“Promise.”
“Fine,” I say, and tuck it into the armor at my heart like I’m hiding a prayer.
His gaze finds the ribbon at my wrist, violet against the chain. He touches it gently, the way you touch a thread holding something precious together.
“Keep this too.”
“I was going to.”
We stand there, breathing the same air, as the palace finishes rearranging itself around our choices. Bells begin to toll—low, then lower—calling courtiers to their marks, summoning soldiers to theirs. The sound crawls along my spine.
“I hate this balcony,” I tell him.
“I hate its king,” he says, and it shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does.
“If you don’t come back—” I start.
“I will,” he says, and then softer, for the place in me that doesn’t believe in promises made on battle mornings, “and if I have to crawl, I’ll crawl.”
I lean up and press my mouth to his—quick, salt-slick, not enough and exactly all there is time for. When we part, I hold his face in both hands so I can memorize him past the war.
“Don’t leave me again,” I whisper.
He nods once, and there’s a shine to his eyes I’ve never seen in daylight.
“I’ll leave,” he says, “and then I’ll arrive. Over and over. Until it annoys you.”
“It won’t.”
“It will,” he insists, and for a heartbeat we almost smile like ordinary people.
Another bell. Louder. Minji’s signal in the hall—two knuckles on wood, pause, two more. Time. He steps back. I feel it like cold air. He looks at the balcony doors, then at me, and the look says more than any vow:I don’t know how to do this without touching you, but I’m learning because you asked me to.
“I’ll watch for your signal,” I say, holding up our ribboned wrist.
“Watch for mine,” he answers, tapping his chest. “You’ll feel it.”
He turns toward the door.
“Taeyang,” I call.
He stops.
“Come back angry,” I say. “Not empty.”
He nods once.
“I will.”
And then he is gone, carrying my breath with him like a stolen lantern.
I stand alone a moment longer, listening to the new shape of my heartbeat. Then I wipe my face, lift my chin, and walk to the balcony where the court has arranged a chair like a throne and a rail like a collar.
The King is already there, looking at the army like a gardener surveys weeds. He does not meet my gaze. He will. Later.
I take my place at the warding focus. The runes under the rail glow faintly, waiting for my hands. I set my palms to the marks and feel the magic flood up, bright and biting—compliance disguised as power. The chain at my wrist hums; the ribbon warms like a hand closing around mine.
Far below, a dark figure moves to the northern line. No crown. No leash. Just a vow in a body that refuses to stay broken.
