A few courtiers glanced away, uncomfortable with the truth in his words.
Seungho’s jaw tightened, caught between exasperation and something like pride.
“Eat your breakfast, Sky,” he muttered, voice rough.
Haneul smirked faintly, dipping another dumpling into sauce. “Only because I’m hungrier than you are.” His sauce-slick fingers brushed Seungho’s sleeve—not childish, just claiming space.
The king caught his hand—first gently, then firmer. Their eyes met, the court holding its breath. Every rumor was born right there, in the stretch of silence between them.
Ji-ho, lounging by a pillar, smirked, voice pitched to carry. “So it’s clear—my hyung’s lost his damn mind. Should I prepare for a wedding, or just more broken furniture?”
The king’s gaze didn’t waver. “Tell the kitchens: no more persimmons. They make the court too talkative.”
Ji-ho laughed, tossing a plum in the air. “Whatever you say, hyung. I’ll start writing invitations.”
Danbi’s perfume lingered—sweet, desperate, defeated.
But no one touched Haneul’s braid again.
??????
The court meal dissolved in tension—servants clearing plates with trembling hands, nobles making hasty excuses, Danbi vanishing with her entourage, fury barely concealed under the gloss of protocol. Haneul sat with his chin in one palm, brow arched, eyes fixed on nothing, gnawing the edge of a honey cake as if he could bite the world in half.
Seungho rose last. Not a king now, but a man storming through a room that had become a cage. Ji-ho lounged against a pillar in the colonnade, arms crossed, mouth curled in an infuriating half-smirk, waiting. A few loyalists clustered near, pretending not to watch, caught between fear and fascination.
As Seungho approached, Ji-ho’s smile sharpened. “So,” he drawled, low enough for only his brother to hear. “Has it come to this? Our clan’s fate tied to a mad winter demon who can’t even sit through a meal without starting a war?”
Seungho’s jaw clenched, shoulders broadening with restrained fury. “He’s under my protection. And you’d do well to remember what happens when you question my word in public.”
Ji-ho tilted his head, feigning boredom. “Oh, I remember. I just wonder if the rest of the council does. You’ve staked your honor on a boy who doesn’t even know the rules of the table.” He flicked his gaze toward the echoing hall, where Haneul’s laughter still hung like a curse. “What do you think happens when the Ice Clan sends an envoy? When they demand their weapon back and find you’ve made him your consort in everything but name? And spring doesn’t last forever, hyung. Even the softest thaw ends in flood”
“Let them send an envoy,” Seungho said, low, dangerous. “Let them try.”
Ji-ho’s smirk twisted. “Is it pride, hyung? Or are you just…lonely?”
A muscle in Seungho’s jaw jumped. “Say that again.”
“Does he know?” Ji-ho pressed, relentless now, voice a blade in the dark. “What you’ve risked? What you’ve lost to keep him breathing in your bed, shaming our father’s blood? Or are you just hoping no one’s watching the king bleed himself dry for a boy who’d bite the hand that feeds him?”
The words slammed into the silence, bitter and true as old wounds. Seungho stood like a statue, fury banked in the dark pits of his eyes. Then, softer, aching in the way only brothers can wound each other:
“I don’t care. I won’t let anyone take him. Not you. Not the council. Not his ghosts.”
Ji-ho went silent—studying his brother’s face, hunting for the old iron certainty, the unshakable core that had led armies. For a moment, neither moved. The wind flickered in the colonnade. Somewhere behind them, a courtier coughed, a dog barked in the far gardens.
Ji-ho’s voice dropped, barely audible. “He’s changed you. For better or worse—”
“For truth,” Seungho cut in, voice raw.
Ji-ho’s eyes flashed—jealous, hurt, a little afraid. “Just remember, brother. The world burns things it doesn’t understand. Don’t let him be your ruin.”
He vanished into shadow, leaving Seungho alone, every nerve burning with loyalty and dread.
Unseen, from the far corner behind a screen, Haneul lingered—half-shadow, half-storm, listening with narrowed eyes. Hecouldn’t parse every word, but he caught enough: the anger, the fear, the truth no one had spoken aloud.
A strange ache caught in his chest. Not jealousy. Not shame. Something rawer.
The understanding that he might be the cost.
