The servants froze—one holding a tray of quail eggs, another trembling with a pot of tea. Haneul’s eyes flickered across thespread, and then, without hesitation, he veereddirectlyfor the king’s table. He didn’t bow, nor wait for permission.
He planted himself in front of Seungho—who blinked up, equal parts amused and hungry and too exhausted to mask it. Every head in the room swiveled, mouths tightening, fans quivering, jaws slack with horror.
Haneul surveyed the table as if searching for the meaning of life, then—deliberate, silent—he reached past the painted courtier, past the gilded serving chopsticks, and snatched a custard-filled bun straight from Seungho’s lacquered dish.
A gasp rippled through the court—a sizzle of outrage, disbelief, and fascination.
Haneul didn’t pause. He bit the bun clean in half, cream spilling over his bottom lip, crumbs falling on his collarbone. He chewed, head tilted, expression turning over in theatrical, savage thought.
He frowned.
Swallowed.
Looked Seungho dead in the eye and, with a flick of his thumb, presses the half-eaten bunbackonto the king’s plate.
“Decent,” he said, loud enough for the entire hall to hear, “but it doesn’t have enough filling. Your clan cooks like shit.”
He shrugged—regal, unbothered,fabulous—and turned away, walking back across the hall, custard still at the edge of his mouth, as if he had just pronounced a holy verdict and expected the world to thank him.
Behind him, the Fire King’s expression cracked open—first shock, then the start of a slow, dangerous grin, something wicked and delighted and utterly infuriated.
Around them, silence was a living thing.
A harem girl dropped her fan.
An old general spitted tea into his beard.
The Frost commander wasvibratingwith anger and shame, jaw twitching, fists balled under the tablecloth.
As Haneul slid back into his seat, the commander leaned in, voice a low growl meant to lacerate, “Do you haveanyconcept of shame? Of protocol? You could have cost us a year’s truce with that stunt—”
Haneul didn’t even look at him.
He reached for his own plain rice, bit off a chunk, and shrugged again, mouth still full.
“If he wanted to keep his buns, he should have guarded them better.”
Laughter, sharp and stifled, bursted from Jeong down the table.
A few of the Frost boys snickered behind their sleeves, daring to be proud for a breath.
Across the hall, Seungho lifted the bitten bun, inspects the half-moon of teeth marks, and—without breaking eye contact—ate the rest in one savage, silent bite.
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CHAPTER TEN– The Sky That Would Not Bow
The main hall was thick with incense and old songs, the columns braced in silk banners—Fire red, Frost blue, the ghostly Sky white braided between, a political wound made visible, colors bleeding together and refusing to blend. Courtiers and captains stood at either side of the throne dais, robes painted with sigils that meant nothing outside these walls. The air itself tasted of iron and honey, sharp with the promise of peace nobody believed.
Seungho sat at the center, straight-backed, face carved from stone and shadow. His eyes burned with sleeplessness—red-rimmed, dark with a hunger no body could sate. The women of his harem—exhausted, perfumed, listless—drifted at the edges of the scene, their role spent and their king more remote than ever.
At the tables below, the Frost Clan seethed in too-bright silks, clutching lacquered cases and heavy travel cloaks. The commander’s jaw ticked as he recited the formal vows:
—May fire be warmth, not death.
—May frost be shelter, not blade.
—May both remember what cannot be buried or burned.
