The sun had not yet risen over Bulgul, but the palace was already awake.
Not with warmth.
Not with family.
But with duty.
At six years old, Yoongi knew the rhythm of the palace better than she knew her own heartbeat. Before dawn, servants entered her chamber silently, lighting small oil lamps that breathed shadows across the walls. She opened her eyes as soon as she heard them. Kings did not sleep late. Princes rose early.
But she was neither.
She sat up quietly, letting the blankets fall away from her slight frame. A maid approached with a respectful bow and handed her the binding cloth. Yoongi took it without flinching. She wrapped it around her torso the way she had been taught—flattening what little softness her body carried. Her fingers moved with practiced precision. This ritual was not painful, but it was suffocating, a reminder that she must erase herself every morning to live another day.
The maid's gaze softened for a moment, but she said nothing. No one dared to question the lie.
When Yoongi finished dressing, she slipped into the small ceremonial robe, too heavy for a child her size. The garment swallowed her, but she carried it as though it belonged to her—because it had to.
The palace corridors were cold at this hour, filled with quiet footsteps and the murmurs of early servants. Yoongi walked alone toward the training yard. She did not need a guard. She did not need a companion. She was the prince of Bulgul—the boy heir the kingdom celebrated. The child who was never supposed to be born.
As she stepped into the courtyard, dozens of young trainees were already lined up, wooden swords clutched tightly in their hands. They were bigger than her, louder than her, free in ways she could never be. The sword master, a tall man with a voice sharp enough to cut stone, noticed her approach.
"You are late," he barked.
Yoongi bowed her head. "My apologies, Master."
Her voice was small, but steady. It had to be.
"Step forward," he commanded.
She obeyed. The boys beside her shifted, nudging each other. Some stared openly at her slight build. Others smirked, certain she would fail.
She tightened her grip on the wooden sword.
The master's eyes narrowed. "Strike."
Yoongi inhaled deeply, grounding herself.
Then she swung.
The crack echoed through the yard, louder than expected. Several boys flinched. The master raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Yoongi lowered her sword again, breath trembling only slightly.
Not enough to be noticed.
Never enough to be noticed.
"Again," he ordered.
She struck again. And again. And again.
Each blow stronger than the last.
By the end of the session, sweat soaked her clothes, and her arms trembled from exhaustion, but her face remained expressionless. A king—no, a prince—was never weak. She could not afford to be weak, not even at six years old.
---
Lessons Without Rest
After training came the study hall. Yoongi sat before scrolls stacked higher than her head. Languages, history, battle strategies—lessons meant for future rulers. She absorbed them all with quiet focus.
"Your mind is… unusual," her tutor murmured once.
Yoongi didn't know if it was meant as praise or concern.
By midday, she could feel her bindings cutting against her ribs. She ignored the discomfort. Pain was temporary. Failure was fatal.
Outside the study hall, the advisors whispered.
"The prince is too quiet."
"Too observant."
"Too… soft."
Yoongi's stomach tightened.
If they looked too closely, if they questioned her too deeply… everything could unravel.
She walked away before she could hear more.
---
The Queen in the Shadows
Night brought a different kind of silence.
Yoongi sat before her mirror, untying the binding cloth slowly. Her chest expanded with a deep breath—the first real breath of the day. She rubbed her skin where the fabric had pressed too tightly. In the mirror, she saw not a prince, not a king, but a girl with tired eyes and a fragile hope hidden beneath all the forced strength.
Queen Jihwa entered quietly, her expression softening at the sight of her daughter.
"You worked hard today," she whispered.
Yoongi didn't answer. She leaned into her mother's gentle touch as Jihwa brushed her hair.
"You are too young for all this," the queen murmured.
Yoongi lowered her gaze.
"If I'm not strong… I'll die."
The queen froze.
Because it was true.
She wrapped her arms around Yoongi, holding her as if she could shield her from a world built to destroy girls like her.
"Someday," the queen whispered, trembling, "you will be free."
Yoongi did not believe that.
Freedom was a dream for children who weren't her.
---
A Storm on the Horizon
As Yoongi lay in her bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she felt the weight of the kingdom pressing down on her small chest. She had mastered bows, stances, languages, and laws—but she had no mastery over her own future.
Far beyond Bulgul's walls, across rivers and mountains, another child trained under a very different rule.
A boy named Kwan.
A boy with a sharp gaze, sharper instincts, and a heart carved from obedience.
A boy raised not for kindness or honor, but for infiltration and destruction.
His masters whispered to him:
"One day, you will go to Bulgul."
"One day, you will gain the king's trust."
"One day, you will kill him."
Two children.
Two destinies.
Two lies growing in opposite corners of the world.
And one day, they would collide.