“Since I already… desecrated your bed… with my blood… and sweat… when I crashed there… with the fever…” He trailed off, yawning mid-sentence, body settling, heavy and real.
“…how about I just sleep there forever?” Another yawn. “And you can take another room and comfy futon if you want… or just sleep with me in the same bed forever.”
No punchline. No bravado. Haneul meant it, plain as day.
Then his breath deepened. His body slackened, magic settling like gold leaf over firelight. He was gone, snoring softly, cheek pillowed on Seungho’s arm, legs flopped around him like ribbons.
Seungho stared down at the storm in his arms—hair wild across his chest, skin warm, chest rising and falling slow and even.
You’re not just staying,he thought.You’ve claimed the throne.
He lifted Haneul, gentle now, careful not to wake him, cradling him to his chest. Haneul mumbled something about dumplings and frostbite—Seungho hushed him, carried him back to the royal chamber, and tucked him into the bed. No. Haneul’s bed now. Forever.
Seungho sat beside him, watching the glow of Haneul’s magic core flicker gold in sleep. He did not leave.
??????
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX– The One Who Eats Palaces
The sun had begun to burn the dew to steam, gilding the palace rooftops in a haze that clung like breath after a fever. Red and gold banners hung heavy—less with morning mist now, more with the weight of heat not yet released. Somewhere in the trees, cicadas tuned their instruments, not yet in full chorus, but enough to remind the court: spring was over. The season was turning.
Seungho sat atop his lacquered throne and tried not to fidget like a soldier left behind on campaign. Around him: the drone of ministers, the clatter of ledgers, the hiss of political snakes coiling for advantage.
He was not built for these mornings. Not after nights like that.
A new energy ran through the palace, thin and feverish as fever itself. Servants glanced at him and then away, their mouths tight with unspoken rumors. Somewhere, faintly, Seungho heard the chime of tokens—small, metal, unmistakable—as if his mind could conjure the sound of Haneul’s braid wherever he wished it. He fought the urge to smile.
He did not see Haneul at breakfast.
He did not find him in the training yard, or the shadowed halls, or sprawled like a corpse in the library as he sometimes did after sleepless nights.
Nothing. Just a quiet disappearance sometime after sunset, leaving the king to wake alone with only a cup of cooled tea and the faintest frost tracing the window lattice.
Seungho was starting to understand that Haneul needed to vanish at times. But he did not like it.
The seat beside the throne—a place of no official standing, but now watched by every eye—remained empty. And that, more than anything, sent ripples through the room.
Ji-ho lounged in the far corner, arms crossed, a lazy grin playing on his lips. He caught Seungho’s eye and arched a brow, as if to say: you’ve lost track of your new favorite already?
A whisper at the king’s shoulder—his oldest advisor, all silver whiskers and wary eyes:
"My lord, I saw Lady Danbi passing through the east gardens. Alone. I believe the… ice clan guest was there before sunrise."
A flicker of irritation, sharp and territorial, flashed through Seungho’s chest. He straightened in his seat, jaw tight.
"Shall I send for them, sire?"
"No. I’ll handle it."
??????
Haneul was always drawn to the wildest corners—the places where walls ended and nature bit back. The palace garden was nothing like home, but it was quiet, and sometimes quiet was the only air he could breathe.
By midmorning, the gardens sweated perfume. Not the clean sweetness of spring, but the cloying crush of overbloomed lilies and water warmed past comfort. The koi pond smelled of stone and algae, rich and slow. The sky felt too close. Even the shadows had teeth.
He perched on the rough stone rim of the koi pond, knees drawn up, braid trailing in the water, tokens clinking with each careless fidget. He fed the fish crumbs from a stolen rice cake, brow furrowed in deep, existential study.
Danbi approached like a ripple of perfume—honeysuckle wilting in too much sun, silk and sweat beneath the lacquer. Her beauty sharpened in the heat, made bold by the season’s ruthless clarity.
