The air in the royal court that morning was heavy—too still, too quiet. Every servant who
crossed the grand hall held their breath, aware that this day would mark a turning point for
the Kingdom of Daehan. The crown prince's seat had remained unclaimed for years, and
today, the long-awaited decision was to be made.
Taehyung stood before the great doors of the court, dressed in deep black robes with
crimson embroidery that traced the royal sigil across his chest. His long brown hair, tied
loosely behind his neck, glimmered in the morning light. At sixteen, his gaze carried the
weight of someone much older, as if each year had carved decades into his soul.
He inhaled deeply, the faint scent of burning ash and frost clinging to him — remnants of the flames he'd fought to control, and the ice that had soothed them for years.
"Your Highness," a royal attendant whispered, bowing deeply, "it is time."
Taehyung nodded, and the heavy doors opened.
The murmurs of the ministers ceased immediately. Rows of officials stood in their finest robes, heads bowed, even though he's regarded as a monster, the ministers had to bow because he's still the prince in the kingdom. At the far end sat the king — his father — stern, regal, unreadable.
Beside him, the queen's face was a perfect mask of grace, but her eyes betrayed unease.
The court shimmered with gold and red, yet Taehyung felt none of its warmth.
It felt like a battlefield.
He stepped forward, each step echoing like the march of fate. When he reached the center,
he bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness. Ministers of Daehan," he greeted, voice calm and steady.
The king's gaze lingered on him — a flicker of recognition, perhaps admiration, or maybe
fear. "Rise," he said, his tone sharp, authoritative.
Taehyung rose, meeting his father's eyes for the first time in years. The court proceeded with its usual discussions — foreign trade, territorial disputes, matters of law — but everyone's attention flicked again and again to the silent figure standing in the middle. The moment they'd waited for drew near.
Finally, Minister Han, one of the oldest members of the court, stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Majesty, forgive my boldness," he began, "but as you know, Prince Taehyung has
come of age. The time has come for His Highness to be named crown prince.
The court murmured in agreement, voices rising like waves.
The king's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. "Then let the boy speak for himself," he said. "Tell us, Taehyung. Will you accept the crown?"
Taehyung's heart pounded in his chest. The crown prince… me? he thought. Normally, the
king would have simply declared it. There was no need for permission — no room for choice.
Yet his father asked.
He clenched his fists. So even now… you cannot see me as your son, only as a tool to
destroy or to save.
For a moment, silence filled the court. Every pair of eyes turned to him. He lifted his head
and met his father's gaze.
Then, he said clearly, "No."
The word struck the hall like a thunderclap. Ministers gasped, exchanging horrified glances. While some ministers were happy secretly as they expected this outcome.
The queen's face turned pale on the outside but she was secretly happy, and even the king froze for a heartbeat.
But Taehyung wasn't done.
He straightened his back, his voice steady but burning with conviction.
"I will not be the crown prince. I will not sit on that throne. Instead—" he paused, every
heartbeat echoing in his chest, "—I will become the Sword of the Kingdom."
The court erupted.
"What nonsense is this?!"
"The title of the Sword hasn't existed for centuries!"
"Impossible! The Sword cannot be a prince—"
Their voices overlapped like crashing waves. The queen rose from her seat, her hands
gripping her dress tightly, fury burning behind her calm expression. The king's face darkened
— not just from anger, but from something deeper: fear.
Because everyone in that room knew what the title Sword of the Kingdom truly meant.
A man who stood beside the throne yet above all generals.
A protector — and a weapon.
A blade that could either guard the realm… or destroy it.
The king's voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough!"
The court fell silent instantly.
He turned his gaze toward his son. "You dare revive an oath buried for generations? Do you even know what it means?".
Taehyung lifted his head. "Yes, Your Majesty. To be the Sword means to serve the Kingdom,
not the crown. To fight, not for title or power, but for the people. It means I am not bound by
the court's politics, nor chained to the throne's will."
The ministers exchanged glances. Some were in awe; others, horrified.
"Your Majesty," one of them whispered nervously, "if the prince becomes the Sword, his authority will rival your own. If such power turns against the throne—"
The king slammed his hand on the armrest. "Do you think I don't know that?!"
But Taehyung didn't flinch. His gaze was calm, unshaken. For the first time, the boy who
once trembled before his father stood as an equal.
"I will never turn against the Kingdom," Taehyung said quietly, "because this is the only thing my mother left behind."
That silence was heavier than any uproar. Even the king froze at her mention.
The queen's expression twisted. He dares bring her up again?
And yet, looking into his son's eyes, the king saw something familiar — the same unbending
fire that once burned in Hanuel's eyes. The same strength that frightened and drew him in all those years ago.
But still, the weight of the decision crushed the room.
Minister Han bowed once more. "Your Majesty, though the path is dangerous, perhaps the
prince's choice is… fate. We can no longer suppress such power. If he truly becomes the
Sword, Daehan might prosper once more."
The queen's family glared at him, but none dared to speak against the old minister's wisdom.
The king's voice came low, cold, and weary. "Then so be it. But remember this, Taehyung
once you walk this path, there is no turning back. You will live by the sword, and you will die by it."
Taehyung bowed deeply. "Then I shall die as one worthy of it."
When he lifted his head, there was no hesitation in his eyes — only resolve.
From that moment, whispers spread across the Kingdom:
The cursed prince has spoken.
The forgotten heir has chosen his path.
The Sword of the Kingdom has returned.
The hall still thrummed with the last of Taehyung's words when he turned and left —not a triumphal march, but a quiet, measured exit. His footsteps fell like a metronome through the wide stone corridors, each one promising the world that he would meet it as steel.
No one followed him. No cheering heralded his choice. Only whispers chased the space
where he had stood.
When the great doors closed behind him, the court surged into motion, a storm of counsel
and complaint. Faces that had been impassive moments before now shifted into masks of
calculation. The queen's color had gone ashen; the ministers bent toward one another with voices low and urgent.
From his place near the dais, the queen's father stepped forward. He was a man who wore influence like armor — polished, blunt, and merciless. His eyes were hard as flint as he fixed the king with a stare that carried both accusation and command.
"Your Majesty," he said loudly enough that every ear in the hall turned, "this decree must be rescinded. Do you not see? If you allow him to rise as the Sword, he will amass power
enough to rend the Kingdom. Is this why you abandoned your child? Is this the fruit of your
neglect — a son who grows into a blade you cannot sheathe?" His words were cruelly
sharpened with triumph.
A hush fell. It was not merely speech — it was a gauntlet thrown. The minister's followers
stiffened behind him like spears waiting to be raised.
The king's face darkened. A dangerous quiet wrapped him; the crown above his brow looked
suddenly heavier. His voice, when it came, was low and cold. "Mind your place, minister," he
said through clenched teeth. "You are not my father. You are no more than the voice of the
court."
The minister's sneer widened. He pressed on, careless of protocol now that he had the
court's momentum at his back. "Do not pretend you now care for him. You abandoned the boy when he was most in need. You ignore him in the palace halls and hide behind scrolls
and decrees. Do not call this concern. If you truly do not want the kingdom to be consumed
by your son's power, remove the decree at once."
Gasps and mutters rose like waves. A dozen ministers angled themselves between
accusation and king, watching the exchange with the hungry patience of those who would
feed on a ruler's weakness. The queen's cheeks flamed; her father's words were a public brand against the throne.
The king's jaw tightened until the skin at the corner of his mouth trembled. Pride, shame, and a thousand unspoken regrets warred behind his eyes. He rose from his seat in slow,
deliberate motion — a monarch who would not be bullied from his decisions.
"You would lecture me on fatherhood?" he said, each word sharp as a blade. "You would tell me how I must love my sons?" His voice rolled through the hall like thunder. "Be careful of your tongue. You stand here as a minister at the pleasure of my crown, not as an avenger for your daughter. Do not mistake your audacity for righteousness."
He leaned forward so that his face was inches from the man's. "I will not take away the
decree," he continued, cold and absolute. "If Prince Taehyung breaks the peace and raises
his blade against the throne, the law will fall upon him. He will be stripped of status and
executed. That is the price of rebellion. I will not allow the realm to be dragged into ruin —
neither out of cowardice nor out of indulgence."
The minister swallowed, fury and fear warring in his wound-like expression. He had intended
to intimidate, to pull the king back by public shame; instead he had provoked steel. Around
them, the hall buzzed with a new current of caution. Those who had legged themselves
against Taehyung's rise found their voices smaller now, measured and thin.
As the tension in the hall burst and the ministers resumed their councils in lesser tones, a dozen pairs of eyes flicked to the corridor beyond the great doors. They had watched a boy refuse a throne and claim a title that threatened the balance of power — and they all knew a different kind of war had just begun.
Outside the chamber, in the shadowed corridors, Taehyung's figure had already disappeared into the palace. He moved like a man who carried a verdict rather than a victory. Some soldiers, watching silently from the anterooms, exchanged glances of alarm and begrudging respect. The old trainer, standing among them, simply pressed his lips together and let the lad's decision settle in his chest like a bell.
Prince Yul — who had watched his brother in court and felt the ground shift beneath his own
ambitions — sat very still. His jaw worked once, and then he looked away. The queen's
father had scored a point in the public eye, but the king's reply had been a blade of a
different order. Both sides had been wounded; both had tasted blood.
On the thresholds of power, men adjusted their stances. Alliances would be tested. Loyalties
would be measured against the drumbeat of a boy's choice. The day the Sword had been
named, the very architecture of the palace seemed altered — halls that once whispered
convention now echoed with the promise of a blade.
And somewhere — beyond the gilded windows and the murmuring courts — the world continued, unaware of the slow burn that had been lit within the kingdom's heart.