“I cannot believe that oversized lunatic with questionable taste in robe colors didn’t gut me while I was unconscious,” he mutters, scowling at a stall. “What kind of warlord lets his mortal enemy collapse at his feet and doesn’t even steal a finger or something? Am I supposed to be grateful? Idiot.”
He’s halfway through this rant when a merchant’s call catches his ear:
“Lotus tea! Sourced from the mountain springs of Jirisan—refined, rare—”
Haneul stops dead.
“Lotus?” His head tilts, bright and dangerous. “That’s his flavor. So the whispers say.”
The merchant stares, baffled. “…Pardon?”
He taps his chin, grins like a devil. “I’ll buy it. All of it.”
“All?” the merchant echoes.
“All.”
Two hours later, his allowance is gone and his stomach is eating itself, but Haneul is marching barefoot up the mountain road, the finest parcel of lotus tea in both hands, ribbons and all, headed straight for disaster.
The Fire King’s castle rises before him—obsidian walls, smoke curling from volcanic vents, sigils burning along the black stone. Haneul doesn’t hesitate. He marches right to the front gate, plants his heel, and kicks.
“OY, OVERSIZED MORON KING! I’VE GOT A GIFT FOR YOU, OPEN UP BEFORE I FREEZE YOUR WALLS OFF!”
Inside, the war chamber goes silent. Seungho looks up, eyes narrowing with a slow, dangerous delight.
A guard pokes his head in, face pale.
“My Lord. Haneul of the Frost Clan is at the gate. With… tea.”
Seungho stands, a smile splitting his face, wolfish and amused. “Let him in,” he says, already rising. “Now.”
The castle guards stepped aside—once when they saw Haneul’s face, again when they caught the look in his eyes. No one dared to stop him. He strode barefoot through the obsidian halls, braid bouncing against his back, golden-blue robes flickering like banners in a cold wind. His feet slapped the polished floors, echoing down the marble spine of the Fire King’s palace.
Maids scattered. One reached for a cloak that wasn’t there—Haneul bared his teeth and she vanished, skirts flying. Guards along the columns stared, silent, not knowing if they should salute, run, or laugh. On the mezzanine, painted harem girls watched with idle curiosity, heads tipped, as if trying to decide whether he was a fox spirit, a wild prince, or just some beautiful madman lost in the wrong myth.
He stomped down the length of the throne hall, every step a slap of stubborn fury, until he reached the dais where Seungho waited—arms crossed, eyes bright, a smile already twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Haneul dropped the parcel of lotus tea at Seungho’s boots—Like an accusation. Like a dead rat tossed at a king’s feet.He glared, then snatched it up again, scowling at his own hesitation, shoved it into Seungho’s hands, nearly spilling the contents.
“There,” he snapped, voice cutting and breathless. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought. Now we’re even.”
He jabbed a finger into Seungho’s chest—magic sparking from the tip, a single, sharp snowflake that melted instantly, sending up a curl of steam.
“You tried to kill me and stole a piece of my mask. I nearly castrated you. You should have ended me but you didn’t, which was a big mistake, and now I thank you with this stupidly expensive tea, so now we are even”
He leaned closer, eyes furious, voice pitched just for Seungho.
“Hope you choke on it.”
He spun, braid whipping, raising a hand in a flippant wave—done with this, done with him, done with the world that refused to let him rest.
He didn’t make it three steps.
Seungho’s hand closed around his wrist—gentle, unyielding, unmistakable. Haneul gasped, whole body seizing with the shock of touch, the sudden nearness. He froze, breath caught, heart pounding against his ribs.
Seungho pulled him back, slow and deliberate, until their faces were inches apart, until Haneul had no choice but to look up—blue eyes burning, lips parted, chest rising and falling.
Seungho smiled—not cruelly, not sweetly, but with a dangerous softness, something raw and real that cut straight to the bone.
