Several weeks later, Woojun learned that routine was a lie the palace told itself.
At first, nothing changed.
He cleaned corridors no one walked through, polished crystal banisters that reflected his face back at him like a ghost, and kept his head bowed as servants passed in careful silence. The king remained distant—felt in the air, in the way magic stirred uneasily whenever Taekook walked the halls, but never seen.
Woojun told himself that was good.
Then the summons came.
He was called to the steward's chamber just after dawn, when the palace was quiet and the light cut pale through the stained-glass windows. The steward did not ask him to sit.
"You've been reassigned," the elf said, voice neutral. "By direct order of His Majesty."
Woojun's stomach dropped.
"To… where?" he asked carefully.
The steward's eyes flicked up, sharp and measuring. "You will serve the king directly. His chambers. His schedule. His presence."
The words rang in his ears.
Personal servant.
Fear pressed against his ribs, tight and familiar. He bowed automatically. "I—I don't think I'm suited for that position."
"That decision is not yours."
Of course it wasn't.
By midday, his belongings—meager as they were—had been moved. By nightfall, he stood outside the king's chambers once more, hands folded, breath shallow.
This time, the doors were open.
The space was vast, illuminated by soft, hovering light. Shelves of ancient tomes lined the walls. The scent of magic was stronger here—deeper, heavier. Not threatening. Watchful.
"You're late," a voice said.
Woojun stiffened.
Taekook stood near the balcony, backlit by the stars, crown discarded somewhere unseen. He looked different up close—less distant than the legends, more dangerous in his quiet stillness.
"I was told to report at sunset," Woojun said quickly, dropping to one knee.
"Stand."
He obeyed.
Taekook turned slowly, golden eyes settling on him with unreadable intent. "You know why you're here?"
Woojun hesitated. "To serve, Your Majesty."
"Yes." A pause. "And because you are quiet."
Woojun blinked.
"I do not need devotion," the king continued. "Or ambition. I need someone who will see what is required—and do it. Nothing more."
"I can do that," Woojun said. He meant it.
Taekook studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "You will remain within these chambers unless dismissed. You will speak when spoken to. And you will not touch anything that does not belong to you."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
The king turned back to the balcony.
Woojun remained where he stood, heart racing, unaware that the distance between servant and king had just narrowed in a way neither of them fully understood.
And in a palace built on power, silence, and broken vows, that closeness was the most dangerous thing of all.
Woojun learned quickly that serving the king meant learning silence all over again.
Not the enforced kind—the one beaten into him—but a different, sharper awareness. When Taekook worked, the air itself seemed to listen. Magic hummed low beneath the stone floors, responding to the king's presence like a loyal beast.
Woojun moved carefully through it all.
He memorized where the light dimmed in the evenings, how the crystal windows caught moonlight, which books the king never touched. Some mornings, Taekook would leave before dawn, and Woojun would erase every sign of his presence before the sun rose—cooling abandoned tea, smoothing the bedcovers, airing out robes heavy with power.
He never lingered.
Old habits were hard to kill.
When something shattered—once, a glass vial slipping from his hands—Woojun flinched before it hit the floor. His body folded inward, arms raised instinctively to shield his face.
Nothing came.
No strike. No magic tearing through his skin.
Only silence.
"You can leave that," Taekook said from across the chamber, not looking up from the papers spread before him. "It was cracked already."
Woojun stared.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said after a beat, hands trembling as he backed away.
He did not understand kindness without cost. It made him uneasy. Waiting for punishment was easier than adjusting to mercy.
At night, he slept lightly in the small adjoining room assigned to him—close enough to hear the king move, far enough to remind him of his place. Dreams came often. Not of his old world—those memories had dulled—but of wings folding around him, of laughter that turned sharp, of magic burning where hands should have healed.
He woke before dawn every time.
Once, Taekook noticed the shadows beneath his eyes.
"You don't rest," the king said.
Woojun hesitated. Then, truth slipped out before he could stop it. "I rest better when I'm useful."
The words hung between them.
Taekook's jaw tightened—not in anger, but in something heavier. "You are not owned," he said flatly. "No one here has the right to you."
Woojun bowed his head. He did not trust his voice.
Later, alone, Taekook stood before the balcony long after the palace slept, fingers curling against the stone railing.
A human who flinched at sound. Who expected pain where none was given. Who mistook survival for loyalty.
Taekook had freed the slaves.
But freedom, he was beginning to understand, did not undo what had already been taken.
And that knowledge unsettled him far more than hatred ever had.
Sleep did not come easily.
When it did, it never stayed kind.
Woojun dreamed of light first—too bright, too white—crystal halls stretching endlessly beneath his bare feet. Chains did not bind him anymore, yet his body still moved as if they did.
Then her presence bled into the dream.
Laughter.
Soft. Musical. Wrong.
Yuna's voice wrapped around him like silk pulled too tight. "Look up," it said. "You should be grateful." His body trembled even before the fear reached his mind.
He tried to speak. No sound came.
Magic flared—sharp, cold, unseen—and his knees hit the floor. The pain itself stayed distant, blurred, but the expectation of it was unbearable. The way his breath caught. The way his hands curled inward, bracing for something that always came.
"Beautiful things should know their place."
Her shadow loomed, wings spreading wide enough to blot out the light. Fingers brushed his chin, forcing his face upward—not gentle, never gentle—and the dream twisted, tightening around his chest until breathing hurt.
Woojun woke with a sharp gasp.
Darkness. Silence.
His hands were clenched in the sheets, knuckles white. His heart pounded as if it were still trying to escape her voice. It took several long moments before he realized where he was—small room, stone walls, no chains, no laughter.
No Yuna.
Still, he did not lie back down.
He sat until dawn, knees drawn to his chest, watching the faint light creep across the floor. When morning finally came, he washed his face carefully, as if fear might still be clinging to his skin.
By the time he entered the king's chambers, his expression was composed.
Only his eyes gave him away.
Taekook noticed.
He did not comment.
But that night, the palace wards around the servants' quarters quietly strengthened—magic weaving itself tighter than before.