… quickly masked.
But the guards muttered, confused, their wariness spilling like sparks. One barked a word again: "Chhmus?"
Suya echoed it, slower, his tone interrogative. His gaze locked onto Yoonha deliberately and he tapped his own chest. "Suya."
Her mind stumbled, then caught: Of course. He wanted her name.
"Yoonha," she said, tapping herself. "Yoon-ha."
He repeated it, oddly precise, accent curling differently around syllables. "Yun…ha."
Something about hearing him say her name sent a heat rushing across her face she didn't have the luxury to process.
More words flew among the men, sharp like sparring blows. Yoonha caught none of it except the repeated scowls cast her direction. The soldiers clearly weren't convinced by her clumsy pantomime of innocence.
Suya straightened, arms crossed loosely within folds of royal silk. Above the torches, his shadow stretched long across the gilded murals, looming over her.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, deliberate, as though to remind her who held the power here.
"You," he said slowly in halting, accented but recognizable syllables of a language she barely grasped as Khmer, "…not…here." He gestured broadly—the kind of gesture meaning not belonging. His eyes narrowed.
Yoonha's heart squeezed. She tried again, desperately. "I don't belong here. Yes! Time mistake!" She made a clumsy twirling motion in the air, like rewinding a clock. "Accident!"
Her performance earned her nothing but baffled glares. One soldier laughed harshly.
Prince Suya did not laugh, though. His stare lingered on her trembling hands, her strange white dress that no local woman would dare to wear like that, her frightened but stubborn eyes.
Something in his expression shifted—albeit as brief and hidden as the smile earlier. Curiosity. Or recognition. As if, for a heartbeat, he considered that she truly was… something unusual.
But then it shuttered over once more.
His chin lifted, proud once again, his words sharp as the edge of the blades still half-poised.
"If no truth," he said, piecing together broken syllables with purposeful menace, "palace prison."
The room chilled despite the heat of the torches.
The guards closed in at his gesture. Yoonha's blood iced.
"W-wait! I am telling the truth! I swear—I'm not—please—"
But her pleas were lost, swallowed. The prince's eyes bore into hers, unyielding, unreadable.
He spoke the words like a sentence, leaving no room for mercy:
"If you don't tell the truth, I will lock you in the palace prison."