Chapter Text
The palace slept beneath a blanket of gold and quiet.
Autumn had crept in without warning, softening the edges of summer's heat with brittle leaves and breathless silence. The ancient stone courtyard shimmered under pale moonlight, and the still waters of the lake stretched wide and silver, calm as glass. No ripple stirred its surface—only the occasional falling leaf from the ginkgo trees floated atop it like sleeping butterflies.
Beyond the gardens, a pavilion stood above the water on stilts, painted red and framed with dragon-carved beams. From its eaves hung a wind-catcher—a slip of blue silk tied to a sliver of jade. It swayed gently, catching the breeze like a breath held between lips.
Chime.
The wind teased it once. Chime-chime. Again.
The sound was delicate, faint—something easily mistaken for a dream. The kind of sound one might hear before a storm. Or a death.
Then—
SPLASH.
Water exploded beneath the pavilion, violently and suddenly. The surface shattered as two bodies hit it, thrown without hesitation, without grace. A soft gasp might have escaped one of them. Or maybe the wind lied.
A figure stood at the edge of the pavilion. Cloaked in black, face hidden behind a mask of bone-white porcelain. His breathing was steady. Measured. The hem of his robes fluttered in the wind, but his hands were still. Unshaken.
He watched them sink—watched the bubbles rise, watched the dark shapes fall through moonlight and water like ink through rice paper.
One body, smaller. Fragile-looking. White silk robes clung to narrow shoulders, sleeves too long for slender wrists. The prince.
The other, taller. Broader. The court advisor—a boy whose spectacles had once always slipped down his nose. Now gone.
The masked man lingered. Not long. Not lovingly. Only long enough to ensure they sank.
He turned, footsteps light across the creaking wood. He vanished into the whispering trees as if he'd never been there at all.
The wind caught the jade slip once more.
Chime.
The lake went still again. As if it had never been disturbed. As if it hadn't just swallowed two lives whole.
But below the surface, something had shifted. Something ancient stirred.
Something hungry opened its eyes.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Before the lake. Before the plunge. Before the rebirth.
There was a castle on the edge of a withered world.
Stone-boned and ancient, it stood nestled between the curled spines of an ash-grey forest—trees stripped of leaves, their skeletal branches scratching the silver sky like forgotten hands. The castle loomed like a ghost among them, its towers breaking through the moonlight like frozen flames. Ivy clung to its walls like veins, thick and black, pulsing with the remnants of centuries-old magic. The air smelled of iron and roses left too long in the cold.
This was the kingdom of the dead.
And Yeonjun was its king.
Alone, he walked the halls of his court—bare feet silent against cracked marble. The wind moved through the broken windows like breath through a corpse, stirring only the edge of his cloak. His crown had long since rusted. His throne sat untouched, its once-gleaming obsidian dulled by time and dust.
He had ruled over everything. And yet… nothing.
Vampires do not die. They fade.
And Yeonjun had been fading for years. His name was no longer feared, only remembered like a bedtime warning. His enemies were long buried. His kingdom was hollowed out by eternity. Servants gone. Lovers lost. Friends forgotten.
He had lived too long for love to last.
He had grown too cold for warmth to stay.
But that night—the final night—the moon was full and watching.
He stood in the garden behind the throne room, where frost clung to thornbushes and winter bit into stone. At the very heart of it, blooming impossibly through the cold, was a single black rose. Its petals shimmered like velvet soaked in night. Dew beaded its thorns like blood—unspilled but waiting.
He stepped forward.
A whisper curled in the air as he did. Smoke without fire. A voice without a body.
"You are not cursed, Yeonjun."
"You are waiting."
The witch had come to him once, long ago. With silver eyes and an ageless smile, she had offered no vengeance, no wrath—only prophecy.
"When you have outlived everything, the rose will bloom."
"It will be your end, if that is what you choose."
"Or it will be your beginning—if you can bear to want again."
The black rose tilted toward him, as if listening.
He was tired. So tired. Of centuries without touch. Of craving without name. Of blood that never warmed him. Of immortality, that meant nothing if no one stayed.
And still—
He reached for it.
Fingertips brushed petals.
The world paused.
And then— it shattered.
His lungs collapsed with the weight of a thousand unspoken wants. His veins froze, then burned. The air was torn from his throat as if Death herself had kissed him. Darkness poured through him—not cruel, but final. Like a lullaby sung by the stars, promising, "This time, sleep."
He fell.
Petals scattered.
The rose withered.
And deep in the garden, the witch's echo lingered—soft, mournful, almost kind:
"Let him die for what he once was."
"Let him wake for what he might become."
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
In a city that never slept, somewhere beneath glass towers and neon lights, there was a quiet office untouched by the world above.
It was late. The hour when even the street rats stopped running. The only sound in the room was the low hum of jazz playing on a vintage turntable, barely audible over the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Somewhere in the distance, sirens whined, muffled by thick concrete walls and bulletproof glass.
Soobin sat behind a mahogany desk, its surface immaculate—papers stacked, pen aligned, a half-empty glass of whiskey untouched. He wore a black turtleneck, slacks, and a holstered pistol beneath his coat. Cold, sharp-eyed, lips parted slightly as he read the document before him.
The city called him Boss .
But he hadn't slept in three days.
The shadows in the room danced as the door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall.
Soobin looked up.
A man stood in the doorway—his most trusted, his right hand. No name needed. A ghost born of loyalty, raised in the underground alongside him. His eyes were steady. The gun in his hand, even steadier.
Soobin didn't move.
Not when the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest.
Not even when betrayal sank into the air like poison.
The music kept playing.
"You're quiet," the man said.
"I'm thinking," Soobin replied softly.
"Still too slow."
A bitter smile tugged at Soobin's lips. "You should've aimed for the head."
The man stepped closer. His finger didn't tremble. "That's the thing. You don't get a clean death. You don't deserve one."
"So this is it?" Soobin asked. "A coup? After everything?"
"No." The man's voice cracked like old glass. "It's mercy. You're weak. You've always been weak—soft where you shouldn't be. You trusted people. And that made the entire organisation bleed."
Soobin stood now, slowly. No weapon. No fear. Only the quiet burn of something raw behind his dark eyes.
"I built this empire," he said. "I turned rats into kings. I fed you when you had nothing. I gave you a name."
"You gave us chains," the man growled. "You started caring more about people than control. Loyalty makes you human. Humans die."
Soobin chuckled once, low and humourless. "Then go ahead. Show me you're stronger."
He didn't flinch when the shot rang out.
The bullet hit his chest, just left of his heart. Close enough to kill. Cold enough to burn.
Soobin stumbled backwards, eyes wide for a second. Not in fear.
In disappointment.
No one rushed in to save him. No guards. No sirens. No last-minute twist.
Just him.
Dying in the silence of a room he'd designed to be untouchable.
The jazz song crackled into its final note.
As he collapsed, his blood painted the floor beneath him—a slow, blooming stain. He looked up at the ceiling, eyes losing focus, and thought:
So this is how it ends…
Not with a war. Not with glory.
But with the only thing I ever did wrong.
Trust.
Then darkness.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
It began with pain.
An unbearable burn in his chest. Then panic. His limbs flailed in the cold pressure crushing against his lungs. Water flooded his throat, slick and suffocating. Yeonjun's eyes snapped open beneath the surface—murky, dark, and endless. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.
He was drowning.
His hands clawed at the weight of the lake, trying to push himself up—desperate, thrashing—until he saw it.
Another body.
Sinking deeper, motionless.
He hesitated.
Instinct screamed live, breathe, swim —and he almost did. He almost broke the surface. But something—something cold and ancient in him turned his head. He dove.
Fingers gripped fabric. His arms wrapped around the broad torso. The man's head lolled. His weight dragged them down like a stone.
Yeonjun kicked hard, lungs screaming, vision darkening—but he didn't let go.
Not even when everything began to fade.
And then—
Light.
Breath.
The sound of screaming and splashing and—
"Your Highness!"
Hands yanked him from the lake. Cold air hit his soaked skin. He gasped—water gushed from his mouth in violent coughs, his body convulsing. He felt it—a thump. Then another. A third.
His heart.
His heart was beating.
It wasn't supposed to beat. Not again. Not after the rose. Not after the curse.
He collapsed on the grass as people swarmed, voices chattering in panic and relief, calling him what they never used to—"Your Highness." As if he mattered. As if he'd ever been wanted.
But then—
A gasp.
A shout.
The man he'd dragged out jolted upright, coughing violently as the servants backed away. Water poured from his mouth, and his eyes shot open—wild, bloodshot, furious.
"Where the fuck—"
A towel touched his head.
"Get your fucking hands off me!"
The shout silenced everything.
Gasps echoed.
Soobin yanked the towel from the servant and wrapped it around himself, eyes sharp and feral. His chest rose and fell in tight bursts. His gaze flicked around—strangers in hanbok, moonlight, lake, trees, and confusion.
And then—
He saw Yeonjun.
Wet. Silent. Staring at him.
They locked eyes.
Recognition flickered. Not of memories—but of the lake, the drowning, the pull.
"Your Highness, please," a servant murmured, tugging Yeonjun to his feet. "Let us bring you to your quarters—"
Another pulled Soobin. "Sir, you must change before you fall sick—"
Protests fell flat as they were whisked away—separate paths, parallel confusion. Neither knew who the other was.
Not yet.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The room was massive.
Yeonjun stood motionless inside the maroon chamber, velvet curtains swaying gently, the scent of jasmine and amber wrapping around him like silk. Gold accents. Oak carvings. Crystal chandeliers. And a bed too big for someone so alone.
He didn't recognise a thing.
Not the marble floors. Not the candles. Not the walls lined with paintings. And especially not the servants who bowed and whispered "Your Highness" like they meant it.
The bath was drawn.
He sank into the water, petals brushing against his collarbones, warmth seeping into his bones. A hand gently rubbed products into his scalp.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
For a moment, he could pretend he wasn't completely lost.
But when he opened them again, nothing made sense.
His memories were fragments. Faces he couldn't place. Rooms he'd never seen. And when he finally dressed and dismissed the servants, he stood before the grand mirror with the weight of the night pressing in on him.
He looked normal.
Except—
The eye.
Blue.
Not vampire. Not human.
Omega.
He stumbled back, blinking, jaw tight. He knew what that meant. He'd ruled a world filled with werewolves once. He knew the power, the hierarchy, the scent, the bloodline. But this?
This wasn't possible.
And yet… here he stood.
Alive.
Changed.
And most terrifying of all—feeling again.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The halls were silent as he wandered, slippered feet gliding over rich red carpet. Moonlight poured through arched windows, casting silver streaks over oil paintings—faces too familiar, names just out of reach.
He stopped.
One painting showed himself.
And beside him… that man. The one from the lake.
He walked faster.
He pulled the robe tighter as the wind snuck through open windows. At the end of the corridor, the balcony door stood open, curtains dancing.
And then—he saw him.
Tall. Broad. Backlit by moonlight.
His scent hit first, calming like rain on moss, layered with quiet power. Clearly an alpha.
Yeonjun stepped forward.
"You," he said. "From the lake."
The man turned.
Red eyes.
Still soaking wet.
Soobin didn't speak. He lunged.
A hand wrapped around Yeonjun's throat, pinning him to the balcony railing. Yeonjun gasped, struggling, eyes narrowing.
"You tried to drown me," Soobin snarled. "And now you come here—what, pretending you don't know anything? Is this whole royal setup part of your plan too?"
Yeonjun growled, yanking the hand off his throat. "Are you fucking stupid? If this was my plan, why the hell would I be in the lake too?"
They stared, breathless, wet, hostile.
Yeonjun continued, "You don't know where you are. I don't know where I am. But trust me, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have dragged your heavy ass out of the lake."
Soobin's jaw clenched. His breath slowed. He looked down, then back at the palace behind them. "None of this makes sense…"
Yeonjun rolled his eyes. "No shit. I was hoping for answers too, but apparently we're both screwed."
A long pause.
Neither trusted the other. Not one inch.
But neither could ignore the feeling.
That they were tied. Somehow. Through the water, through time, through blood.
Soobin stepped back. He crossed his arms and leaned against the stone railing, eyes never leaving Yeonjun.
Yeonjun shifted uncomfortably. "Well. I'm not wasting more time talking in the cold."
Soobin muttered, "Don't let me catch you near my room."
"Don't flatter yourself."
They turned away from each other. No truce. No understanding.
Just a thread.
Tense, thin, vibrating between them.
Whatever this was… it wasn't over.
Not even close.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Morning came with soft knocks and whispered urgencies.
Yeonjun woke to sunlight streaming through heavy curtains and a servant bowing at his bedside, hands trembling as she spoke.
"Your Highness, forgive the intrusion, but His Majesty requests your presence at breakfast. The entire royal family wishes to... express their relief at your safe return."
Safe return. As if they'd been worried.
Yeonjun sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The memories of the night before felt like fragments of a dream—the lake, the drowning, the man with red eyes who'd tried to strangle him on the balcony. But the ache in his chest was real. The confusion was real.
And now he had to face a family he didn't remember.
"Very well," he said, voice still rough from sleep. "But I'll need Lord Soobin to accompany me."
The servant blinked. "Your Highness?"
"My advisor," Yeonjun said, as if it were obvious. "He's my closest friend. It would seem strange if he weren't by my side during such an important family gathering, don't you think?"
The lie came easier than expected. He'd heard whispers from servants about how close they'd apparently been before the incident—if that was what people believed, then appearing together would draw less attention than showing up alone and confused.
The servant bowed deeper. "Of course, Your Highness. I'll inform Lord Soobin immediately."
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Twenty minutes later, Soobin appeared at his door looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The first thing that hit Yeonjun was his scent—woody and musky, like cedar and rich earth after a long drought. It was commanding without being overwhelming, the kind of scent that spoke of strength and reliability. Something about it made his omega instincts settle in a way that was both comforting and irritating. There was a hint of something lighter underneath, but it was buried deep, barely perceptible.
Soobin wore deep blue robes that complemented his dark hair, the silk falling across his broad shoulders. His posture was controlled, careful, like he was playing a role but doing it well. His jaw was tight, and his red eyes were now gone, replaced by deep, dark brown ones that held the same wariness from the night before.
When their eyes met, something flickered between them. Not recognition exactly, but... something. A pull that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with understanding. Like recognising a fellow survivor in a room full of predators.
Then Soobin's expression shuddered, and the moment passed.
"So," Soobin said without preamble, voice carefully neutral, "we're pretending to be friends now?"
Yeonjun pushed down whatever that feeling had been. It was irrelevant. "We're pretending not to be completely lost," he corrected, adjusting his own robes—silk the color of midnight with gold threading. "Unless you have a better plan for surviving breakfast with people who supposedly love me but feel like strangers."
Soobin's expression shifted slightly. Something almost like understanding. "Fair enough. But I'm not calling you 'Your Highness' every five seconds."
They walked through the corridors in tense silence, their footsteps echoing off marble floors. Yeonjun found himself noting things about his companion—the way Soobin moved with controlled precision, how his gaze catalogued every corner, every shadow. Like he was mapping escape routes. It was the kind of strategic thinking Yeonjun could respect, even if he didn't trust the man doing it.
Smart. Cautious.
The combination should have been off-putting. Instead, Yeonjun found it oddly reassuring to have someone competent watching his back, even if that someone had tried to strangle him the night before.
The dining hall doors loomed ahead, carved oak painted with dragons and phoenixes. Two guards bowed as they approached, and Yeonjun felt his stomach clench with nerves he couldn't quite name.
"Remember," he murmured under his breath, "we're supposed to know these people."
"Right," Soobin replied just as quietly. "Try not to look like you want to run."
"I could say the same to you," Yeonjun muttered. Despite everything, he had to admit Soobin's calm composure was steadying. The man didn't seem fazed by walking into what was essentially enemy territory.
The doors opened.
The dining hall was massive—a long table set with delicate porcelain and crystal, sunlight pouring through tall windows. And seated around it...
His family.
Yeonjun's steps faltered for just a moment. Three faces turned toward him, and he felt nothing. No recognition. No warmth. Just a cold assessment as they smiled—too bright, too practised.
"Yeonjun!" A woman rose from her seat, arms outstretched. Middle-aged, beautiful in a sharp way, wearing robes of deep crimson. His mother, presumably. "My darling boy, thank the heavens you're safe."
She embraced him, and Yeonjun forced himself not to stiffen. Her scent was floral and cloying, and when she pulled back, her eyes were dry despite her theatrical concern.
"Mother," he managed, hoping the word sounded natural.
"And Soobin!" She turned to his companion with the same false warmth. "You must have been so frightened when you both fell into the lake."
Soobin bowed respectfully. "Your Majesty. We're both grateful to have survived such an... unexpected incident."
A man at the head of the table—the King, Yeonjun realised—gestured for them to sit. He was imposing even while seated, with greying hair and cold eyes that seemed to look right through his son.
"Unexpected," the King repeated slowly. "Yes, quite mysterious how you both ended up in the water. Tell me, do either of you remember what happened?"
Yeonjun felt Soobin tense beside him as they took their seats. The question felt like a trap.
"I'm afraid it's all quite hazy, Father," Yeonjun said carefully. "One moment we were walking by the lake, and the next..." He let the sentence trail off, as if the memory was too traumatic to complete.
"How terrible," said a voice from across the table. A young man with sharp features and calculating eyes—his brother, Yeonjun guessed. "To think someone could have pushed you. Or perhaps... you simply slipped?"
The way he said 'slipped' made it sound like an accusation.
"We're just relieved you're both safe," added another voice—a young woman with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. His sister. "The palace wouldn't be the same without our sweet little brother."
Sweet little brother. The condescension in her tone was barely concealed.
Yeonjun felt something cold settle in his chest. These people—his supposed family—were performing. Every word of concern was calculated, every expression of relief felt rehearsed. And underneath it all, he sensed something else.
Disappointment.
They were disappointed he'd survived.
He caught Soobin's eye and saw the same realisation there. His advisor's jaw was tight, his posture alert like he was preparing for a fight.
"Well," the Queen said brightly, clapping her hands together, "let's not dwell on such unpleasant thoughts. You're here now, and that's what matters. Let's eat!"
As if summoned, servants appeared with covered dishes, setting them before each family member with practised efficiency. The aroma filled the air—roasted meats, fresh bread, exotic spices.
Yeonjun's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since... well, since before he'd died, apparently.
He reached for his cup, but stopped when he noticed Soobin hadn't moved. His advisor was staring at his plate with an expression of barely controlled fury, nostrils flared slightly.
Then, so subtly Yeonjun almost missed it, Soobin's fingers began tapping against the table. Not randomly, with purpose. A pattern.
Dot-dash-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot-dot-dot. Dot-dash-dot.
Morse code.
P-O-I-S.
Yeonjun's blood turned to ice. He looked down at his own plate, and suddenly the rich aroma seemed wrong. Too heavy. Masking something underneath.
His family was watching them expectantly, not touching their own food yet. Waiting.
His mother smiled encouragingly. "Eat up, darling. You must be starving after your ordeal."
"Yes," his brother added, "you should regain your strength quickly. You never know when another... accident... might occur."
The threat was barely veiled.
Yeonjun's fingers found the table's edge, and he tapped back, praying Soobin would understand.
Dash-dot-dot. Dot-dot-dot. Dot-dot-dot-dash. Dot-dash. Dash-dot-dash-dot. Dot-dash-dash-dot. Dot-dot-dot-dash.
D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T.
Their eyes met across the table. A moment of perfect understanding passed between them—two people who'd been thrown into an impossible situation, surrounded by enemies, with only each other to rely on. There was something almost reassuring about having someone who could think as quickly as Soobin clearly could.
Then the moment passed, and they were back to being strangers who needed each other to survive.
Soobin cleared his throat and stood, breaking the spell. "Forgive me, Your Majesties," he said smoothly, "but I've just remembered that Prince Yeonjun has a scheduled meeting with the trade ministers this morning. They're waiting in the eastern pavilion to discuss the grain agreements."
Yeonjun blinked, impressed despite himself at how easily the lie rolled off Soobin's tongue. "Of course," he said, standing as well. "How could I forget such an important appointment?" He turned to his family with an apologetic smile that felt like poison on his lips. "Duty calls, I'm afraid. Thank you for this lovely welcome breakfast."
"But you haven't eaten anything," his sister protested, though her tone suggested she already knew why. Her eyes were sharp, calculating—like she was filing away their behaviour for later analysis.
"We'll have something sent to the pavilion," Yeonjun said lightly. "Can't keep the ministers waiting. The kingdom's prosperity depends on these negotiations."
"Of course," his father said slowly, those cold eyes never leaving Yeonjun's face. "We wouldn't want to... neglect... such important matters."
The emphasis on 'neglect' felt like a warning.
"Indeed," his mother added with that same false brightness. "Run along, darling. But do be careful. The pavilions can be so... treacherous. Especially near the water."
The threat was crystal clear.
Yeonjun felt Soobin tense beside him, and he had to respect the man's restraint. Lesser people would have already snapped or done something reckless. But Soobin remained perfectly composed, even as the insults and threats piled up.
"We'll make up for it at lunch," Yeonjun said lightly. "Won't we, Soobin?"
"Absolutely, Your Highness."
They bowed to the royal family and walked toward the door with measured steps, neither too fast nor too slow. But Yeonjun could feel eyes burning into his back with every step, cataloguing their every movement, looking for weaknesses to exploit.
The moment the dining hall doors closed behind them, the tension between them ratcheted up again. The temporary alliance was already fraying at the edges.
They walked in loaded silence until they reached an empty corridor. Then Soobin grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alcove, his grip firm but not painful.
"Don't manhandle me," Yeonjun said, though he didn't pull away immediately.
"Your family just tried to kill you," Soobin said without preamble, ignoring the complaint. His voice was low, controlled. "Again."
"I noticed," Yeonjun replied dryly. "Nice work with the Morse code, by the way. Where did a court advisor learn that?"
Soobin's expression shuddered immediately. "Where did a prince?"
They stared at each other, both realising they'd revealed more than intended. The tension between them was thick—part hostility, part grudging respect for each other's competence.
"We need to talk," Yeonjun said finally. His voice was calm, but not casual. “Properly this time. Because I’m getting tired of people trying to murder me.”
“Agreed.” Soobin’s dark eyes flicked to the surrounding hall, sharp and calculating. “But not here. Too many ears. And too many people who want us dead.”
“My chambers?”
“Fine. But if you try anything—”
“Like what?” Yeonjun stepped in, just slightly. “You’re the one with the history of violence between us.”
Soobin didn’t blink. His tone was cool. Final.
“Don’t read too much into survival instinct.”
Yeonjun tilted his head. “Of course. Just practical cooperation.”
Soobin took a step back. “Your chambers. We make a plan, figure out how to stay alive, and go back to our respective corners. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Because, despite everything—the confusion, the hostility, the fact that they'd met less than twelve hours ago—when Soobin had seen the poison and warned him, Yeonjun had felt something he hadn't experienced in centuries.
Someone competent watching his back.
Even if that someone clearly had their own secrets and agenda.
Chapter Text
Yeonjun led the way through winding corridors, his silk robes whispering against marble floors. When they reached his chambers, two servants bowed deeply by the ornate doors.
With a single, dismissive wave of his hand, Yeonjun sent them scurrying away like startled mice.
Behind him, Soobin scoffed. "Dramatic much?"
"Effective," Yeonjun corrected without turning around, pushing open the heavy doors.
The chamber was massive—all dark wood and rich fabrics, heavy curtains filtering golden afternoon light into something softer, more intimate. The air was thick with Yeonjun's scent: jasmine and soft amber, something calm and grounding with an underlying sweetness that spoke of omega warmth.
Soobin stepped inside and immediately felt his shoulders drop. The tension he'd been carrying since breakfast—hell, since waking up in this strange place—began to ease without his permission. The scent wrapped around him like silk, coaxing his alpha instincts into something dangerously close to contentment.
He didn't question it. Just walked straight to the enormous bed and settled onto the edge, making himself comfortable among the midnight-blue silk sheets.
Yeonjun raised an eyebrow at the casual invasion of his personal space but said nothing. Instead, he dragged a chair from his desk and positioned it directly in front of Soobin before sitting down, close enough that their knees almost touched.
"So," Soobin said, leaning back on his hands. "Why does your loving family want you dead?"
"I don't know." Yeonjun's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I woke up yesterday morning and had no idea where I was. Those people we just met? They're not my family."
Soobin's eyebrows rose. "What do you mean, not your family?"
"I mean exactly that." Yeonjun ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I clearly remember dying. I touched a black rose in my garden and everything just... ended. Next thing I know, I'm drowning in a lake and people are calling me 'Your Highness' like I actually matter to them."
He was mumbling now, more to himself than to Soobin. "Those faces at breakfast, I've never seen them before in my life. Or lives. Whatever this is."
"You died too," Soobin said. It wasn't a question.
Yeonjun's eyes snapped up to meet his. "Too?"
"Bullet to the chest. My right-hand man decided I was too weak to lead." Soobin's voice was conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "Bled out on my office floor while jazz played in the background. Very cinematic, really."
"And you woke up here."
"In this body, yeah. Same consciousness, different... everything." Soobin gestured vaguely at himself. "But I feel different. Sharper. I can smell things I couldn't before, hear conversations from three rooms away. It's like someone turned up all my senses to eleven."
Yeonjun tilted his head. "Really? I didn't notice."
"You didn't—" Soobin stared at him. "How the hell did you not notice?"
"I'm still a vampire," Yeonjun said with a shrug. "Enhanced senses are standard. Though I do have the addition of omega instincts now, which is..." He paused, something sharp flickering in his eyes. "I always thought I'd be an alpha, you know. Power. Bloodlines. Control. The whole package."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "But it turns out being an omega doesn't mean I'm not capable of murder. Those traitors at breakfast? I could paint the walls with their blood and not lose a moment's sleep."
Soobin blinked. "Vampire? Omega? What the fuck are you talking about?"
Instead of answering immediately, Yeonjun leaned forward slightly. When he smiled this time, his canines had elongated into razor-sharp fangs that caught the filtered sunlight like polished ivory.
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
“I’m a vampire,” Yeonjun said casually, like someone announcing the weather. “And apparently now, also an omega.”
A pause.
“...You’re serious.”
“You ever heard of werewolves?”
“Rumours. Stories. Never thought they were real.”
“Well,” Yeonjun said, leaning forward slightly, “congrats. You’re one.”
Soobin straightened, tension coiling back into his shoulders. “I was human before. Normal.”
Yeonjun gave him a once-over. “Then the lake changed you, too.”
Soobin narrowed his eyes. “And what, you can just smell what I am now?”
“Everyone has a scent,” Yeonjun said. “Yours just happens to be particularly loud. Obvious.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Yeonjun stood and gestured vaguely toward a wall lined with leather-bound books. "Go read. Or sniff someone until you figure it out. I'm not teaching you basic shit."
Soobin let out a laugh, not amused, but sharp-edged. “Just because I don’t know everything right now doesn’t mean I’m helpless.”
He stood, slow and deliberate.
“I could kill you right now,” he said. “You wouldn’t even see it coming.”
Yeonjun didn’t flinch.
“Try it,” he said, voice dropping a shade lower. “Maybe I’m bored enough to let you try.”
The air between them pulled taut.
Soobin’s eyes burned into Yeonjun’s. There was no alpha dominance in it, no omega submission — just two predators feeling the edge of something neither could name yet. But charged.
They held eye contact.
Just a moment too long.
And then — Soobin looked away. Tension cracked like glass cooling.
Yeonjun leaned back in the chair, lips curling just barely. “That’s what I thought.”
Soobin stood with a quiet exhale and crossed the room toward the towering bookshelf beside Yeonjun’s desk. His fingers skimmed the spines until they paused on a thick, leather-bound tome, the title etched in worn gold:
“A Comprehensive History of Lycanthropy”
"Really?" Yeonjun called from his chair. "That's what you're going with?"
"Would you prefer I stumble around blind?" Soobin flipped to the first page, scanning the dense text. After a moment, he looked up. "What about the royal family then?"
Yeonjun looked up from the chair, one leg crossed lazily over the other.
“If they’re out here trying to kill me,” he said, calm and cold, “then I want them dead.”
He rested his elbow on the chair’s back. “But killing the entire royal family in one day is… scandalous.”
Soobin snorted, flipping a page. “Since when does a vampire care about scandal?” He glanced up. “Aren’t you already one?”
"I'm discreet," Yeonjun shot back. "There's a difference between being a creature of the night and being sloppy."
"Right, because murder has such refined etiquette standards."
"It does when you're royalty, apparently."
"You're not actually royalty."
"Tell that to the servants who keep bowing."
Soobin turned a page with more force than necessary. "Huh. Says here that omegas have calming scents. That's why your room smells like a fancy spa?"
"Better than you reeking of alpha instability and pine needles," Yeonjun replied snarkily.
"I don't smell like pine needles."
"Cedar, pine, whatever. You smell like a lumber yard with anger issues."
Soobin shot him a glare, but there was no real heat in it. "At least I don't smell like I'm trying to seduce someone into a massage."
"Jasmine and Amber are sophisticated—"
"It's manipulative."
"Everything about being an omega is manipulative, apparently. Might as well own it."
Soobin scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Yeonjun sat forward slightly, voice dropping. “We’ll just have to get rid of them one by one.”
Soobin glanced up. Their eyes locked.
“The princess,” he said, like reading Yeonjun’s mind.
“Bingo.”
Yeonjun’s gaze glinted with something dangerous. “But how? Don’t want my lovely parents getting suspicious now, do we?”
Soobin hummed, flipping to the next page.
“Alphas can sense when an omega is in heat—”
Yeonjun cut in sharply. “Skip ahead unless you’re trying to see what I look like begging.”
A pause.
“…Disgusting,” Soobin muttered.
But he turned the page slower.
The tension hung there, unsaid, warm, biting at the edges.
Then, with a sudden snap, Soobin closed the book and looked directly at him.
“We can get her tonight. Kill her simply.”
Yeonjun nodded slowly. “Clean. Quiet. Not suspicious.”
A beat. Then Soobin’s tone changed, edged with something calculated.
“What do I get in return?”
“Hm?”
“Seems like we’re both aiming for the throne.”
Yeonjun tilted his head, amused. “That is true.” He rose from his chair, walking over until they stood a breath apart. “How about we get rid of the problem at hand first?”
“And the throne?” Soobin asked, soft and dangerous.
Yeonjun smiled, slow and sweet as poison.
“Then… I’d kill you and take the throne. Simple.”
Soobin chuckled under his breath, gaze sharpening.
“Funny. Because I was planning to kill you first.”
They stood like that — eye to eye, smile to smile, each calculating the odds.
Yeonjun turned away first, but not without the final word.
“Well then.” He smirked over his shoulder. “Good luck to whoever gets the throne.”
Soobin walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused.
He lifted the book, waving it lightly in one hand.
“I’m taking this with me,” he said without looking back.
Then the door clicked shut behind him.
And Yeonjun was left in the scent-heavy quiet, grinning faintly to himself.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Evening settled over the palace like smoke — cool, hushed, watchful. The summons arrived not long after sunset: a royal court meeting, mandatory.
Yeonjun adjusted the high collar of his robes as they made their way down the torch-lit corridor, Soobin walking just behind him with that usual quiet disdain. He still carried the werewolf history book under one arm, flipping it open occasionally as they walked, mid-reading, mid-scheming.
The great throne room loomed ahead, its massive double doors carved with phoenixes and bloodied suns. As they opened, heat and silence rolled out — the kind that choked.
The king sat high above on his obsidian throne, the platform raised like a judgment seat. The rest of the royal family lined either side of the long crimson carpet stretching from door to dais — low chairs, lacquered tables, teacups untouched. It was all too neat. Too cold.
They walked forward together, eyes burning into their backs from both sides.
Yeonjun felt it before he saw it — the shift in the air, the tightness in posture, the way conversations stopped just a little too quickly when he walked past. Suspicion. Whispers followed him like shadows, never loud enough to confront, but sharp enough to cut.
“He walks differently now,” someone murmured under their breath, too quiet for a mortal ear — but Yeonjun heard it.
Another voice, clipped and uncertain: “Wasn’t his scent… softer before?”
And then, with a scoff just behind a fan: “Is that book Lord Soobin is reading even real, or just a prop for attention?”
Yeonjun didn’t look at any of them. He just kept walking — spine straight, gaze ahead, cataloguing every voice and every doubt. He’d remember. They always revealed themselves first with fear.
Soobin, meanwhile, was fully absorbed in his book. He didn’t even look up when they passed the Queen’s seat.
Yeonjun resisted the urge to elbow him. Just barely.
They bowed, sat, and the court began.
Trade was the topic — grain shortages in the south, border taxes with the river clans, some nobles’ endless droning about tariffs.
Yeonjun watched. Studied. Every face. Every frown. Every cup not touched and glance exchanged.
Then came a pause in the discussion — a stuck point, no solution proposed.
So Yeonjun spoke.
“We could offer a three-month levy exemption in return for exclusive southern harvest rights. They’ll think they’re getting a favour. We get control.”
A breath. A blink.
Then—
A chair scraped loudly across the stone.
An older man stood on the left side of the room, robed in deep forest green, eyes sharp with age and arrogance.
“Omegas,” he spat, “should keep their mouths shut in a room full of alphas.”
The air shifted.
Yeonjun didn’t move. Not at first.
But something beneath his skin did.
Soobin looked up from his book at last. His brow furrowed, nostrils flaring ever so slightly — even he could smell the shift now. Pressure. Rage.
Yeonjun slowly stood.
“Excuse me?” he asked, voice deceptively calm. Polite, even.
The old man doubled down, puffing himself up. “Know your place, omega—”
He didn’t finish.
Because Yeonjun moved — not walked, not ran — moved, fast enough to blur, faster than any human eye could track.
And suddenly, he stood before the man.
One hand at the noble’s throat.
Gasps echoed through the chamber as the man was lifted off the floor, robes flailing, mouth opening in a strangled wheeze.
Yeonjun’s eyes weren’t omega-blue now.
They were blood-red.
He said nothing at first, just watched the man struggle.
The omega prince from before may have remained quiet and helpless in front of the court, Yeonjun thought, but this was Choi Yeonjun. The vampire king. And disobedient, pathetic creatures like this one? They used to bow and shiver in fear.
He dropped the man. Just let him fall like discarded cloth.
The noble collapsed, coughing violently, clutching his neck and shaking in front of him.
Yeonjun’s voice cut through the room — cool, measured, unimpressed:
“Pathetic.”
Everyone watched. Silent. Wide-eyed.
Then Soobin’s voice rang out from where he still sat, completely calm.
“That’s your cue to apologise.”
The old man looked at him — then at Yeonjun — then back at the king.
Trembling, he bowed until his forehead hit the stone.
“Deepest… deepest apologies, Your Highness.”
Yeonjun flicked his hand in dismissal, bored. The noble scurried back to his seat without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Then Yeonjun turned his gaze upward, to the king.
His father.
Their eyes met. The king visibly swallowed, hands curling around the arms of his throne.
“An… excellent idea from my youngest son,” the king announced after a pause, voice strained.
Yeonjun smiled — soft, sharp, unforgiving.
His eyes faded back to their usual colour.
“I’m glad you considered it, Father.”
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The court session ended with uncomfortable shuffling and averted gazes. As nobles filtered out in hushed clusters, Yeonjun caught Soobin's eye across the room. A subtle nod passed between them.
The hunt was on.
Princess Mirae had always been predictable—vain, entitled, and prone to evening strolls through the palace gardens to "clear her thoughts." Tonight was no different. They followed at a distance, shadow to shadow, until she wandered into the secluded rose garden where moonlight barely penetrated the canopy of twisted branches.
Perfect.
She paused by a marble fountain, trailing her fingers through the water with that same self-absorbed expression she'd worn at breakfast. The kind that said she'd never had a moment's doubt about her place in the world.
That was about to change.
Yeonjun stepped out first, his footsteps deliberately audible on the gravel path.
Mirae turned, and her face brightened with false sweetness. "Oh! Little brother. What brings you out here so late?"
"Just enjoying the evening air," Yeonjun said casually, moving closer. "It's so... peaceful here. So private."
Something in his tone made her take a step back—right into Soobin, who had silently appeared behind her.
Her breath hitched. "Lord Soobin, I didn't hear you—"
"That was the point," Soobin said quietly.
Before she could scream, his hands clamped down on her wrists, holding them firmly behind her back. She struggled, but his grip was iron.
"What are you—let me go!" Her voice pitched higher, panic bleeding through the royal composure.
Her eyes widened as his canines elongated, gleaming white in the moonlight.
"No... no, that's impossible—"
"Shh," Yeonjun whispered, almost gently. "It'll be over soon."
He struck fast, fangs sinking deep into her throat. Her scream cut off in a wet gurgle as he drank, her struggles growing weaker until she went completely limp in Soobin's grip.
When he finally pulled back, blood staining his lips crimson, Mirae's body was pale and lifeless.
Soobin let her drop.
"So it is true," he said, watching Yeonjun wipe his mouth with the dead princess's silk sleeve. "You really are a vampire."
Yeonjun gave him a look. “You thought I was lying this entire time?”
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve said.”
Soobin studied him with new interest. "So what, like... can you not go out in sunlight or what?"
Yeonjun scoffed. "Sunlight doesn't kill me. That's a myth born from frightened peasants who didn't understand hunger." He straightened his robes. "It just weakens my senses, but I guess that's where the omega senses come into play now."
Soobin considered this, then asked with complete seriousness, "Can you also float and stick to walls like the vampires I've seen?"
"And what vampires have you seen, exactly? Where did you even get that from?"
"I mean, that's what they showed in Hotel Transylvania, and Drac's a vampire so—"
"That's a children's movie," Yeonjun interrupted, incredulous. "Are you a child? And no, I can't bloody stick to walls."
Soobin shrugged. "Worth a shot."
A beat passed, then Soobin looked down at the body in his arms. His voice dropped.
“So… what do we do about this ?”
Yeonjun rolled his eyes. “While your lazy ass was reading—”
“— Educating myself,” Soobin cut in smoothly.
Yeonjun continued, dry as ever. “Right. Educating. While you were doing that, I sent an anonymous threat letter to the neighbouring kingdom. Handwritten. Formal enough to pass for foreign.”
Soobin blinked, catching on fast. “We hide the body. Stage it as an attempted attack.”
Yeonjun nodded, smug. “Exactly. They tried to assassinate the princess and failed. Naturally, we retaliate.”
“Declare war. Send the crown prince to lead the front lines...” Soobin trailed off, reading Yeonjun like a well-written play.
“And get him killed in the process.”
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Soobin just looked at him — not with suspicion, not even with rivalry.
With... admiration.
Only for a second. Then Yeonjun broke the gaze and dusted off his sleeves.
“I am retiring to my chambers.”
He gestured vaguely at the corpse.
“And I’m leaving this situation to you. I’ve worked enough for the both of us today.”
He turned on his heel.
“Good luck.”
“Hey—” Soobin called after him, still holding the dead princess.
Yeonjun just smirked and kept walking.
Soobin stood in the quiet garden long after Yeonjun had gone, the dead weight of Princess Mirae still slumped in his arms.
Her blood had soaked into the hem of his tunic. He didn’t care.
The night was quiet now — no footsteps, no murmurs. Just the occasional whisper of leaves and the low hum of distant crickets. The kind of silence that made deceit easier. That made murder feel like a plan, not a sin.
He crouched by the hedges and unwrapped the fabric bundle Yeonjun had left behind. Inside was the final touch: a swatch of richly dyed cloth — colors worn only by nobles of the Eastern Realm — and a letter written in a different hand. Sloppy enough to be untraceable. Half-burned, for dramatic effect.
Soobin worked in silence, wiping her bloodied mouth clean with the edge of her robe. He pressed the foreign cloth into her hand and let her fingers curl around it. Staged, but not too perfectly. Nothing too clean.
He placed the scorched letter beside her, pinned down with a ceremonial hairpin.
Then he dragged her body — gently, but without sentiment — to the edge of the outer gardens. Somewhere open. Visible. Somewhere she’d be found.
When he stepped back, the scene looked like a message.
Not a murder.
A warning.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The morning air was cool and crisp, curling softly around the palace towers. Pale sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, stirring gold across the marble floors of Yeonjun’s chambers.
He stood on his balcony, loosely dressed in a dark robe, arms folded as he gazed down at the training courtyard below.
The sound of steel striking steel echoed upward, rhythmic, sharp, and relentless.
Below, a circle of armoured guards had formed around a single figure.
Soobin.
He was surrounded — half a dozen men closing in from all sides, swords drawn. And yet, he moved like he’d been born for this: sharp turns, smooth pivots, dodging attacks by a hair, blocking others with effortless strength. His eyes tracked each opponent, calculating. Precise.
And regardless of their numbers, he was winning.
Yeonjun arched an eyebrow, intrigued.
By the time he descended the steps and stepped into the courtyard, the last of the guards had dropped their weapons, groaning from where they lay in the dust.
A servant rushed forward, handing Soobin a towel and a cup of water.
"You look tired already," Yeonjun commented, tone dry as ever.
Soobin turned, wiping the sweat from his jaw. “I was just warming up.”
He tossed the towel onto a bench. “Why don’t you give me a challenge, if you know so much—Your Highness?”
The edge in his voice was teasing. Dangerous.
Yeonjun smirked and casually turned to a nearby guard. “Bring our strongest man to duel with Lord Soobin.”
A ripple of snickers spread through the gathered servants and guards. Word traveled quickly through the palace corridors, and soon a crowd began to form around the makeshift arena. Lords and ladies emerged from their morning routines, palace servants abandoned their duties for a moment's entertainment, and guards off duty pressed closer to get a better view.
Soobin stepped toward Yeonjun, confidence rolling off him in waves. “And who will you be rooting for?”
Yeonjun gave a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t know. Whoever wins, I guess.”
A hush fell over the group as the palace’s top fighter stepped forward — broad, scarred, expression flat. He cracked his knuckles as he rolled his shoulders.
Yeonjun raised his voice just slightly. “Last one standing wins.”
The crowd backed into a ring.
The fighter launched forward, throwing a volley of punches — fast, heavy — but Soobin blocked each one, moving like water around a rock.
“Is this all you’ve got?” Soobin asked, smirking—
—until a clean jab landed against his jaw, knocking his head sideways.
He stilled.
Then slowly leaned his head back, cracking his neck once. A dangerous smile spread across his face.
“Alright.” He licked his teeth. “I’ve held back enough.”
The next hit came fast — a clean punch directly to the fighter’s jaw with such force, it knocked him to the ground in a single blow.
The crowd erupted into cheers and shocked gasps.
Soobin stepped back, shaking out his wrist. He turned to Yeonjun, still standing at the edge of the circle, watching him closely.
Soobin tilted his head, smirking, expression playful.
"How was that?"
Yeonjun gave a single approving nod — and then, without a word, plucked a sword from a nearby guard’s sheath.
The crowd quieted again.
Soobin’s smile widened, amused and expectant.
“What, you didn’t believe me?” he asked, tossing his own sword into his hand.
“You wanted to try for yourself?”
Yeonjun shrugged slightly. “Maybe.”
He stepped into the circle. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light.”
The crowd had gone quiet again, expectant.
Soobin gave a subtle nod to the nearest servant.
“Clear the courtyard. This is… practice.”
The circle peeled away, reluctant but respectful. Some lingered behind hedges and pillars, peeking. The buzz of excitement lingered in the air like smoke.
Now there were only the two of them, swords in hand, eyes locked.
A beat.
And then they moved.
The clash of metal sang through the air — fast, precise, fluid. They moved like dancers, not enemies. Every strike was matched, every dodge answered, the fight tied in every motion.
The crowd had fallen away completely, forgotten.
They circled, blades flashing, breaths coming quicker — not from exhaustion, but from something else.
From thrill.
From the way their bodies understood each other without speaking.
Their swords locked, faces close, shoulders tense.
They froze, panting slightly, staring, waiting.
Then Yeonjun eased his stance just slightly.
And Soobin moved.
With one fluid sweep, he knocked Yeonjun’s sword high and back, stepping into his space until their bodies were a breath apart, Soobin’s arm angled behind Yeonjun’s back, sword resting low against his spine.
He held Yeonjun there, their faces inches apart.
Yeonjun didn’t flinch.
Soobin leaned in, voice soft but smug.
“A fight’s never over unless the other is injured... or dead.”
“Assuming otherwise is what cost you your life, sweetheart.”
He tapped the flat of his blade against Yeonjun’s temple.
Then slowly,
very
slowly, stepped back.
Yeonjun stared at him for a long moment.
Something flickered in his eyes - surprise, perhaps. Or something else entirely.
Then, a single sharp laugh escaped his lips.
Their blades lowered. The moment passed.
Soobin took a step back, his breath steady but laced with a smug satisfaction that Yeonjun refused to acknowledge. Not aloud, anyway.
Yeonjun rolled his shoulder, tossing the sword to a nearby guard without a word.
“You’re not terrible,” he muttered.
“High praise, coming from you,” Soobin replied, voice light but his eyes still watching — always watching.
They stood in the middle of the now-empty courtyard, morning sun catching in their hair, the scent of sweat and steel hanging thick between them.
Then, distant at first, barely a tremble on the wind —
A scream.
It cracked through the air like thunder, high-pitched and raw.
Yeonjun froze. Soobin’s head snapped toward the direction of the garden.
Another scream followed. Then the pounding of feet. Shouting.
Guards.
Servants.
Chaos.
Yeonjun’s gaze met Soobin’s across the open space, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
They didn’t have to.
The game had begun.
Chapter Text
The palace was barely stirring when Beomgyu found Lord Kim.
He caught him near the east wing, shuffling toward the inner court with a self-important pace and a cup of early tea in hand.
“Lord Kim,” Beomgyu called out politely, “forgive the interruption, but one of the foreign guests has requested your presence in the outer garden.”
The old man blinked, annoyed. “At this hour?”
“They said it was… urgent.”
Beomgyu gave a subtle bow, keeping his expression placid. “Something about protocol. They wouldn’t explain further.”
Lord Kim grunted, muttering something under his breath, and turned down the stone corridor without suspicion. Beomgyu followed at a slight distance, like a dutiful shadow.
The garden was quiet, kissed with early sunlight. Dew shimmered on every leaf.
And at the centre, as if waiting — like a statue sculpted from silk and stillness — was the princess’s body.
Laid just so.
Blood long dried.
Foreign cloth glinting between her fingers like damning proof.
Lord Kim stopped dead in his tracks.
His tea dropped with a soft splash against the stone.
“What in the name of—”
Beomgyu didn’t speak.
But he stepped back, just enough for Kai to step forward from behind a hedge, wide-eyed and pale.
“My lord?” Kai gasped, loud enough to be heard.
He rushed forward — Beomgyu right behind him — and both of them stopped at the scene like they'd just discovered it.
“G–gods,” Kai whispered, eyes flicking between the body and Lord Kim. “That’s… Princess Mirae—”
“I—I don’t—” Lord Kim stammered, shaking his head violently. “I didn’t—she—this—”
Beomgyu crouched, inspecting the cloth delicately, his expression darkening as more servants began to appear at the edge of the garden.
“Foreign fabric,” he announced grimly. “And a letter, my lord. What... what were you doing out here?”
The whispers started immediately.
Someone screamed.
A guard bolted for the palace steps, shouting for the others.
Lord Kim took a step back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“No—this isn’t what it looks like—this wasn’t me—”
But no one was listening.
Because by then, they had arrived.
Yeonjun stepped into the garden first, flanked by two guards. His robes flowed behind him like smoke. He took in the scene with a single glance — the body, the cloth, the growing circle of servants.
Princess Mirae looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Exactly as planned.
But Yeonjun hadn’t staged the setting.
Not all of it.
His eyes flicked to the cloth in her hand. That symbol — he hadn’t chosen that.
Soobin.
The echo of his voice from the night before rang in his memory:
“I’ll handle the rest.”
He had.
And better than expected.
Soobin followed just a pace behind, slower, more composed. His gaze passed over the garden like a painter studying a canvas.
Then it landed on Kai and Beomgyu.
For a fraction of a second, the three of them shared a silent exchange.
No words. Just a look. A nod.
Soobin’s.
Kai moved immediately, turning to the nearest guard and speaking in a firm tone:
“Get word to His Majesty.”
“Tell him… the princess is dead.”
The guard ran without hesitation.
And from the corner of his eye, Yeonjun caught the flicker — Soobin’s nod. The precision of it. The way the two men moved like they’d been waiting for the moment.
He said nothing.
But his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Soobin — really looked at him.
The layers.
The timing.
The choreography.
Soobin stood with his hands behind his back, the picture of passive nobility. Calm. Detached. But Yeonjun could feel it now — the intent. Not all of this had been his doing. Not entirely.
He hadn’t seen all the strings.
But Soobin?
Soobin had been pulling some of them too.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Deep beneath the palace — behind a wall masked by ancient paintings and beneath stone floors that had never once been polished — a chamber pulsed with candlelight and conspiracy.
It was vast. Silent. Hidden.
A table stood untouched in the centre, scrolls piled at the edges. The air smelled of old paper and burning resin.
Soobin stood in the middle of it all, arms behind his back, his expression unreadable. Before him, two men stood stiffly — Kai and Beomgyu — their faces dimly lit by the glow of iron lanterns.
He turned slightly, gaze cutting to Beomgyu.
"Was the letter received by the Eastern Kingdom?"
"Yes, my lord," Beomgyu replied, bowing his head. "As you instructed."
"Excellent."
Kai shifted beside him. "If my lord permits," he began.
Soobin gestured coolly. "Go on."
"Why the foreign cloth? What does it mean?"
Soobin smiled — slow, sharp, amused. Like a knife being unsheathed.
"Symbolism," he said. "The fabric bears the insignia of a forgotten noble house — now absorbed by the Eastern Kingdom. Most wouldn’t recognise it, but the archivists will. Whispers will form."
He stepped forward, letting his fingertips skim the edge of the war table.
"The letter implies motive. The cloth implies evidence. Together, they paint the perfect crime."
"Perfect enough," he continued, "that the King has no choice but to retaliate. And when we get rid of the tyrant, the throne is mine. We just need to deal with Yeonjun."
He turned back toward them, expression flattening.
"As meek as he looks, he’s smart. Smarter than I expected. We won’t underestimate him again."
His tone cut through the room like a blade.
"I want every guard, noble, lady, and servant under my command. Use force if you have to — subtle or otherwise. And when the time comes to kill the king..."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
"I want one of ours standing right behind him. Understood?"
Kai and Beomgyu bowed in perfect unison.
"Any difficult case, any hint of disloyalty — bring them straight to me."
A glint of something feral passed through Soobin’s eyes as his lips curled.
"I’d like to deliver my messages personally."
The two men nodded again and, with a brief bow, turned and left.
Silence followed — until a knock tapped against the chamber door.
It creaked open slowly, and an older man stepped inside, stiff with formality.
Lord Kim.
The same man whom Yeonjun had nearly killed in court.
Soobin gestured toward the velvet-lined couch. "Lord Kim, I trust you’ve been well."
The old man hesitated, then sat. His hands clenched awkwardly in his lap, eyes flicking around the room.
Soobin snapped his fingers. A servant entered, silent as a ghost, and set down a tray of tea before bowing and retreating without a sound.
"Tea?" Soobin asked casually.
The man nodded, accepting the cup with both hands, his fingers slightly trembling.
"Lord Soobin," he said carefully, "how may I be of service?"
Soobin tilted his head. "I’ve heard your position in court is... significant."
The man’s chest puffed slightly. "Yes, well, I’ve served the king for—"
"And I’ve also heard," Soobin interrupted, tone still smooth, "that he listens to you. Personally."
That gleam of pride returned.
Soobin’s smile widened.
"How would you feel," he said slowly, setting his teacup down, "about betraying him?"
Silence. Then a sharp inhale.
"I—! I would never—"
"Really?" Soobin murmured, leaning back.
"Because last I checked, your views toward omegas are... let’s say, less than favourable."
He took his time sipping his tea.
"Prince Yeonjun, in particular, seemed to draw your ire."
"If this is about the prince, then I already—"
"How do I know it wasn’t you who killed the princess?"
That landed.
The man blanched.
"I—I would never—!"
"Wouldn’t you?" Soobin said softly, eyes cold.
"You were humiliated. In front of the court. In front of Yeonjun. An alpha, shamed by an omega. And now, conveniently, the omega princess is dead. Her body discovered the very next day. Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?"
The old man sat frozen, caught between horror and confusion. His mouth opened — but no defence came.
"Ahh, don’t worry, Lord Kim," Soobin said gently, placing a hand over his chest. "Your secret is safe with me."
Relief bloomed across the man’s face.
Then Soobin leaned forward, smile gone.
"If—" he said sharply, "you work under me."
The air shifted.
"I want your full loyalty. You’ll be my ears and my mouth in the king’s court. And if you’re thinking of refusing..."
He paused, smiling again. "Well. The king would be devastated to learn who really murdered his beloved daughter."
The man swallowed thickly. His hands trembled over the tea. "I… I accept."
Soobin stood, the chair sliding back quietly.
In one sudden motion, he reached forward and yanked the man’s robe, pulling him close — their faces nearly touching.
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"If you even think about betrayal, what you’ll receive will make Yeonjun’s humiliation feel like a blessing."
"So bad that you’ll be crawling to the king, begging for a public execution. Do you understand me?"
The man’s breath hitched. A drop of sweat slid down his temple.
"Y–yes," he rasped.
Soobin smiled and released him gently, adjusting his robe with mock care.
"Excellent. You may leave."
As the man turned, Soobin’s voice caught him just before the door.
"You’ll receive a note later. Read it carefully. During the war meeting, I want you to bring up its suggestion like it was your own. Then? Leave the rest to me."
The man nodded, dazed and shaken.
Soobin’s smirk returned as the door clicked shut.
Just as planned.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The summons came swiftly.
All court members were called to the throne room at once — robes half-wrung, faces tight with grief or curiosity, and eyes already darting toward Yeonjun.
He was halfway down the corridor with Soobin when he stopped and glanced sideways.
“Come with me.”
No request. No warmth. Just the cold expectation of obedience.
Soobin followed.
Yeonjun turned into an empty side hallway, the stone walls narrowing around them like secrets pressing in.
He faced Soobin fully, brows slightly lifted.
“The foreign cloth,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t plant that.”
Soobin shrugged, casual. “You left before the scene was finished. I had to come up with something to make it convincing.”
Yeonjun blinked once. His lips parted slightly, not from anger — from surprise.
He hadn’t expected that.
He hadn’t expected him .
Yeonjun studied his face, searching for tells he was only now learning to read. "I didn't expect you to be so... calculated. Cunning." His tone held a note of grudging respect. "I underestimated you."
"Most people do."
A pause stretched between them, filled with the distant sound of footsteps and muffled voices from the corridor.
“I didn’t think you were that serious about getting the throne to yourself,” Yeonjun said, a dry laugh tucked behind his words.
Soobin’s gaze sharpened.
“Well,” he said coolly, “I was once also a king. Just like you were.”
He leaned in slightly. “And every king deserves a throne.”
A beat passed.
Yeonjun smirked — sharp and indulgent.
“Fair enough.”
They locked eyes for a moment too long.
Then Yeonjun tilted his head toward the hall.
“Shall we?”
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They entered the throne room side by side.
Gasps greeted them almost immediately. Servants wept quietly against the walls. Nobles looked on in tight-lipped horror. The Queen dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, while the King sat frozen on his golden seat, fingers clenched against the carved arms.
And then Yeonjun — perfect, terrible Yeonjun — let his face fall.
He took a stuttering breath.
And let the tears fall.
Real ones.
He reached for Soobin’s arm, gripped it tightly — as if he needed support, as if the loss had cracked him in half — and leaned into him, trembling just enough to be believable.
Soobin stiffened in surprise. He hadn’t expected this performance. And gods — he hated how real it looked. For a moment, even he believed it.
Yeonjun was terrifying.
Good, he thought. Then it’s working.
The king sat hunched on his obsidian throne, looking older than Yeonjun had ever seen him. Genuine grief etched lines around his eyes—or perhaps it was rage. With royalty, the two were often indistinguishable.
"My daughter," the king's voice cracked across the vast chamber. "My beautiful Mirae... cut down by foreign assassins in our own gardens."
The assembled court murmured their condolences, but the king's hand slammed against the throne's armrest with a sound like thunder.
The King’s voice cracked across the room.
“There will be war.”
No hesitation. No pause.
The declaration rang like a bell.
Nobles erupted into debate — opinions clashing, voices rising.
And then, the voice no one expected to hear rose from across the room:
“May I speak, Your Majesty?”
Lord Kim.
Yeonjun’s eyes narrowed, and he turned slowly.
Lord Kim stepped forward, trembling slightly — whether from nerves or guilt, it was hard to tell.
But his voice, when he spoke, was steady.
“In my opinion… the crown prince should be the one to lead the retaliation.”
“It would show strength. Unity. Nobility.”
“Let him ride to the frontlines with our banners. Let our enemies see we do not hide behind our walls.”
The room went still.
The suggestion was bold. Calculated. Perfect.
Yeonjun’s jaw tensed — not with anger, but disbelief.
Furthermore," Lord Kim pressed on, consulting a piece of paper in his shaking hands, "I suggest a three-pronged assault. Send him with our fastest cavalry to the mountain pass—it's the quickest route to their capital, but also..." he paused dramatically, "the most dangerous. If our prince can survive it, it will prove our royal bloodline's strength."
The king's eyes lit up with fierce pride. "Yes. Yes! My son will show them what royal blood can accomplish!"
Around the room, heads nodded in agreement. The crown prince himself stepped forward, chest puffed with arrogant confidence. "I'll leave at dawn, Father. Their heads will decorate our walls within a fortnight."
Yeonjun felt his jaw nearly drop. The plan was perfect—too perfect. It would send the crown prince directly into the most treacherous terrain with minimal backup, all while making it look like a bold strategic choice rather than a death sentence.
He turned his head, eyes sliding toward Soobin.
The other boy met his gaze without flinching.
Smug. Beautifully smug.
You little bastard.
Lord Kim finished his statement, bowed, and stepped back. Before he sat, his eyes flicked to Soobin for less than a second.
It was all Yeonjun needed to see.
Gods. Soobin is good.
The meeting continued with logistics and preparations, but Yeonjun barely heard any of it. His mind was reeling, recalculating everything he thought he knew about his supposed partner.
When the king finally dismissed the court, Yeonjun approached the throne with perfect princely deference.
"Father," he said, voice still thick with manufactured grief, "I want to personally oversee the preparations. I need to do something—anything—to avenge my sister."
The king's expression softened slightly. "Of course, my son. Take whatever resources you need."
“Lord Kim.”
The older man froze mid-step.
Yeonjun didn’t look at him at first.
“That was quite the suggestion you made. Do you understand what it implies?”
Silence.
The man shifted, eyes darting toward the door — until a presence settled behind him.
Soobin.
He slid one arm casually over Lord Kim’s shoulders, smiling pleasantly.
“Go on, Lord Kim,” he said smoothly. “After all, he’s the one who orchestrated it.”
Lord Kim’s throat bobbed with a dry swallow.
Hands shaking, he reached into his robe and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
He offered it to Yeonjun with both hands.
Yeonjun unfolded it carefully.
His own words stared back at him.
His plan.
His phrasing.
Written in a different hand, but word for word.
He looked up slowly.
“You did this?”
Soobin gave a half-shrug.
“Well, I had to do something. You never give me enough credit.”
They stared at each other — the space between them taut with power and challenge.
Soobin let his arm fall, stepping away from the older man.
Yeonjun sighed, annoyed — but there was a glint of reluctant admiration in his eyes.
"Impressive," Yeonjun said finally, the word dragged out of him like a confession. He rolled his eyes as Soobin's mouth curved into that insufferably handsome smirk.
"And he's in on it, too?" Yeonjun nodded toward Lord Kim.
"I might have threatened him into cooperation."
Once again, Yeonjun felt that jolt of surprise. The layers kept revealing themselves, each one more intricate than the last.
He considered for a moment, then turned to Lord Kim with renewed authority.
"There's one more detail to add to the plan. I want you to suggest that the crown prince take the northern route through Devil's Canyon for his return journey. Tell the king it's a symbolic victory march—returning through the most treacherous path to prove our dominance."
Lord Kim hesitated, his eyes darting between the two younger men.
"Well?" Yeonjun snapped, irritation bleeding through his princely facade. "Get on with it."
The man looked desperately at Soobin, who merely shrugged. "Whatever he said."
Only then did Lord Kim bow hastily and hurry from the room, the letter clutched to his chest like a shield.
When the doors closed behind him, silence filled the vast throne room. Yeonjun and Soobin stood facing each other in the golden afternoon light streaming through tall windows, two kings without kingdoms, two predators circling.
"Devil's Canyon?" Soobin asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Yeonjun's smile was as cold as winter. "Rockslides are so unpredictable this time of year. How many others do you have working for you?”
Soobin just smiled.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
“Follow me.”
That’s all Soobin said after the meeting — no context, no glance back.
Yeonjun raised a brow, intrigued more than annoyed, and let himself be led down the hallway.
They took the back corridors, dimly lit and silent. When they finally reached Soobin’s chamber doors, Soobin pushed them open with a casual wave of his hand.
Yeonjun entered first — uninvited, unbothered — and made himself at home the way Soobin once had in his room.
He dropped onto the bed.
Comfortable. Sprawled. Even buried his face in the pillow for a second.
Then did it again — but more discreetly this time.
Not that he was sniffing it , of course. And if Soobin noticed… well, he didn’t say anything.
But Yeonjun heard the tiniest huff of amusement as the door shut behind them.
Inside the room stood a man Yeonjun recognised — one of the King’s personal guards. Stern posture. Neutral expression.
Yeonjun narrowed his eyes.
“What’s he doing here?”
Unless…
Soobin stepped forward.
“Yeonjun, meet Taehyun.”
He gestured to the man. “He’s mine. A spy stationed under the king’s nose. And from now on, he’s your personal complice.”
Yeonjun blinked.
“Complice…?”
“For when the time comes to kill the king.”
Yeonjun sat up a little straighter. He didn’t speak for a moment.
Seriously — how many people did Soobin have working for him?
As if summoned by the thought, two more figures stepped into the room.
Yeonjun recognised them instantly.
Beomgyu. Kai.
The same two who’d orchestrated the chaos around the princess’s body that morning.
They bowed to him with measured respect.
Soobin stayed relaxed. Regal.
“These three are my inner circle,” he said. “I trust them more than anyone. But there are others — lords, guards, servants. Quiet loyalties. Ones we’ve cultivated over time.”
He turned slightly, addressing them all.
“Right now, our goal is simple. Gain as much favour within the court as possible. Influence. Alliances. So when the king falls, he’ll fall alone.”
Yeonjun let the silence stretch.
Then, slowly:
“This is your perfect plan to take the throne, then.”
Soobin turned his head toward him.
“Isn’t that the point?”
Yeonjun’s smile was thin. “But what happens if I get the throne instead?”
Soobin didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
He seemed to consider it for a moment. Then said, simply:
“Then my men will swear loyalty to you.”
Yeonjun’s brow lifted, genuinely surprised.
“Just like that?”
“I don’t see anyone else capable of ruling in my place… except you.”
That statement hit with the force of something deeper.
Yeonjun didn’t reply right away.
Annoyingly flattered, he tilted his head and said nothing — because truthfully, he didn’t see anyone else in Soobin’s place either.
Which meant…
This was a gamble. A silent race.
One throne. Two rightful kings.
Only one winner.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Later that night…
The room cleared slowly.
Kai and Beomgyu bowed and slipped out to attend to their own work.
Yeonjun rose from the bed with a stretch.
“I’m retiring to my chamber. Try not to plot too much without me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soobin replied dryly.
Taehyun gave a sharp bow and followed Yeonjun to the door, but paused before stepping out. He turned back and offered Soobin a second, respectful nod.
Soobin returned it with a faint smile.
The door shut behind them.
Let the games begin.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
Before the court meeting, before the princess’s death spiralled into something more, Soobin sat in his chambers with Beomgyu and Kai flanking him.
The door opened.
Taehyun entered, expression unreadable, movements precise.
“You called for me, Lord Soobin?”
Soobin nodded. “Sit.”
Soobin paced before them like a predator sizing up potential prey. When he spoke, his voice carried the authority of someone who had commanded loyalty through fear and respect in equal measure.
"The current king is weak," he said without preamble. "His reign has made this kingdom vulnerable, corrupt. Prince Yeonjun and I intend to change that."
He paused, letting the implications settle.
"When we succeed—and we will succeed—those who supported us will be rewarded. Positions of power, wealth, and protection. But more than that, you'll be part of building something better."
Taehyun had listened carefully, weighing every word. He'd served the king for years, had seen the decay from the inside. The promise of change, of purpose, was seductive.
"What would you need from me?" he'd asked.
"Your oath of loyalty," Soobin had replied immediately. "And your position within the king's guard."
When Taehyun had sworn his allegiance—hand over heart, voice steady despite the magnitude of what he was committing to—Soobin's smile had been sharp with satisfaction.
"You'll be stationed with Prince Yeonjun," Soobin had told him. "Follow his orders, protect him, assist him however he needs. But..." His eyes had turned cold. "You also keep me informed of his movements, his plans, his motivations. Everything."
Taehyun had nodded, understanding the delicate balance he'd need to maintain. Loyalty to the cause, loyalty to the prince—and ultimate loyalty to Soobin himself.
"The prince doesn't need to know about our arrangement," Soobin had added quietly. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. What he doesn't know might even help him."
Now, as Taehyun walked through the palace corridors back to his post, he reflected on that conversation. The game had begun in earnest, and he was perfectly positioned to serve both masters.
Or to choose which one deserved to win.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The door shut behind Yeonjun with a soft click.
Silence settled in, broken only by the distant crackle of torches in the hallway. The palace had quieted for the night, but his mind hadn't. Not yet.
He shrugged off his outer coat and let it drop onto the chaise.
Soobin, with his plans and his people. Soobin, with his layered threats wrapped in charm.
Soobin, who thought the game was already his.
A soft knock at the door.
Yeonjun didn’t flinch.
“Come in.”
The handle turned. The large oak door creaked open.
And in stepped Kai.
Sharp, silent Kai. Loyal right hand to Soobin. Or so it seemed.
He closed the door behind him without a word and stepped forward with smooth, purposeful strides. His expression was unreadable.
Yeonjun leaned lazily against the table, arms crossed, watching him.
Soobin, darling — you’re not the only one with eyes.
Kai knelt on one knee.
Lowered his head.
And bowed.
Yeonjun’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk.
Chapter Text
The heavy oak doors of the war council chamber groaned open as Yeonjun stepped inside, his soft-soled boots making barely a whisper against the polished stone floor. The familiar scent of parchment, ink, and the lingering traces of yesterday's wine hung in the air, but something else caught his attention—an undercurrent of tension that hadn't been there in previous meetings.
His eyes swept across the room, taking in the assembled lords and advisors bent over maps and scrolls. At the head of the massive table sat his father, the King, his weathered face creased in concentration as he listened to Lord Kim's droning voice. The Crown Prince lounged in his chair with characteristic arrogance, occasionally nodding as if he understood the intricacies of warfare better than the seasoned generals around him.
But it was Soobin who drew Yeonjun's attention like a moth to flame.
The tall advisor stood near the eastern wall, his dark hair catching the morning light that streamed through the tall windows. He wasn’t idly observing or quietly remarking from the side; he was leading . His voice carried not only calm authority but influence. Each word he uttered threaded itself into the lords’ arguments until they were nodding along, unaware of the leash he was tightening around them.
Yeonjun leaned back, folding his arms. Suspicion prickled at him like thorns.
Something was definitely up.
"Ah, Prince Yeonjun," Lord Park's voice cut through his observations, drawing every eye in the room to him. "How good of you to join us."
The barely concealed disdain in the elderly lord's voice was nothing new, but today it seemed more pronounced. Yeonjun offered a small, demure bow—the kind expected of an omega prince who knew his place.
"My apologies for my tardiness, Lord Park. I was delayed by correspondence from the northern estates." The lie rolled off his tongue smoothly, accompanied by the slight breathlessness that others always interpreted as his natural delicacy rather than the calculated performance it was.
"No matter," his father said dismissively, not even looking up from the map before him. "We were just discussing the final arrangements for the campaign against Aldermore."
Yeonjun took his designated seat—notably positioned away from the main strategic discussions—and folded his hands in his lap. To anyone watching, he appeared to be the picture of a dutiful omega prince, present only because protocol demanded it. But his ears were sharp, catching every nuance of the conversation that resumed around him.
"The intelligence reports confirm that King Aldermore's forces are concentrated in the eastern territories," General Hayes was saying, his gnarled finger tracing routes across the detailed map. "If we strike here, at dawn, we can catch them before they have time to organise their defences properly."
The Crown Prince leaned forward eagerly. "And the casualties? How many men are we prepared to lose for this victory?"
"Acceptable losses, Your Highness," the General replied. "Perhaps two hundred, maybe three if their archers prove more skilled than anticipated."
Yeonjun listened to the cold calculation in their voices, the way they discussed human lives like chess pieces to be sacrificed. It wasn't the callousness that bothered him—he'd long since accepted the brutal realities of warfare and politics. What set his nerves on edge was the way Soobin kept glancing in his direction, those dark eyes holding secrets that Yeonjun couldn't quite decipher.
"There is, however, one matter we should address," Soobin's smooth voice cut through the military discussions like silk through steel. The room fell silent, all attention turning to him. "The matter of representation."
"Representation?" The King's bushy eyebrows rose in question.
Soobin stepped closer to the table, his movements fluid and confident. "Your Majesty, the people speak often of the tragedy that befell Princess Mirae. They hunger for justice, for retribution against those who took her from us." His voice carried just the right note of grief and righteous anger. "What stronger message could we send than to have both your sons—your heirs—leading the charge to avenge their beloved sister?"
The words hit the room like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of reaction through the assembled lords. Yeonjun felt his blood turn to ice, but his expression remained carefully neutral. So this was Soobin's game.
"Both sons?" Lord Kim sputtered, his watery eyes darting between the Crown Prince and Yeonjun. "Surely you don't mean—"
"I mean exactly what I said," Soobin replied, his tone respectful but firm. "Prince Yeonjun has as much right as his brother to seek justice for their sister. More than that—he has the duty."
The Crown Prince's face darkened. "My brother has never held a sword in combat. He would be a liability, not an asset."
"With respect, Your Highness," Soobin continued, and Yeonjun noted the subtle steel beneath his courteous words, "Prince Yeonjun has shown remarkable... resilience in other areas. His diplomatic skills, his ability to inspire loyalty among the servants and lesser nobles—these are valuable assets in warfare as well as peace."
Yeonjun watched the exchange with growing fascination and dread. Every word Soobin spoke was carefully chosen, designed to sound like he was advocating for Yeonjun's honour while actually manoeuvring him into mortal danger. So this was Soobin’s game. Not only to trap the crown prince, but to throw him into the fire as well. Clever. Dangerous.
"The omega prince in battle?" General Hayes shook his grizzled head. "It's unprecedented. Dangerous."
"All the more reason why it would send such a powerful message," Soobin pressed on. "Think of it—the gentle prince, motivated by love for his sister, finding the strength to face her killers. The poets would sing of it for generations. The people would see that their royal family would stop at nothing to protect them."
Yeonjun saw his father's eyes light up with the kind of calculating gleam that always appeared when he sensed a political advantage. The King was many things—weak, easily manipulated, hungry for approval—but he wasn't stupid when it came to public opinion.
"It would certainly capture the imagination," the King mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And you believe Prince Yeonjun is... capable of such an endeavour?"
All eyes turned to Yeonjun, who had remained perfectly still throughout the discussion. He could feel the weight of their expectations, their assumptions, their underestimations pressing down on him like a physical force. They expected him to protest, to show fear, to prove that he was indeed too fragile for warfare.
Instead, he lifted his chin slightly and met his father's gaze with steady brown eyes.
"If it is your will, Your Majesty, then I shall serve as best I am able." His voice was soft, almost tremulous—the perfect tone of a dutiful omega accepting a burden beyond his capabilities. "Though I confess, I know little of military strategy."
"That's what advisors are for," Soobin said smoothly, his lips curving in what others might mistake for a reassuring smile. But Yeonjun caught the glimmer of satisfaction in those dark eyes. "I'm certain Prince Yeonjun will prove himself admirably."
Soobin’s gaze flicked to Yeonjun, unreadable. Then—just a hint of a smirk.
Yeonjun met it with a smile of his own. Dangerous. Promising. Fine. Let them think him weak. He would play along.
The discussion continued around him as the lords debated logistics and strategies, but Yeonjun's mind was already racing ahead. He could see the shape of Soobin's plan now, elegant in its simplicity and ruthless in its execution. Get both princes onto the battlefield, arrange for the Crown Prince's "tragic" death, and ensure that the omega prince either died alongside him or was captured by enemy forces. With both heirs gone, the throne would be ripe for the taking.
It was exactly what Yeonjun would have done in Soobin's position.
As the meeting progressed, Lord Kim outlined the strategic elements of their assault. "The Aldermore forces are expecting us to attack from the south, where the terrain favours our cavalry. Instead, we'll divide our forces. The main army, led by His Highness the Crown Prince, will create a diversion in the southern pass. Meanwhile, a smaller, more mobile force will circle around through the northern woods and strike at their supply lines."
"And which force would carry the greater risk?" the King inquired.
"The northern force, without question," General Hayes replied grimly. "They'll be cut off from the main army, operating in hostile territory with limited supplies. If something goes wrong..."
"Then that's where Prince Yeonjun should serve," Soobin interjected smoothly. "If we're to show the people that both princes are willing to risk everything for justice, then he should be where the danger is greatest. It will demonstrate courage that none can question."
Yeonjun almost smiled at the audacity of it. Soobin wasn't just planning to eliminate him—he was making sure Yeonjun would be isolated, far from help, when the trap was sprung. The Crown Prince would die in his own "accident" on the return journey, while Yeonjun would simply vanish in enemy territory, presumed dead.
"An excellent proposal," Yeonjun said quietly, causing several heads to turn in surprise. "I would be honoured to serve where I might do the most good."
The Crown Prince's eyes narrowed dangerously. His brother's easy acceptance clearly wasn't sitting well with him, but he could hardly argue against it without looking like a coward himself.
"Very well," the King declared, slapping his palm against the table with finality. "It's decided. Both my sons will participate in this campaign. Let it be known throughout the realm that the royal house of Ethereal stands united in seeking justice for our beloved Mirae."
As the meeting continued with discussions of supply lines, troop movements, and siege equipment, Yeonjun found his attention drifting to Soobin. The man had positioned himself near the window now, the morning light casting sharp shadows across his angular features. There was something almost beautiful about the way he carried himself—confident without arrogance, intelligent without condescension. If they weren't enemies, if circumstances were different… only if he was working under him.
But they weren't different, and wishful thinking was a luxury Yeonjun couldn't afford.
The meeting finally drew to a close as the sun reached its zenith. Lords and generals filed out in small groups, their voices carrying animated discussions about tactics and timelines. Yeonjun remained seated, watching Soobin gather his papers with methodical precision.
"Quite a performance," Yeonjun murmured as the last of the others departed, leaving only the two of them and the Crown Prince, who was studying the war maps with newfound intensity.
Soobin glanced up, his expression perfectly innocent. "I'm not sure what you mean, Your Highness."
"Of course not." Yeonjun rose gracefully from his chair, smoothing down his silk robes. "I simply wanted to thank you for advocating so... passionately for my inclusion in this campaign."
"It seemed only fitting," Soobin replied, his tone as smooth as honey. "You deserve the chance to prove yourself."
The double meaning hung in the air between them like smoke. Yeonjun stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of sandalwood that always seemed to cling to Soobin's clothes.
"How thoughtful of you to be so concerned with my reputation." For just a moment, something flickered in Soobin's dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition that this game they were playing had more layers than he'd anticipated. But the expression was gone so quickly that Yeonjun might have imagined it.
The Crown Prince's sharp voice cut through their quiet exchange. "Brother, stop monopolising Lord Soobin's time. We have preparations to make."
Yeonjun stepped back with a small bow. "Of course. Forgive me." He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway to make eye contact with Kai, who stood quietly in the corner before leaving.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The afternoon sun was slanting through the tall windows of his chambers when a soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called, not looking up from the letter he was pretending to write.
Kai slipped through the door like a shadow, his boyish features creased with concern. "Your Highness, I heard about the war council. Is it true that you're to accompany the army to Aldermore?"
Yeonjun set down his quill and turned to face his loyal friend and spy. The young man had proven invaluable as both companion and informant.
"It's true," Yeonjun confirmed, gesturing for Kai to take a seat in the chair opposite his desk. "Lord Soobin was quite persuasive in arguing for my participation."
Kai's expression darkened. "That man is dangerous, Your Highness. My sources tell me he's been meeting with various lords and military officers, always in private, always careful to leave no record of what they discuss."
"What sources?" Yeonjun asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Kitchen maids, stable boys, servants who empty chamber pots and change linens." Kai's smile was grim. "People notice more than the nobility gives them credit for. And what they notice is that Lord Soobin has been very busy building a network of loyalty that extends far beyond what his official position should warrant."
Yeonjun nodded thoughtfully. It confirmed what he'd already suspected about Soobin's long-term ambitions. The man wasn't just planning to eliminate the royal heirs—he was positioning himself to take control of the kingdom afterwards.
"There's something else," Kai continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I overheard a conversation between him and the Crown Prince earlier today, after you left the war council."
Yeonjun leaned forward, his interest sharpening. "Oh?"
Kai glanced toward the closed door, as if the shadows themselves might be listening. "Soobin told the prince that the eastern army is strong but fractured. That a victory is all but assured if he seizes the chance to lead. But then—" Kai paused, the tension in his jaw sharp. "—he suggested that your presence on the battlefield would prove his legitimacy. An omega prince fighting at his brother’s side. A noble sacrifice, should things go awry."
Yeonjun chuckled, low and humourless. "Of course. How convenient."
The pieces of Soobin's plan were falling into place with crystalline clarity. The Crown Prince would die in Devil's Canyon, his triumphant march home cut short exactly as Yeonjun had envisioned. But Soobin’s hand was in the arrangement now, and he had adjusted the game board. Yeonjun was to be eliminated first—delivered neatly into enemy hands, stripped of dignity, reputation, and life. Two birds with one stone.
"Kai," Yeonjun said slowly, his mind already working through the implications and possibilities. "How do you feel about a little acting?"
"Acting, Your Highness?"
Yeonjun stood and began pacing, his movements fluid and predatory despite his deceptively delicate appearance. "Soobin expects me to die in Aldermore—either in battle or as a prisoner. The Crown Prince expects to return home victorious, only to meet an unfortunate end in Devil's Canyon. But what if we gave them something they weren't expecting?"
Kai watched him pace, recognition dawning in his intelligent eyes. "What did you have in mind?"
Yeonjun sat back down and leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest. His smirk was sharp enough to cut glass. "I’ll play along, of course. Let Soobin think the board belongs to him. Let him push his pieces forward, convinced he’s cornering me."
"We're going to let them think they've won," Yeonjun said, his voice taking on the cold, calculating tone that only Kai was ever privileged to hear. "Right up until the moment they realise they haven't won at all."
He looked up, eyes gleaming crimson for the briefest second. "But when the moment comes, I’ll flip the board."
Kai bowed his head, a hint of admiration curling in his tone. "You intend to make him choke on his own strategy."
"Exactly," Yeonjun replied, rising to his feet with that same feline grace, every movement deliberate. He crossed to the window where moonlight spilt in silver pools across the floor, his red cape trailing like spilt wine. "He wants me gone, erased, forgotten. Fine. I’ll give him what he wants."
His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "But when I return—when I come back breathing, standing, victorious—I’ll make sure the only thing Soobin sees is how badly he underestimated me."
Kai said nothing more, only watching as Yeonjun’s silhouette was etched against the pale light of the moon. In that moment, the vampire prince looked less like prey and more like the predator he had always been.
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The next day, the royal party assembled in the palace courtyard as dawn painted the eastern sky in shades of gold and crimson. Horses stamped impatiently as grooms made final adjustments to saddles and bridles, while soldiers checked weapons and armour with the practised efficiency of men who had seen battle before.
Yeonjun emerged from the palace dressed in travelling clothes that had been carefully chosen to reinforce his image as a delicate omega unused to the hardships of campaign life. His riding outfit was well-made but impractical—too fine for rough travel, too clean for someone who understood the realities of warfare. He carried himself with visible nervousness, his movements just a touch too quick, his eyes darting around as if seeking reassurance.
The performance was flawless.
The Crown Prince was already mounted on his destrier, the massive warhorse as arrogant and ill-tempered as its rider. He looked every inch the warrior prince in his burnished armour, a figure that poets would indeed sing about for generations. If only they knew the truth behind the heroic facade.
Soobin stood on the palace steps rather than mounted, dressed in his formal court attire rather than travelling clothes. His position as the King's chief advisor required him to remain at court, managing affairs while the princes were away. His dark eyes surveyed the assembled party with the keen attention of a man orchestrating events from behind the scenes. When his gaze fell on Yeonjun, there was something almost like satisfaction in his expression.
"You look pale, brother," the Crown Prince observed with false concern as Yeonjun approached his own mount—a gentle mare chosen specifically to reinforce his image as an inexperienced rider. "Are you certain you're well enough for this journey?"
"I'm fine," Yeonjun replied, his voice carrying just the right note of uncertainty. "Perhaps a touch nervous, but that's to be expected, isn't it?"
"Quite understandable," came a voice from behind them. Soobin had approached, his hands clasped behind his back in his characteristic pose. "Your first military campaign is bound to be overwhelming. But I'm confident you'll rise to the occasion when the moment calls for it."
Yeonjun met his eyes, reading layers of meaning in that simple statement. "I certainly hope so. I would hate to disappoint anyone who has placed their faith in me."
"I have every confidence in your... capabilities, Your Highness," Soobin replied smoothly. "Both of you will return victorious, I'm certain of it."
The King and Queen emerged from the palace to see them off, accompanied by a small crowd of courtiers and servants. The farewell ceremony was brief but appropriately dramatic, with speeches about duty and honour and justice for their fallen daughter. Yeonjun played his part perfectly, accepting his parents' blessings with visible emotion while privately noting how little genuine affection there was in their words.
As the party prepared to depart, Yeonjun dismounted briefly under the pretence of checking his stirrups. This brought him close to where Soobin stood watching from the steps. Under the cover of the bustling activity around them, he leaned slightly toward the advisor.
"Keep an eye out for me, won't you?" he whispered, his lips barely moving, his voice pitched low enough that only Soobin could hear.
When he pulled back, he was rewarded by the sight of Soobin's smug smile—the expression of a man who believed his victory was assured. Yeonjun returned the smile with one of his own, all innocence and trust, even as his mind catalogued every detail of Soobin's reaction.
"Always, Your Highness," Soobin murmured back, his voice carrying promises that had nothing to do with protection.
Good. Let him believe he had won. It would make the final reveal all the sweeter.
Yeonjun remounted his mare and guided her into position as the gates of the palace opened with a massive groan of metal and stone. The royal expedition rode out into the morning mist, leaving Soobin standing on the palace steps like a spider at the centre of his web. Behind them, the castle bells began to toll, their bronze voices carrying prayers for swift victory and safe return.
Yeonjun rode in silence, surrounded by guards who saw him as their weakest link, accompanied by a brother who despised him, while the man who planned both their deaths watched from the safety of the palace. To any observer, he looked like a lamb being led to slaughter.
They had no idea they were riding with a wolf.
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The ride out of the capital stretched into endless hours of silence. Hooves drummed a steady rhythm against packed dirt, a heartbeat of war that echoed down the valley. Standards bearing the royal crest snapped in the cold wind, crimson against a pale, wintry sky. Soldiers marched in orderly columns, their armour clinking like restless chains.
At the front rode the Crown Prince, gleaming in polished steel, mounted upon his massive destrier. He looked every inch the hero bards loved to sing about—proud, strong, unyielding. Men cheered his name as he passed, their eyes bright with admiration and hope. He basked in it, soaking in their loyalty like a man already seated upon the throne.
And behind him, just out of the spotlight, rode Yeonjun.
His mare was smaller, her coat the soft cream of untroubled innocence. The prince himself cut a figure of fragile beauty: travel robes too fine for campaign life, hands clutching reins with apparent unease, eyes darting as if the shadows of the forest might consume him at any moment. To the men, he was a liability—a delicate ornament dragged into the mud of war.
Good. Let them think so. Let them see a lamb and not the wolf.
The role fit him like a second skin. His lowered lashes hid the sharp gleam of thought, and every stumble, every tremor, was a carefully practised act. No one noticed how his gaze lingered on the terrain they crossed, how his ears caught murmurs in the ranks, how every scrap of overheard report stitched itself into the quiet tapestry of his mind.
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By the second day, the army had settled into routine. Scouts slipped in and out of camp with tidings of the enemy. The Aldermore forces, it was said, had fortified the southern ridge, braced for a frontal assault. The generals murmured of predictable strategy and easy victory. The Crown Prince’s chest swelled with pride.
“They expect us to go south,” he announced loudly at the evening fire, voice carrying to ensure the nearest companies heard. “And so we shall—but with force they cannot withstand. By week’s end, Aldermore will be ashes beneath our feet.”
The soldiers cheered, raising cups of watered ale in salute. Few glanced toward Yeonjun, who sat in shadow at the edge of the firelight, sipping delicately as though the bitter drink were poison. His expression was unreadable, but his ears missed nothing.
Later, when the camp quieted, he slipped between the fires, appearing hesitant—timid, even—while asking officers simple questions.
“How many supplies remain if we take the northern path?”
“Would the rivers swell after last night’s rain?”
“Do their archers favour curved bows or crossbows?”
Each question was laced with innocence, easily dismissed as the fumbling curiosity of an unblooded prince. Yet every answer he drew was a piece placed neatly on his private board.
By dawn, he knew more of Aldermore’s weaknesses than any general who had pored over maps for months.
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The division of forces began on the third day. The main army, with the Crown Prince at its head, thundered southward in shining splendour. Yeonjun, meanwhile, was saddled with the smaller northern detachment—three thousand soldiers, half-trained and ill-supplied, guided by captains whose resentment clung to them like smoke.
The forest path was narrow, gnarled roots clawing at hooves, branches blotting out the weak winter sun. Men muttered uneasily; the northern woods had long been rumoured to hold ghosts.
When the attack came, it was swift and merciless.
Aldermore’s raiders poured from the trees, their cries shattering the fragile calm. Arrows rained down like black hail, felling men before they could draw blades. Horses screamed. Panic rippled through the ranks as soldiers faltered, some breaking and running into the thicket.
And Yeonjun—fragile, trembling Yeonjun—did not falter.
“Shields left!” His voice cut through chaos like a whipcrack, sharper than any captain’s. “Archers to the ridge—loose in volleys of three! Cavalry, circle wide and drive them back to the gorge!”
The soldiers blinked, startled by the authority in that soft, melodic voice. But instinct made them obey. Formations snapped into place, disorder resolving into lethal order. Yeonjun moved among them with uncanny calm, his silk sleeves torn, his eyes flashing crimson for the briefest heartbeat whenever the panic threatened to consume the men.
They rallied. The ambush turned. The raiders broke.
And when silence fell, broken only by the groans of the wounded, every eye turned to Yeonjun. The frail prince they expected to collapse had stood unflinching. His commands had saved them.
By the fourth day, whispers spread like fire in dry grass: The omega prince fights like he was born for this.
By the sixth, Aldermore’s northern lines lay in ruin, their supply trains burned, their commanders slain.
The war, though bloody, was theirs. And not because of the Crown Prince.
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That night, victory was celebrated with a feast. Fires blazed, roasting boars fat with autumn grain. Men sang, their voices hoarse with triumph. Cups clashed, laughter roared, and victory seemed certain.
Yeonjun sat quietly at the high table, once again playing the role of the dutiful younger brother. But those who had fought beside him in the northern campaign kept glancing in his direction, their eyes holding a respect that bordered on reverence. They had seen what he could do when unleashed. They knew the truth behind the mask.
The Crown Prince held court at the center of attention, regaling anyone who would listen with embellished tales of his strategic brilliance. His version of events conveniently overlooked the fact that his frontal assaults had achieved little beyond massive casualties, while his brother's "supporting actions" had won the war.
"My friends," the Crown Prince declared, rising from his chair with the confidence of someone drunk on both wine and assumed victory, "we have achieved a great triumph here! We have avenged our beloved sister and brought glory to the crown of Ethereal!"
Cheers erupted from his supporters, but Yeonjun noticed that many of the veterans from the northern force remained notably quiet. They knew where the real victory had come from.
As the evening wore on and inhibitions lowered, the Crown Prince's rhetoric became increasingly pointed. He spoke of "those who truly led" versus "those who merely followed." Of "real warriors" versus "pretty ornaments." Each veiled insult was designed to remind everyone present of the natural order—that he was the heir, the leader, the one who deserved credit for their success.
But Captain Morris had heard enough.
"Your Highness," the grizzled veteran said, slowly rising from his seat at a lower table. His voice carried clearly through the suddenly quiet hall. "With respect, those who fought beside Prince Yeonjun might have a different perspective on who led this victory."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. The Crown Prince's face darkened dangerously as murmurs rippled through the assembled soldiers.
"Are you questioning my leadership, Captain?"
"I'm simply stating facts, Your Highness." Morris' voice was steady, unafraid. "Prince Yeonjun led thirty men against impossible odds and achieved objectives that even our best generals thought unattainable. He planned the assault that broke their final defence. He bled beside us, fought beside us, and brought us home alive when victory seemed impossible."
Other veterans began to nod, their voices joining in quiet agreement. The truth was spreading like ripples across still water, and the Crown Prince could see his carefully maintained image beginning to crack.
"Enough," Yeonjun said quietly, his soft voice somehow carrying to every corner of the hall. He rose from his chair with fluid grace, his movements once again those of the delicate omega prince. "Captain Morris, please. My brother speaks from rightful pride in our victory. There is no need for discord on such a night."
But the damage was done. The seed of doubt had been planted, the truth spoken for all to hear. In this room, surrounded by men who had witnessed the reality of battle, everyone now knew which brother possessed the true heart of a warrior.
The Crown Prince's eyes blazed with a fury that promised retribution. Yeonjun met that gaze calmly, reading the murderous intent behind his brother's forced smile. Perfect. Let him reveal his true nature. It would make what came next so much easier to justify.
The feast continued for several more hours, but the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted. The Crown Prince's supporters rallied around him with increased fervour, while those who had served under Yeonjun watched their omega prince with a new understanding. Lines were being drawn, loyalties tested.
It was exactly what Yeonjun had been waiting for.
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Three days after the victory feast, as the army prepared for the journey home, the Crown Prince made his move.
They had broken camp early that morning, the long column of soldiers and supply wagons stretching across the Aldermore countryside like a great serpent. The mood was jubilant—they were returning home as conquering heroes, laden with treasure and glory.
Yeonjun rode near the middle of the column, surrounded by his personal guard and the six veterans who had fought beside him. He had returned to his performance of mild fatigue and delicate constitution, occasionally requesting water or shade as if the rigours of campaign life were taking their toll on his omega sensibilities.
It was a carefully crafted illusion, one that masked the predatory awareness with which he watched everything around him.
The trap was sprung during the midday rest, when the army had stopped beside a small river to water the horses and refill their supplies. Yeonjun had dismounted to stretch his legs, playing up a slight limp that suggested his gentle mare had proven more challenging than expected for someone of his supposed inexperience.
"Brother," the Crown Prince's voice cut through the general chatter of the resting soldiers. "A word, if you please."
Yeonjun looked up from where he had been adjusting his stirrups—a task that allowed him to keep his hands busy while observing the positioning of various groups around the camp. The Crown Prince stood twenty yards away, flanked by a dozen of his most loyal guards. Their hands rested on their sword hilts in a way that suggested this was no casual conversation.
"Of course," Yeonjun replied, his voice carrying just the right note of weary compliance. He walked toward his brother with the slightly unsteady gait of someone pushed beyond their limits, his shoulders curved inward in a posture of submission.
The performance was flawless. Every eye that watched saw exactly what they expected to see—the delicate omega prince, exhausted by his first taste of warfare, obediently responding to his stronger brother's summons.
"You fought well," the Crown Prince said when Yeonjun reached him. The words were spoken loud enough for nearby soldiers to hear, but his eyes held no warmth. "Better than anyone expected."
"Thank you," Yeonjun replied softly, ducking his head in apparent gratitude. "I had good teachers and brave companions."
"Yes, you did." The Crown Prince's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Perhaps too good. Some might even say you've forgotten your place."
The implied threat hung in the air like smoke. Around them, conversations had gradually quieted as soldiers sensed the tension building between the royal brothers. Yeonjun could feel dozens of eyes watching, waiting to see how this confrontation would unfold.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Yeonjun said, his voice trembling slightly. "I've only tried to serve as best I could."
"Service." The Crown Prince seemed to taste the word, finding it bitter. "Yes, that's exactly what concerns me. You see, dear brother, some of the men have begun to... confuse service with leadership. They speak of your tactical brilliance, your courage under fire, your natural ability to inspire loyalty."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Yeonjun could hear. "They're starting to wonder why the omega prince seems more suited to rule than the actual heir."
Yeonjun's eyes widened in apparent shock and fear. "Brother, I would never—"
"Of course you wouldn't," the Crown Prince cut him off, his voice returning to normal volume. "Because you understand that such... confusion could be dangerous. For everyone involved."
The threat was now explicit, though still couched in language that maintained plausible deniability. The Crown Prince was making it clear that he saw Yeonjun as a threat to be eliminated, while giving himself room to claim he had only been offering brotherly guidance if anyone questioned his words later.
Yeonjun swayed slightly on his feet, as if the stress of the confrontation was overwhelming his delicate constitution. "I... I think I need to sit down."
"Poor thing," the Crown Prince said with false sympathy, loud enough for the watching soldiers to hear. "The campaign has been so hard on you. Perhaps you should rest while we handle the remaining... administrative tasks."
It was then that Yeonjun noticed the subtle positioning of the Crown Prince's guards. They had spread out in a loose circle, cutting off potential escape routes while maintaining the appearance of casual attention. Whatever was about to happen, it had been planned in advance.
Captain Morris, standing with a group of northern force veterans near the river, caught Yeonjun's eye and took a half-step forward. The old soldier's hand moved instinctively toward his sword, recognising the signs of an impending confrontation.
Yeonjun gave the slightest shake of his head—a gesture so small that only someone watching specifically for it would notice. Morris hesitated, confusion flickering across his weathered features, but he held his position.
Good. Yeonjun needed his most loyal supporters to stay out of what came next. They couldn't help him with what he had planned, and their intervention would only complicate things.
"You know," the Crown Prince continued, his voice carrying a note of philosophical musing that set Yeonjun's nerves on edge, "I've been thinking about our return to the capital. About how best to present our victory to Father and the court."
"Oh?" Yeonjun managed to look interested despite his apparent distress.
"The thing is, military campaigns are dangerous. Unpredictable. Sometimes even victorious armies suffer... tragic losses during the journey home." The Crown Prince's smile was cold as winter moonlight. "Bandits, wild animals, accidents in difficult terrain. So many things can go wrong."
The implied threat was now so obvious that even the most oblivious observer would understand what was being suggested. Around the camp, conversations had stopped entirely. Soldiers stood frozen, watching the confrontation between their princes with the horrified fascination of those witnessing a disaster they were powerless to prevent.
"I..." Yeonjun's voice cracked with apparent fear. "I don't understand."
"Don't you?" The Crown Prince stepped closer, close enough that Yeonjun could see the madness burning behind his eyes. "Let me be clearer, then. You've become a problem, little brother. A threat to the natural order. And problems... need to be solved."
At his gesture, the guards moved closer. Their intentions were no longer even remotely concealed—this was an arrest, possibly an execution, dressed up as a family disagreement.
Yeonjun stumbled backwards, his face pale with terror. "Please, I never meant... I only wanted to serve..."
"Too late for that," the Crown Prince said with satisfaction. "Guards, I'm afraid my brother has become... unstable. The stress of his first campaign appears to have affected his mind. For his own safety, and the safety of others, he needs to be secured."
It was a masterful piece of political theatre. By framing Yeonjun's arrest as a medical necessity rather than a power struggle, the Crown Prince gave his supporters cover to claim they were acting out of concern rather than ambition. Anyone who questioned the decision later could be accused of wanting to endanger an unstable royal.
The guards moved to surround Yeonjun, their hands now openly gripping sword hilts. Among the watching soldiers, Yeonjun could see faces twisted with confusion, anger, and helpless fury. They knew what they were witnessing was wrong, but the political dynamics made intervention impossible without starting a civil war.
"Please," Yeonjun whispered, backing away until he stumbled against one of the guards. "I'm not... I didn't do anything wrong..."
"Of course not," the Crown Prince said soothingly. "That's why we're going to take such good care of you. The enemy king mentioned something about accepting... diplomatic exchanges. Perhaps a show of good faith would help cement our victory."
The true plan was now clear. Yeonjun would be handed over to what remained of Aldermore's leadership—ostensibly as a diplomatic hostage to ensure continued peace, but actually as a gift to enemies who would be happy to eliminate a threat to their conqueror's power. It was elegant, deniable, and utterly ruthless.
Just the sort of plan Yeonjun would have admired if it had been directed at someone else.
"No," he breathed, genuine fear flickering in his eyes for the first time. "Please, brother, don't—"
The blow came without warning, the pommel of a guard's sword crashing against the side of Yeonjun's head. He crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from his scalp, his body convulsing in apparent agony.
Around the camp, shouts of outrage erupted from the northern force veterans. Captain Morris surged forward, his sword half-drawn, before two of the Crown Prince's guards moved to block his path.
"Stand down!" the Crown Prince barked, his voice carrying absolute authority. "All of you! My brother is ill, and any interference will be treated as treason against the crown!"
It was a perfect trap. Anyone who tried to help Yeonjun would be branded a traitor, while those who stood aside could claim they were following orders. The Crown Prince had manoeuvred them all into a position where resistance was impossible without destroying their own lives and careers.
Yeonjun lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head, his breathing shallow and irregular. To all appearances, he had been seriously injured by the blow—possibly fatally so.
"Secure him," the Crown Prince ordered. "And send word to the Aldermore representatives. Tell them we have a... gesture of goodwill to offer in the interest of lasting peace."
As the guards bound Yeonjun's unconscious form and lifted him onto a horse like a sack of grain, the watching soldiers began to understand the full scope of what they had witnessed. Their omega prince—the one who had led them to impossible victory, who had bled beside them and proved himself worthy of their loyalty—was being handed over to enemies who would certainly kill him.
Captain Morris stood rigid with fury, his weathered hands clenched into fists. Around him, the other veterans of the northern force wore expressions of barely contained rage. They had seen their true leader betrayed by the weak fool who claimed the throne by right of birth rather than merit.
The seeds of rebellion had been planted.
But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that Yeonjun's limp form was being carried away from the camp, surrounded by guards loyal to the Crown Prince, heading toward a meeting with Aldermore's surviving leadership.
To everyone watching, it looked like the end of Prince Yeonjun's story.
They had no idea it was actually the beginning.
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Three days later
The Crown Prince rode at the head of his column with the satisfied air of a man whose problems had been neatly solved. Behind him, the army stretched across the countryside in good order, their banners snapping in the crisp morning breeze as they made steady progress toward home.
The past few days had gone exactly according to plan. Prince Yeonjun had been handed over to King Aldermore's surviving ministers with appropriate ceremony and diplomatic language about ensuring lasting peace between their kingdoms. The transaction had been presented as a gesture of trust—the Crown Prince was so confident in his victory that he was willing to leave his own brother as a guarantee of Ethereal's good intentions.
Of course, everyone involved understood the real meaning. Yeonjun was a gift to enemies who had every reason to make his death as painful as possible. Within a few days, word would reach the capital that the omega prince had died tragically in Aldermore custody—a victim of residual hostilities that no one could have predicted or prevented.
The Crown Prince would return home as the sole surviving heir, his position unassailable and his father's gratitude assured. It was a perfect solution to a problem that had threatened to complicate his path to the throne.
"Your Highness," Captain Blake, the Crown Prince's most trusted military advisor, guided his horse closer to his leader's mount. "The scouts report clear roads ahead. At this pace, we should reach Devil's Canyon by midday tomorrow."
"Excellent," the Crown Prince replied, his mood buoyant. The Canyon was the fastest route back to Ethereal's heartland—a narrow pass between towering cliffs that would cut two days off their journey. Speed was important now. The sooner he returned to the capital with news of their victory, the sooner he could begin consolidating his position as the undisputed heir.
"Sir," Captain Blake's voice carried a note of concern that drew the Crown Prince's attention. "Some of the men are... unsettled by what happened to Prince Yeonjun. The northern force veterans in particular seem... resentful."
The Crown Prince's good mood dimmed slightly. He had noticed the sullen looks, the whispered conversations that stopped whenever he drew near. Captain Morris and his cronies were making their displeasure known, though they lacked the courage to voice their objections openly.
"They'll get over it," he said dismissively. "My brother was a liability who had begun to believe his own propaganda. What happened was necessary for the good of the kingdom."
"Of course, sir. But perhaps we should consider... adjustments to our command structure? Some of the veterans have been questioning orders, showing less than proper respect."
The Crown Prince considered this. Morris and his supporters represented a potential problem—men whose loyalty to Yeonjun might translate into future resistance to his rule. But they were also experienced soldiers whose skills would be needed in the years to come.
"No," he decided. "Let them grumble. Once we're back in the capital, once they see the rewards that loyalty brings and the consequences of defiance, they'll fall in line. Men like Morris are ultimately pragmatists. They'll choose survival over sentimentality."
Captain Blake nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "As you say, Your Highness."
They rode on through the morning, the army making good time across the rolling countryside. The weather was fair, the roads were decent, and morale among the Crown Prince's core supporters remained high. Everything was proceeding smoothly toward his triumphant return.
It wasn't until they were actually entering Devil's Canyon that things began to go wrong.
The first sign of trouble was the rock slide.
They were halfway through the narrow pass, the army strung out in a long line between towering cliff walls, when the stones began to fall. It started small—pebbles pattering down like rain, causing the horses to snort and sidestep nervously. But within seconds, the trickle became a torrent.
"Rockslide!" someone screamed from the middle of the column. "Take cover!"
But there was nowhere to take cover. The canyon walls rose sheer on both sides, offering no shelter from the deadly rain of stone. Boulders the size of wine barrels crashed down among the soldiers, crushing men and horses alike with sickening impacts.
The Crown Prince's destrier reared in panic as a stone the size of his fist struck its flank. He fought to control the terrified animal while debris rained around him, his earlier confidence replaced by the cold realisation that he was trapped in a natural death trap.
"Move! Everyone move!" Captain Blake was shouting over the thunderous noise of falling rock. "Get to the far end of the canyon!"
But movement was nearly impossible. The column was too long, too tightly packed in the narrow space. Men and animals pressed against each other in panic, creating a deadly bottleneck that prevented any organised retreat.
A boulder struck the cliff face just above the Crown Prince's position, sending a shower of smaller stones cascading down around him. One caught him on the shoulder, spinning him partially around in his saddle and sending white-hot pain shooting through his arm.
"This is unnatural!" he gasped, trying to make sense of what was happening. Rockslides weren't uncommon in Devil's Canyon, but they rarely struck with such violence, such perfect timing. It was as if...
As if someone had arranged it.
The thought sent ice through his veins. But that was impossible. Who could have known they would take this route? Who would have the resources to arrange such a precisely timed trap?
Another impact, this one a glancing blow to his head that left his ears ringing and his vision blurred. His destrier stumbled, nearly going down before recovering its balance. Around him, the sounds of death filled the canyon—screaming men, shrieking horses, the wet crunch of stone meeting flesh.
"Your Highness!" Captain Blake appeared through the chaos, his armour dented and his face streaming blood from a scalp wound. "We have to get you out of here!"
But even as the words left his mouth, both men could see the truth. The rockslide was too massive, too comprehensive. The entire column was trapped in the canyon, caught between walls of stone that offered no escape.
The Crown Prince looked up at the cliff tops high above, squinting through the dust and debris. For just a moment, he thought he saw movement—a figure silhouetted against the sky. But before he could focus on it properly, another wave of stones crashed down, and his attention was forced back to the immediate struggle for survival.
The slide lasted perhaps ten minutes, though it felt like hours. When the last stone had fallen and the dust began to settle, the silence was deafening. What had been a proud army returning home in triumph was now a scene of devastation—broken bodies scattered among shattered equipment, the narrow canyon floor carpeted with rubble and blood.
The Crown Prince found himself still alive, though his destrier lay motionless beneath him, its skull crushed by a falling boulder. He crawled out from under the dead animal, his body a symphony of pain from dozens of impacts and cuts.
"Blake?" he called out, his voice hoarse from dust and shock. "Blake, are you alive?"
A groan from somewhere to his left answered him. He stumbled toward the sound, picking his way carefully through the debris field that had once been the road. Captain Blake lay pinned beneath a fallen horse, his legs clearly broken, but his eyes still alert.
"Sir," Blake gasped when he saw the Crown Prince approaching. "The men... how many...?"
The Crown Prince looked around the canyon, taking inventory of the disaster. Bodies lay everywhere, some still moving weakly, others ominously still. Of the three hundred soldiers who had entered the canyon that morning, perhaps fifty remained alive, and many of those were grievously wounded.
"We're finished," he whispered, the full scope of the catastrophe finally hitting him. "The army is destroyed."
"No, sir." Blake's voice was weak but determined. "Some survived. We can... we can still make it home. Report what happened. Raise a new army..."
But even as he spoke the words, both men could hear the hollowness in them. A disaster of this magnitude couldn't be explained away as a simple accident. Questions would be asked. Investigations launched. And the Crown Prince's enemies—those who had supported Yeonjun, those who questioned his fitness to rule—would use this catastrophe as evidence of his incompetence.
Assuming, of course, that he lived long enough to face such questions.
"Sir," Blake's voice was growing weaker. "The survivors... you need to organise them. Get them moving before..."
He never finished the sentence. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his breathing became shallow and irregular. Within minutes, he was dead.
The Crown Prince knelt beside his advisor's body, feeling truly alone for the first time in his life. Around him, the few surviving soldiers were beginning to stir, calling out for help, for orders, for someone to tell them what to do next.
But he had no answers. The golden prince who had left Ethereal in triumph was gone, replaced by a broken man covered in blood and dust, trapped in a canyon filled with the dead and dying remnants of his army.
He didn't know it yet, but his own story was about to end as well.
❖༶•┈┈┈┈ ༓🩸🐺🌹༓ ┈┈┈┈•༶❖
The attack came at sunset, when the surviving soldiers were still struggling to tend their wounds and organise some semblance of order among the chaos. They appeared without warning—masked figures emerging from concealment among the rocks like shadows given form.
There were perhaps a dozen of them, moving with the fluid coordination of professionals. They carried crossbows and curved swords, and they moved through the canyon with the confidence of hunters who knew their prey was already trapped.
"Bandits!" one of the wounded soldiers screamed, trying to struggle upright despite his injuries. "We're under attack!"
But these weren't bandits. The Crown Prince could see that immediately. Their equipment was too good, their movements too disciplined. These were assassins, professionals sent to finish what the rockslide had started.
"Protect the Prince!" Sergeant Hayes, one of the few unwounded survivors, rallied the remaining soldiers into a defensive formation around the Crown Prince's position. "Form up! Shields front!"
The fight that followed was brief and brutal. The survivors were wounded, demoralised, and caught completely off guard. The attackers were fresh, well-armed, and fighting with the methodical efficiency of men carrying out a contract.
One by one, the defenders fell. Sergeant Hayes died with a crossbow bolt through his throat. Private Conn collapsed as a curved blade opened his chest from collarbone to sternum. The Circle of protection around the Crown Prince grew smaller and smaller until only a handful of men remained.
"Who sent you?" the Crown Prince demanded, raising his sword with hands that shook from exhaustion and blood loss. "What do you want?"
The leader of the attackers—distinguishable from his companions by the silver mask he wore instead of black cloth—stepped forward with predatory grace. When he spoke, his voice was cultured, educated, nothing like the rough accent one might expect from a common bandit.
"We want nothing, Your Highness. We are simply... completing a transaction."
The words sent ice through the Crown Prince's veins. A transaction. Someone had paid for this. Someone had arranged not just the rockslide, but this final assault to ensure there were no survivors to tell the tale.
"Soobin," he breathed, understanding flooding through him like poison. "Soobin arranged this."
The masked figure tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Lord Soobin sends his regards. And his regrets that your journey home couldn't be... more comfortable."
The last of the Crown Prince's defenders fell, their blood adding to the already considerable stains on the canyon floor. He found himself alone, facing a dozen professional killers with nothing but a notched sword and the tattered remnants of his arrogance.
"He promised me the throne," the Crown Prince said, his voice hollow with realisation. "He said he would help me eliminate Yeonjun and take my rightful place."
"And so he did," the silver-masked leader replied without hesitation. His tone held neither malice nor pity—only the cold detachment of a man delivering an inevitable truth. "Your Highness was granted his chance. But every investment must be protected. You were... unreliable."
The Crown Prince’s breath hitched, fury and fear twisting together in his chest. "Unreliable? I am the heir! The throne was mine!"
The leader gave a small, mocking bow. "No. The throne was never yours. You were merely useful—for a time. A loud banner for the lords to rally behind, a distraction to keep their eyes away from the true game."
Rage ignited in the Crown Prince’s eyes. With a hoarse roar, he charged, blade raised high. For an instant, he looked like the warrior he always pretended to be—desperate, cornered, but still unwilling to yield.
The silver-masked assassin moved like water. His curved blade flashed once, twice, and the Crown Prince stumbled mid-strike, his sword clattering against stone.
The pain came an instant later. He gasped, looking down to see blood blooming across his stomach, his life spilling into the dust of Devil’s Canyon. He staggered, choking on disbelief more than agony.
Around him, the killers stood in eerie silence, their weapons dripping red, their black masks expressionless.
The Crown Prince sank to his knees, teeth bared in one last defiance. "Yeonjun... will avenge me. He’ll—he’ll kill you all—"
The leader crouched down before him, silver mask gleaming in the dying light. "Yeonjun?" A chuckle slipped from beneath the mask, dry and humourless. "No, Your Highness. Yeonjun is already gone. Delivered neatly into Aldermore’s hands by your own command. You did Soobin’s work for him better than anyone else could have."
The words gutted him more deeply than the blade had. He shook his head violently, refusing to believe it. "No... No, he’s weak. A mistake. He—he can’t—"
"History won’t remember you," the assassin interrupted, rising smoothly to his feet. "It will remember him. Or perhaps it will remember Soobin. Either way, your part is over."
The last thing the Crown Prince saw was the sky narrowing into a strip of blood-red light as the blade arced down.
A wet thud echoed in the canyon. Then silence.
The assassins worked quickly, efficient as ever. They stripped the body of valuables, scattering the rest to make it look like the aftermath of a bandit raid. The canyon floor ran with blood, but by morning, scavengers would pick the bones clean, and only whispers would remain.
The silver-masked leader wiped his blade on the Prince’s cloak before turning to his men. "It’s done. Inform Lord Soobin—the Crown Prince has met his fate."
The killers melted back into the rocks, leaving Devil’s Canyon empty but for the lifeless shell of a man who had once believed himself destined to rule.
Far to the north, in Aldermore’s fortress, Yeonjun knelt before a foreign king, ropes biting into his wrists, a faint smirk hidden beneath lowered lashes. The Crown Prince’s corpse cooled in the dust, and Soobin’s shadow stretched longer across Ethereal’s throne.
The game had claimed its first true casualty.
Suvi_07 on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 11:33AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 04 Sep 2025 11:56AM UTC
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