Warning: Contains references to childhood neglect, implied predatory intent toward a minor, and physical abuse (non-graphic). Read with caution.
"Please… I only ask that you grant me a moment," Dohyun pleaded, the desperation in his voice threaded with a quiet dignity. "I can prove my worth-"
Yet the words died on his tongue.
Miye had already turned away. From the bare angle of his pale cheek, Dohyun could see the Princess's expression twist into something ghastly-- eyes blown wide, pupils shrunken like frostbitten seeds. His skin, usually soft as fresh snow, drained of its color in an instant. A trembling hand clutched at the cloth over his heart, as though trying to cage the panic within.
"Haerin… escort me back to my chambers," Miye said, voice strained despite the fine porcelain composure he tried to maintain. "I am… unwell."
A chill slipped down Dohyun's spine. What did he see in that box? What could make a person like him -- so refined, so composed -- turn so deathly pale?
"We may speak again when Your Highness recovers," Dohyun murmured, lowering his hand in reluctant retreat. "I shall wait."
"Suit yourself," Haerin replied with a frosty look before guiding the Princess away, their figures fading into the lantern-lit corridor.
---
Night unfolded over the palace like a silk tapestry, star-embroidered and hushed.
Alone, Dohyun wandered into a quiet corner of the backyard, a place forgotten by moonlight and men alike. He found a patch of grass beside a bush and arranged his small cloth bundle as a pillow.
It was hardly unfamiliar.
Cold ground had once been his only bed; hunger his most loyal companion.
He lay beneath the vast night sky, hands tucked behind his head, one leg resting over the other. Stars glittered like distant lanterns, and in their faint glow old memories rose-- unbidden, unwelcome, relentless.
Since childhood, he had been the boy everyone scorned. The traitor's son. A shadow no one wished to touch. He remembered the two weeks he spent starving outside a nobleman's house, waiting for a promised meeting with Uncle Hwang. He remembered the rooms he cleaned—rooms polluted with liquor, pipe smoke, and stains that clung even after he scrubbed until his small hands numbed. Those stains never belonged in a child's world, yet they shaped his.
For a while, it earned him food. A night at a time.
Until one of the nobleman's regular guests noticed him, Dohyun was quietly playing with a broken stick in the backyard.
"You, boy. Come here," the man said.
Dohyun knew instinctively that obeying him was safer than refusing.
Still, when the man's hand stroked his hair, and those fingers slid toward the collar of his shirt, a cold dread curled in his stomach -- silent, suffocating.
He didn't understand fully, but he understood enough.
His small hands tightened around the wooden stick.
A sharp jab to the man's eye, then the frantic pounding of his feet against the ground as he ran and ran.
That night, he received no food.
Nor the next.
Nor the one after.
His employer beat him regardless, whether he knew the truth or simply didn't care.
"Great… why remember that now?" Dohyun muttered, brushing his forehead with a weary hand.
His stomach growled fiercely. He curled onto his side, drawing his knees closer, trying to ease the hollow ache gnawing at him. The night wind was cold, but it was the kind of cold he had known long before he understood warmth.
At last, exhaustion pulled him under, and his eyes drifted closed beneath the indifferent stars.
---
Miye staggered into his chambers, one hand pressed tightly over his chest. The moment the doors slammed shut behind him, he broke into a run, barely reaching the washroom before his knees struck the floor.
A violent retch tore through him.
Bile and bitter liquid spilled from his lips, burning his throat as he gagged, breath shuddering. The memory clung to him like a curse.
That sight...disgusting, unbearable!!
His fingers trembled against the cold porcelain. It was all his fault. That vile man. That so-called Prince.
Yugwon.
Miye's vision swam as the image resurfaced -- bloody, mutilated flesh laid bare within the ornate chest. A human tongue. Torn brutally from its owner's throat, the stench of iron and decay still clinging to it.
His face drained of color.
He had thought himself hardened by cruelty. Thought he had learned the limits of Yugwon's depravity.He was wrong.
"That bastard…" Miye whispered hoarsely, clutching his throat as though the pain were his own. "He truly has no bounds."
Slowly, he forced himself upright, bracing both hands against the basin. The room was silent...too silent.
No one must know.
This must never leave these walls. Not the box. Not what had happened to Yuna.
He splashed water over his face, though it did little to wash away the horror etched into his widened eyes.
"Is she… dead?" he murmured.
The mere thought sent ice cascading down his spine. His breath hitched, and before he could stop it, tears welled up - clear, fragile crystals slipping down his cheeks.
When was the last time he had cried?
He could not remember.
Yuna had been everything - his savior, his caretaker, his refuge in a world that sought only to cage him. A mother where none existed. A friend, when solitude was forced upon him.
And now...she was gone.
His legs gave way, and he sank against the wall, memories rising like ghosts he could no longer suppress.
He had met Yuna during the Jugeum Games.
Back then, Miye was only sixteen - an age considered one of maturity in Hwachon. It was also the year he began showing up to the public more often. Though his clothing remained androgynous, he often adorned himself with his mother's jewelry, clinging to her memory like a talisman. No, the queen, his mother, was not dead. However, it seemed as if she had never existed to him in the first place.
With his naturally delicate features and soft, rosy complexion, the world saw what it wished to see.
A woman.
Miye never corrected them. There was no need.
The Jugeum Games were held once every seven years - grand tournaments meant to draw in foreign continents, forging alliances through spectacle, blood, and trade. Hwachon's wealth did not bloom by accident; it was cultivated carefully, and the Games were its sharpest tool.
That year, Miye had been dressed in splendor.
A cream-white inner robe hugged his slender frame, layered beneath an outer silk garment embroidered with fine golden threads. On anyone else, it would have been luxurious. On him, it was transcendent.
His skin was pale as untouched snow, his long black hair falling like ink down his back - two extremes in perfect contrast. The front portion was tied back with a jade hairpin set with a blood-red gem. His mother's.
Golden earrings brushed his neck; bracelets shimmered at his wrists.
When he stepped forward for his second public appearance - standing beside Yugwon as a representative of Hwachon - the foreign crowd gasped.
"The Flower Princess," they called him.
Miye only bowed.
Beside him, Yugwon smirked, satisfied, as though admiring something he had crafted with his own hands.
At the time, they still lived together under the guise of siblings. It was only later that Miye would retreat south, ruling his own domain from behind carefully guarded walls.
That year, new continents joined the Games.
Among them was Balliard.
Representing it was Prince Esha Fardeyn.
He came from a land of sand and jewels, his eyes a striking gold like desert dunes under the sun. His bronze skin gleamed like polished copper, making his gaze all the more arresting. Black hair coiled beneath a loose white turban, his attire woven in gold and ivory.
A prince in every sense.
And the moment his eyes landed on Miye, he knew exactly what he wished to claim.
"Esha Fardeyn of Balliard," Yugwon greeted, deliberately blocking the view, then bowing courteously, silver armor glinting beneath imperial robes. "I trust you will be partaking in the Games."
"That much is certain," Esha replied, his voice deep and steady, belying his mere seventeen years.
"I look forward to facing you," Yugwon chuckled, a sharp edge beneath the mirth. "I hear you are Balliard's finest swordsman. I wonder if that title holds beyond your borders."
"You are confident," Esha said calmly.
"Perhaps the finals will decide whose reputation survives."
"Oh?" Yugwon laughed. "You already see yourself there? I admire that. But I must warn you this. Hwachon boasts the finest warriors. And I see many… interesting contenders this year."
Esha's gaze drifted briefly to Miye, then back to Yugwon.
"Then allow me to propose this," he said. "If I win, I shall take something precious from Hwachon when I depart. Should you win, I will gift you two hundred of Balliard's rarest jewels."
Yugwon smiled. Approval flickered in his eyes.
"Very well."
Thus, fate brought them to the finals.
From the elevated stands, Miye watched in silence.
Below him stood two men poised on the brink of adulthood, yet fighting as though only one of them would leave the arena alive. The air reeked of iron and smoke, the ground darkened by blood long since soaked into the earth.
Esha Fardeyn was drenched in it.
Soot and crimson streaked his bronze armor, the blood of fallen warriors clinging stubbornly to his frame. His copper headpiece sat askew, revealing eyes stained red - one swollen shut from a vicious, unforeseen strike. Yet even maimed, he refused to fall.
Opposite him stood Yugwon.
Silver armor gleamed beneath the sun, unmarred save for the blood dripping steadily from the tip of his sword. His breathing was even, his posture unshaken, as though this carnage were nothing more than a tedious chore.
With a roar torn from wounded pride, Esha charged.
Veins bulged along his arms as he swung with everything he had left. Yugwon sidestepped effortlessly, turning with fluid precision and striking Esha's back with the gilded hilt of his blade.
A wet cough followed.
Blood spilled from Esha's lips, but he did not stop.
Grinding his teeth, he forced himself upright, his lone uninjured eye lifting briefly to meet Yugwon's gaze. What he saw there froze his blood more than any wound.
Indifference.
Cold, absolute indifference, as though Esha were nothing but an insect beneath his boot, something to be crushed at leisure.
Humiliation burned deeper than pain.
With a snarl, Esha twisted, thrusting his sword backward in a desperate, reckless strike.
For the first time, Yugwon was forced to retreat. His eyes narrowed sharply, fury flaring within their depths, a red sheen bleeding along the edges of his slanted gaze. His patience snapped.
Seizing Esha's arm, Yugwon raised his blade with clear intentions.
The stadium fell silent. Then -
"That is enough!"
The voice cut through the air, neither wholly masculine nor feminine, yet unmistakable.
It was a voice that sent vibrations down his spine.
Yugwon froze.
That single heartbeat was all Esha needed.
He tore his arm free and drove his foot into Yugwon's abdomen, sending him skidding several strides back. Yugwon landed on his knees.
The outcome was clear:
Esha Fardeyn of Balliard had won.
The arena erupted.
Cheers thundered across the stadium, voices hoarse with awe at the brutal magnificence of the match. Amid the chaos, Yugwon lifted his gaze to the stands, his eyes finding Miye.
Those cognac eyes shimmered like intoxicating wine, unreadable and distant.
The Jugeum Games ended days later.
At the gates of the grand palace, Hwa Yugwon stood composed, offering formal farewells to the departing dignitaries. One by one, kings and princes departed, each flanked by royal retinues.
Only Esha Fardeyn stood alone.
No king. No queen. Just a single guard at his side.
"Prince Hwa Yugwon," Esha spoke calmly, "I must admit - had it not been for the Flower Princess, I would have lost my arm that day."
Yugwon's gaze sharpened, settling on the scarred prince before him. A golden bead once adorned Esha's right eye; now it was hidden beneath a dark eye covering.
"Hah…" Yugwon turned away slightly.
Esha continued, unbothered. "Speaking of which… I do not see her."
"And why," Yugwon asked coolly, "would Hwa Miye's presence be required here?"
"Hwa Miye," Esha repeated softly, a smile touching his lips. "What a beautiful name."
"..."
"I believe," Esha added, "That her presence is quite necessary, considering the terms of our wager. Surely you remember?"
Yugwon's chest tightened. Why was Miye being dragged into this? What could this foreign prince possibly want?
His blood burned.
Before Yugwon could object, Esha spoke again, his tone sharpening.
"I gave up my eye because I am a man. Scars are tolerable." His gaze hardened. "But had you severed my arm, I would have been stripped of my right to the throne. Do you truly believe my father, the King of Balliard, would have remained silent?"
Yugwon's fists clenched. He wanted to kill him.
But every eye was upon them. He swallowed his rage, burying it deep beneath layers of royal composure.
"Then," Yugwon asked through clenched restraint, "What do you want from Hwachon before you depart?"
Esha laughed softly, "Ah… now we speak plainly."
The smile vanished.
Beneath the blazing sun, his lone eye gleamed with something sharp and dangerous.
"Bring me the Flower Princess, her highness, Hwa Miye."