In the middle of it all:
Haneul, sticky-handed, cheeks bulging with dough and honey, standing on tiptoe to reach a tray of steaming buns cooling on the counter. He grinned—flashing white teeth through a haze of steam and powdered sugar—and held up a bun to Seungho, already bitten on both ends.
“You want it?”
A muffled offer, innocent and obscene, half invitation, half dare.
Seungho stared. He took a bite.
The kitchen froze as if some ritual had just been performed, a peace offering in sugar and defiance.
The cook bowed, hands trembling. Haneul licked his fingers with open delight, wiped them on his new robe without shame, and announced—loudly, to the horror of every staff member present—
“Next time make them bigger. And more filling. Or I’ll freeze your entire pantry.”
The king did not laugh. Not outwardly.
But his eyes—those impossible, coal-bright eyes—lingered on Haneul for the length of two heartbeats longer than any concubine, any general, any other soul in the palace.
??????
The next stop was the garden.
The palace gardens sprawled across terraces and shallow pools, wildflowers running riot between stone lanterns and sculpted pines. Haneul bounded into the riot of color like a fox loosed in a dream. He twirled, hopped, spun circles in the dew-drenched grass, trailing frost from his fingers to watch the petals shiver and curl.
He scolded bees for their noise—“Keep it down, I’m thinking”—and whispered to the wind as if it might answer. He chased dragonflies. He smiled, a wild, soft, fleeting thing that made Seungho ache in places he’d never acknowledged to himself.
And then—
Seungho stepped on a snail.
Barely audible, a tinycrunchbeneath the heel of his boot.
Haneul froze.
Turned.
Eyes wide, mouth falling open in pure, horrified betrayal.
“How could you?!”
The words rang through the garden like a death sentence.
Seungho blinked.
Haneul stormed toward him, braid lashing behind his shoulder, finger pointed with the full might of ancestral judgment.
“You and your OVERSIZED PAWS!!” Haneul bellowed, voice high and sharp, every syllable a wound.
“You’ve got no sense of—ugh!!”
He dropped to his knees at the side of the snail, a deadly warrior, whip of men in battle, mourning over the broken shell with the gravity of a funeral. Seungho tried to speak, but Haneul silenced him with a single, furious hand.
“Don’t. Just… don’t.”
The king stood there.
Utterly defeated by a snail.
