Chapter Text
The capital smelled different from home. That’s one of the first things Sunghoon noticed.
His father, brother to the king, had spent most of his life stationed in the southern provinces. That’s where Sunghoon had grown up, in lands stretched wide and green, dotted with villages pressed low against the hills.
It’s only been a week or so since their departure, but oh how he missed home, the smells of home most of all. The steady breath of barley fields rippling through the wind. The rich earth after summer rain. The tang of horse sweat from open pastures. The faint sweetness of rice straw drying in the sun.
Here, everything was perfumed and thick, incense bleeding into every corner of the palace corridors until it clung to Sunghoon’s robes.
He had been to the capital before, as a boy, but the visits had always been brief, when his father was summoned to present gifts or attend ceremonies. He remembered chasing Jongseong through the courtyards, the two of them no taller than the guards’ swords, laughing until they were inevitably scolded.
Now, years later, the palace felt even bigger somehow.
The gates rose impossibly high, Sunghoon had to squint to see the painted dragons glaring down from the beams. The roof tiles glinted under the lantern light, green and black like scales, stretching endlessly across layered eaves.
For all its grandeur, the palace was unbearably quiet. None of the laughter remained from his childhood memories. The air seemed heavy, as though each breath had to be taken with care.
So the past week had been spent adjusting. Sunghoon’s family sent him north outfitted for the court: trunks of new silk robes, stiffer and heavier than anything he had worn in the provinces. At home, his clothing had been simple, practical for riding and archery. Here, the fabric dragged at his shoulders and hem, thick with embroidery. The first time he put them on, he felt more like a figure on a folding screen than himself.
There had also been the sword his father presented to him before their departure, set in a long lacquered box. It was heavier than the training swords he had used at home, its balance demanding more strength and control. Archery had always come more naturally than swords to him, but his father’s words were clear, “A man of our blood should not walk the capital unarmed.”
Sunghoon did not know what dangers were lying hidden in the palace walls, or when he would be called to draw steel. The weight at his side was a constant reminder that dangers must exist, though the palace left little chance to be alone.
His quarters were larger and finer than anything he had known. Attendants had been assigned to him at once: two eunuchs to manage his schedule and dress, several court ladies for laundry and bedding. They moved quietly, though he could feel their eyes even when he wished to be left alone.
Everything was luxury, but the luxury weighed on him heavy like invisible armor.
“Try not to look so green,” said Jongseong at his side.
Sunghoon glanced at him.
As cousins went, Jongseong was the closest Sunghoon had. Jongseong’s father was granted a minor estate near the capital instead of being sent away. Unlike Sunghoon, Jongseong had grown up in these very halls. In the days since Sunghoon’s return, he had more or less slipped into the role of a guide, introducing him to the intricacies of palace living.
“I’m not green,” Sunghoon protested quietly.
“You’re gawking at the roof tiles.”
“They’re impressive tiles.”
“They’re just tiles.” Jongseong steered him toward the banquet hall, “Will you stop looking impressed before we get inside? The last thing you need is to make yourself stand out more.”
The words landed heavy in Sunghoon’s chest. He already knew why his father had been called back, though no one spoke it aloud. Rumors had reached even the provinces: unrest in the north, ministers clashing over reforms, accusations of treachery.
When the king grew suspicious, he called family close, not out of affection, but out of caution. This banquet was a welcome, but it was also the first of many tests.
The pair approached the great doors carved with dragons and clouds. Sunghoon grew ever so conscious of his height, the weight of his new robes, the sword at his hip.
People had always remarked on his appearance—taller than most, with broad shoulders, fair complexion and sharp features that drew eyes whether he wanted them or not. In the provinces it had been a source of easy compliments. Here, among the capital’s nobles, it only made him more visible. He could already feel the eyes waiting beyond the doors.
Jongseong leaned close one last time before they entered. “Remember,” he said, “Bow enough to be polite, but not too much. Oh, and don’t look too long at anything you shouldn’t.”
“Like what?”
Before Jongseong could answer, the herald’s voice rang out, clear and ceremonial—
“Announcing Prince Sunghoon, son of His Royal Highness Grand Prince Cheonan, nephew of His Majesty the King. Entering with Prince Jongseong, son of His Royal Highness Grand Prince Yangju, nephew of His Majesty the King.”
The great doors swung wide. Light spilled from the banquet hall, bright as day.
Sunghoon stepped in and felt all the eyes lifting toward him at once.
The courtiers rose to bow, their robes whispering against the floor. The respect was brief, formal, and when they straightened, their stares unabashedly lingered. Whispers began at once, not quite low enough to be lost.
Cheonan’s son. The boy all grown…
Back from the provinces at last…
The king keeps them close now, does he?
Sunghoon’s shoulders stiffened. He bowed where he should, kept his expression even. “Watch where you’re going,” Jongseong whispered as they walked deeper into the hall, “Half of them are staring to see if you’ll stumble.”
“I’m fine,” Sunghoon whispered back.
They approached the dais where the king sat, elevated above the long sweep of tables. He looked much older than Sunghoon remembered, but his gaze was still piercing, weighing everything before him.
Sunghoon and Jongseong dropped to their knees and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” they said, voices joined, their foreheads touching the floor, “We greet you in health and wish for your reign to last one thousand years.”
The king regarded them from his high seat. “Rise,” His Majesty said, his voice carried easily across the hall, “Cheonan has served the provinces well, and now his son has come of age. May your loyalty be as steadfast as your father’s has always been.”
When Sunghoon looked up, the king’s eyes met his. They lingered, unreadable, before turning to the court. Another glance caught his eye briefly—his father, seated among the royal brothers. Their gazes locked for just a moment, his father’s expression gave nothing away.
Sunghoon quickly lowered his eyes again, “This unworthy one will remember, Your Majesty.”
“See that you do,” the king replied.
Sunghoon and Jongseong bowed once more. When they rose, Jongseong squeezed Sunghoon’s arm lightly, guiding him away from the dais. Together they moved through the rows of ministers and generals, weaving between low tables until they reached the place set aside for them among the younger nobles. Only then did they sit, their backs straight, their robes folded as servants hurried forward.
The servants set down trays one after another—jeweled rice cakes stacked like towers, steaming broths, whole pheasants glazed and glistening, fruit cut into careful shapes. The lamplight made the dishes sparkle as though the tables themselves had been laid with gems.
Sunghoon’s eyes lingered a moment too long on the lavishness, earning him another chiding from Jongseong, “You’re staring. The court will think Cheonan’s son has been living like a commoner.”
Sunghoon raised a brow at his cousin, “Do you dine like this every night?”
“I certainly don’t, but I also don’t ogle.” Jongseong shot him a disapproving look, “Try to look as though you’ve seen better.”
At the dais, the king lifted his goblet. The hall fell silent at once.
“Tonight,” His Majesty voiced, “We break bread not only as kin but as keepers of one realm. Grain from the south, salt from the coasts—all gather here, at this table, beneath one throne. As the heavens watch the earth, so must brothers watch one another. Only in harmony, can a dynasty stand unshaken.”
His gaze swept the hall, cold and searching.
“Eat, drink, and be merry. For when the tables are filled and the cups made empty, you will find that I have prepared an entertainment worthy of your company.”
The toast rang through the air. Everyone lifted their cups. “May Your Majesty reign one thousand years,” they chorused.
Sunghoon drank when the others did, though the wine burned in his throat. He set the cup down carefully, aware of the glances that slid toward him from across the hall.
The king’s words echoed in his mind. As new as Sunghoon was to the court, he knew they were a warning more than a welcome.
“Don’t stiffen, got it?” Jongseong muttered. He lounged against the cushions, one arm draped casually over his knee, “Let them think you’re comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Sunghoon kept his voice low, “With a hundred eyes staring holes through me?”
“That’s the court for you.” Jongseong said plainly. He lifted his cup in the direction of a heavyset man with a shaved head, seated close to the generals. “That’s the Minister of War. His trick is always the same. He begins with flattery, slips in a favor, and by the time you realize it, you’ve agreed to half his demands. Best to make your escape whenever he takes a breath.”
He tipped his chin toward another table, where a narrow-eyed official with sharp cheekbones was whispering behind his sleeve. “That’s the Left State Councillor. Looks harmless, doesn’t he? He isn’t. If he asks how the food tastes, answer as if the king himself were asking. Otherwise, expect to hear your words twisted into something sinister by the morning.”
Jongseong shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward the dais. “Now, see the old man sitting just behind His Majesty? The one with the beard down to his chest? That’s the Chief Scholar. He doesn’t play power games anymore, but he forgets nothing. He could quote the names of your horse grooms from five years ago.”
Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. The court felt like a stage where every man wore a mask, painted in courtesy to hide the teeth beneath. “I miss my horse,” he admitted in defeat.
“You do?” Jongseong chuckled, “Why didn’t you bring your horse to the capital?”
“She wouldn’t have behaved well enough for the palace,” Sunghoon said, half-joking, “She’d probably kick someone important and get us both killed.”
“Yeah, your horse might survive, you won’t.” Jongseong nodded, his face surprisingly relaxed despite the warning words, “A wrong bow here can turn into treason.”
Sunghoon sobered at that. The joke slid away, leaving the room feeling narrower somehow.
The food and wine had only just begun to settle when servants appeared again. They carried not trays this time but rolled mats and low lantern stands, setting them down in the open space at the center of the hall. A few screens were arranged at the edges, painted with cranes and pine trees, the kind of backdrop usually reserved for performances.
The murmurs began at once.
His Majesty’s jewel…
A rare sight…
The bird sings tonight!
None spoke a name. The air itself seemed to know. Jongseong leaned toward Sunghoon, “Hm, so it’s true. He’s bringing out his favorite.”
Sunghoon frowned, “His favorite?”
Jongseong nodded, “His Songbird.”
The servants finished arranging the space and withdrew. For a breath, the hall held nothing but the sound of cups being set down, throats being cleared, the faint scrape of chopsticks on bowls. Then the side doors opened.
A hush swept the room.
The courtiers leaned forward. Even those half-drunk straightened, eyes fixed on the widening gap of the doors. Sunghoon felt the expectation ripple through the hall.
The first figures entered: dancers in colored silk, their sleeves wide, their movements trained and fluid. They fanned across the mats, forming a circle.
At their center walked a single figure, dressed all in white.
The white robe was long and flowing, pure as fresh snow, the silk so fine it shifted with the smallest step. A veil fell over the face, catching the lamplight, obscuring features but not the line of a jaw, the delicate curve of a throat. The white was unbroken, no embroidery, no bright jewels, only a string of pale beads at the wrists and the shimmer of earrings that swung with each movement.
Sunghoon could not look away. Even without a name, without a word spoken, it was clear: this one was meant to be seen.
The musicians struck their instruments, and the dancers swept into motion, sleeves cutting arcs through the air, and the figure in white held every gaze. Each step was lighter, each turn more precise, the silk of the robe shifting like water around the body. The others moved with skill, but beside the one in white they seemed like shadows orbiting a brighter flame.
The dance slowed, movements drawing inward until the circle of silk folded toward the figure in white. The musicians softened, strings thrumming like a pulse.
At the center, the veiled figure paused. Another dancer stepped forward, lifted the veil, and drew it away.
From where Sunghoon sat, the figure’s face was turned toward the dais. He could see only dark hair, carefully braided with ornaments, and the clean line of a neck catching the lamplight.
Then the figure straightened, arms lifting, and the song began.
The voice struck Sunghoon at once. Clear, high, unearthly. The voice of a man. For a moment he forgot to breathe.
The sound carried easily to every corner of the hall. The notes curled above the instruments, rich with sorrow and longing. It was flawless, every pitch struck true.
The song praised the moon, steady in the heavens, pouring light over restless seas and dark mountains. An old hymn, yet here it sounded transformed, pleading for the night never to end, for the moon never to set.
Sunghoon felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He had never heard a voice like this—beautiful, aching, as though sorrow itself had been given breath.
The final note faded into silence. No one moved. No one spoke. The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Then the king began to clap. The sharp sound broke the stillness, and only then did the courtiers join in, applause rippling outward from the dais like a wave.
“Exquisite,” His Majesty said, his voice carrying, “The heavens themselves must envy such a voice.”
The singer bowed low, along with the dancers, their silks sweeping across the floor. When they rose, they turned in unison, offering a graceful spin that opened their arms to the court in greeting.
For a heartbeat, the singer’s gaze lifted, sweeping across the hall, and then stopped. On Sunghoon.
Sunghoon froze. He was sure of it, as if the crowded hall had fallen away and only the two of them remained.
The boy—for he could see now that he was no grown man, but likely even younger than Sunghoon—was ethereal. Pale skin gleaming beneath the lamps, eyes dark and steady, features too delicate and almost untouchable.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the moment was gone. The singer dipped his head again. With the dancers at his side, he withdrew through the same doors he had entered.
Jongseong’s hand smacked lightly against Sunghoon’s thigh. “Hey, what did I say about staring?” he warned, voice tight.
Sunghoon blinked, realizing his hands were clenched in his lap. Instinct pulled his gaze to the dais, but the king was already looking back. Sunghoon dropped his head quickly, bowing low over his cup.
“It might be too late.” He muttered a curse under his breath. When he felt brave enough to glance up again, the king had looked away. His curiosity pushed him to lean into Jongseong, “Who was that singer?”
“Not nobility, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Jongseong tipped his chin toward the doors where the performers had vanished. “He’s a kisaeng. Kisaengs don’t live in the palace, their quarters are kept close to the center of the town. His Majesty summons them when he wishes to dazzle the court.”
“A kisaeng?” The word felt strange in Sunghoon’s mouth. The image of the boy still burning in his mind: white silk, a lifted gaze, pure as snow.
“Yes,” Jongseong said flatly, “Beautiful, isn’t he? That’s why His Majesty parades him out like this on special occasions. Don’t forget—the cage he sings in is gilded, and it belongs to the throne.”
Sunghoon wet his lips with wine, lowering his voice, “But did you see he was looking this way?”
“Right…” Jongseong all but snorted, “You and every other man in the room thought the same, cousin.”
“You didn’t see?” Sunghoon pressed, “He was looking at us, I swear.”
“No,” Jongseong said, amused, “I was just watching you, mouth half open like some farm boy at his first market fair.”
Sunghoon silently prayed he had not looked as foolish as Jongseong claimed.
Jongseong studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, you might not be entirely deluded. You are the prince who finally returned—tonight’s feast was in your father’s honor. Maybe the Songbird was curious.”
Sunghoon arched his brow. “Oh, not for my handsome face then?”
Jongseong pretended to frown, even though his eyes were already smiling. “I thought the provinces raised men of modesty. They taught you no manners at all, did they?”
“None,” Sunghoon sighed, “And don’t ask me to read anything either.”
“Ha!” Jongseong let out a generous laugh. “The provinces must have been dreadfully dull if this is what passes for wit.”
The banquet went on, cups drained and refilled, platters stripped to bone. Courtiers came in clusters to bow and offer their words, bland congratulations and remarks about his father’s loyal service. He conversed as best he could, though he felt Jongseong’s hand at his back more than once, nudging him to keep his smile fixed and his answers brief.
At last, the king dismissed the gathering, and the hall emptied in a slow tide of murmurs. Sunghoon and Jongseong bowed their farewells where required, then stepped out into the night air.
The palace under moonlight was a different world. The painted beams that had blazed with color in the day now loomed shadowed and solemn. Lanterns burned low along the covered walkways, their light catching on the green-black roof tiles, throwing long reflections across the flagstones. Guards stood motionless at their posts, spears upright. The only sound was the faint shuffle of their own steps, echoing through the colonnades.
“I’ll walk you back,” Jongseong offered.
They walked in silence for a while, until Jongseong broke the quiet. “So, you left your horse, do you have a sweetheart waiting back home, too?”
“No,” Sunghoon shook his head. “But suppose I did, would the king let me make my return?”
Jongseong’s steps slowed. He gave Sunghoon a contemplative look, then glanced around them. The walkway was empty save for a pair of lanterns burning faint in the distance. He leaned slightly closer, his voice was almost a whisper, “I wish I could say what His Majesty had in mind for you, cousin. I really do.”
Sunghoon frowned. Before any heaviness could linger, Jongseong tilted his head, a new light in his eyes, “Now tell me, do you want to see more of the capital? Shall we slip out tomorrow?”
The answer leapt out of Sunghoon before he could temper it, “Yes, of course. Will you take me?”
Jongseong grinned. “Tomorrow morning, then. Don’t be late.”
That night, in his chambers, Sunghoon lay staring up at the carved beams above his bed. Sleep did not come easily. His mind kept circling back to the song, the gaze that might have met his own. And the promise of breathing easier outside the palace walls.
He felt like a boy restless with anticipation, though he would never confess such a thing to Jongseong.