Chapter Text
“I won’t marry him,” Jihoon declares. “I refuse.”
He paces back and forth across the ornate tiles of the garden pavilion. The scent of honeysuckle and bougainvillea is fragrant in the air, and the spring noon is warm enough to cloak the slight chill in the air. Outside the dark bubble of Jihoon’s unhappy thoughts, the sun shines brightly over the exquisite garden, illuminating a lushly green, flowered world that’s as merry and beautiful as a fairytale.
Except this is not a fairytale. This is a nightmare, and Jihoon is a victim caught in the middle of it.
“Be reasonable,” Giin says tiredly from where he sits with the armored grooves of his elbows resting on his knees. Next to him, his longsword rests against the stone bench. “You’ve already traveled all this way. His Majesty has given them his word.”
“Then we’ll tell him to take it back,” Jihoon says furiously. “I won’t stand for this humiliation. My brother said–”
“I know what your brother said,” Giin cuts in, in a voice that he clearly thinks is reasonable. “Have you considered that you might be overreacting a little? One interaction is hardly enough to get to know a man–”
“You’re defending him!” Jihoon roars angrily, rounding on his companion with fire in his eyes. His fury only intensifies when Giin rolls his eyes. His lips curl into another scowl, and he resumes pacing across the tiles. “No. No, there has to be some way I can still get out of this. If you’re not going to help me, then I’ll–”
“You’ll what?” Giin says sharply. “Run away and live in exile by yourself? Jihoon, you need to understand that you’re not here representing yourself. You’re here representing your nation, and your brother, the king. The king, who has given his word that you will marry him!”
Jihoon clenches his hands into fists by his side, remembering the interaction he’d had earlier. The coldness in his eyes, the smug laughter, the teasing thumb that had traced across his lower lip, making a mockery of him. This is to be his lawfully wedded partner for as long as he may live? It’s already bad enough that he has to give up everything that he has worked for, everything that he has cherished until this moment, for this ridiculous farce.
But he would have grit his teeth and gone through with his side of the agreement, had the man in question not been the most insufferable, dislikeable, wretched creature he’s ever had the misfortune to meet.
No.
There is no way he is going to go through with this.
“Ready the carriage, Giin hyung,” Jihoon commands. “I’m going home.”
The tired disapproval on Giin’s face deepens. “I’m not going to entertain this–”
“I’m telling you to ready the carriage,” Jihoon repeats, this time more firmly. Another flicker of anger flies through him at the memory of his conversation with that insufferable man. “I will not let Lee Sanghyeok ridicule me ever again.”
a few weeks earlier
For as long as Minseok has been in the king’s service, there have only been glimpses and glimmers of moments where he has adequately managed to capture his attention. It’s always a struggle; the king is a busy man, with a thousand responsibilities, a million personal battles, and his attention is always as fickle as a feather.
This is why he wakes at the crack of dawn this morning, dresses himself in his best tunic, and marches over to the southern side of the castle courtyard to the execution ground. It’s a clear, cold morning, not quite free from the chills of winter, and Minseok tugs the fur cloak tighter around his body as he walks.
King Sanghyeok has risen early this morning. There he stands at the top of the platform with the ancestral, ceremonial greatsword in hand, wearing a severe expression as befits the circumstances. The man who kneels by his feet has his head lowered in surrender. The clothes he wears are ragged and dirty, unchanged in several weeks, though they must have initially been as fine and beautiful as his rank once was.
Sanghyeok’s voice, when he speaks, is loud and clear. “Sir Jisung, you stand guilty of high treason, of conspiring with the enemies of the great nation of Gargouille in attempting to unseat its rightful king and cause harm to its constituents. By that effect, I hereby sentence you to die.”
He lifts the greatsword high above the man’s head, grip unwavering, stance practised. Then, the king brings the sword down and takes off the man’s head in a single sure stroke. Blood spurts from where his head cleaves onto the platform. Minseok winces, but doesn’t look away. It’s hardly his first time at an execution, and he doesn’t like to be regarded as weak.
The king studies the corpse for a second, expression cold. He then sheathes the greatsword back in its beautiful holster, and marches away from the execution stand. Soldiers come forth to dispose of the body, but Minseok doesn’t linger around to observe. He tugs his cloak around his body, grasps the scrolls tighter in his hands, and hurries off after the king.
Minseok is well familiar with the king’s routine after so many years. He catches up with him in the castle chamber closest to the southern entrance. A gloriously clear natural-fed spring from beneath the castle foundations bubbles into a stone-lined pool, by the edge of which Sanghyeok seats himself. He unsheathes the gleaming, albeit bloody sword from its holster, and runs the blade through the water, staining it crimson. He doesn’t look up from his task as Minseok enters.
“Good morning, Minseok,” Sanghyeok’s voice is pleasantly weary, like he knows precisely why Minseok is here. “How can I help you today?”
“Your Majesty,” Minseok says formally, and then shakes his head. “Sanghyeok hyung, I have given you enough time to make your considerations. We must get this sorted out immediately.”
Sanghyeok is quiet for a long moment. He watches the blood in the pool swirl and then fade as fresh, clean water bubbles through from the dragonhead fountain mounted on the wall. He removes the blade from the pool, studies it in the morning light that filters through the ornate window, and then rests it across his lap. With a careful, practiced hand, he starts polishing it clean with a piece of silk.
“And if I am to once again say that I am not interested, then that would not be an acceptable answer?”
“No,” Minseok says immediately. “Sanghyeok hyung, you must understand how important it is that we secure your lineage. As the ruler of this nation–”
“I am well aware of my responsibilities,” Sanghyeok interrupts, just a little too sharply for Minseok’s liking. His composed face strains slightly, in disappointment, but his eyes are still focused entirely on the task of cleaning his sword. “I understand that it is part of my duty to produce an heir in order to maintain the stability of this country. In turn, I also hope that you understand why the prospect is extremely unappealing to me.”
“I do understand,” Minseok says, faltering slightly. He studies the unhappiness on Sanghyeok’s face for a moment, and then walks over to sit beside the king on the stone edge of the pool. “But every day that passes without the future of this country – without your heritage – undecided, is an open invitation for trouble.”
“An open invitation for trouble,” Sanghyeok repeats quietly. “An interesting way to put it, considering that what you are asking me to embark on is an equally troubling opportunity for danger.”
“We’ve vetted the prospects thoroughly,” Minseok says defensively. “Sure, there are some risks with it, but we are a strong nation – a proud nation. Sanghyeok hyung, you’ve spent the last decade ensuring that we have that security. The opportunity to stand by your side is an honor that many are willing to take.”
“It is also an opportunity that many are willing to take advantage of,” Sanghyeok says smoothly. “But no matter. I see that you and the rest of the council will not be dissuaded on this. I suppose I can grant you a few moments before my next task to listen to these so-called offers.”
“Okay,” Minseok says, relieved. He unfurls the scrolls as Sanghyeok props the greatsword against the stone edge of the pool, and hands it over once the king’s hands are free. Sanghyeok gathers them with his careful, delicate fingers, and studies them with a disinterested eye.
Minseok wonders if he should speak, but his confidence rapidly wavers the longer Sanghyeok studies the scrolls. Each new scroll makes the king’s face scrunch with disdain as he studies the portraits and their accompanying descriptions offhandedly. Eventually he stops on one piece of parchment that makes his eyebrows rise an infinitesimal amount. The expression on his face as he studies it is not one of disgust or contempt, but a slight curiosity.
“This one, then,” he says offhandedly, and hands the papers back to Minseok with his selection on top.
Minseok looks down at the paper, and a ripple of unease flies through him. Jeong Jihoon of the Durgan royal family – a second son in the twenty-fourth year of his life, and an experienced officer in the Durgan royal navy. His credentials are remarkable considering his age; he has served the navy since the age of fourteen, and has risen to the position of admiral earlier this year. He commands his own fleet. Minseok had argued against including him in the list of prospective suitors offered to the king, but the older councilors had overruled him, stating rightfully that a nation as prideful as Durga would not take lightly to having their offer refused. He’s relieved that Sanghyeok has finally made a selection where for weeks he has refused to even so much as consider the idea, but he wishes it hadn’t been this one.
For one reason exactly.
Sanghyeok sees the unease on Minseok’s face, and raises his eyebrows. “What is it?”
Minseok makes a face. He doesn’t want to say it – he knows full well Sanghyeok will immediately backtrack on his offer once he learns this information, and only the heavens know how long it’s going to take for him to agree to even consider this again.
“If it’s not too much to ask,” he starts hesitantly. “How did you make up your mind?”
Sanghyeok shrugs like the answer is obvious. He raises the greatsword once again, to study the details on the blade. “He’s a younger man, hopefully more malleable and obedient than the other decrepit vultures you’ve put forth for me.”
Right, Minseok thinks. Sanghyeok is definitely not going to like hearing this, then.
“Just so. It’s just… there is this one thing that you perhaps ought to know…” he says uncertainly, and then, unable to withstand keeping the information for any longer, the truth bursts forth from his lips. “Prince Jihoon is an alpha, hyung.”
And just as he expects, Sanghyeok’s eyes flash with defiance. “Then it’s out of the question.”
He rises to his feet with a scowl, hefting the greatsword back into its holster. Minseok gets up after him immediately, gathering the scrolls clumsily in his hands. “But I’ve met the man in question at a state banquet just last year, and I can say that he seems reasonably polite and nice.”
Sanghyeok marches out of the chamber and into the ornate hallway beyond. Minseok hurries after him, keeping close. “Hyung, he might not be as terrible as you seem to think he is. From the brief instance I spent with him, it was rather obvious to me that he has only seemed interested in advancing his naval career, he has absolutely no interest in the likes of things like conquest and ruling–”
“Then that makes him only more unsuitable for what you’re pitting him for,” Sanghyeok says coldly. “Besides, I have no interest in letting Gargouille become a vassal state for the Durgans.”
“That won’t happen,” Minseok insists. “Like I said, he’s a second son, and he’s not–”
“No.” Sanghyeok says firmly. “Get me a beta if you must. I will not accept an alpha as a mate.”
He takes a step towards the great staircase that leads to the upper floors of the castle, but Minseok desperately comes in front of him to impede his path. He puts on his best scowl, his best defiant expression, and prepares to present his case. He understands Sanghyeok’s reluctance – really, he does. As an omega himself, he understands how difficult it is in the eyes of society to affirm their positions of power. It must have been doubly hard for Sanghyeok, to have carved out his place in history as he has until today.
But enough is enough.
“Hyung, please.”
Minseok tucks the scrolls within the pockets of his cloak, and spreads his hands pleadingly. “You’ve turned down every offer for three years. Every time we’ve found a prospect that could strengthen our alliances with our neighbours, you’ve found a reason to refuse. I understand you have your standards, but our survival takes precedence over your preference.”
Sanghyeok pauses in his tracks. His back is straight beneath the dark cloak embroidered with the royal insignia, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. “Survival,” he repeats softly. “You think that what I’ve built is so fragile that the mere absence of an heir can topple what I’ve built?
“That’s not what I said,” Minseok says quickly. “But the council is uneasy for a reason. Our enemies whisper that your refusal to wed signals weakness, that you plan to die alone and let Gargouille fall into chaos when you’re gone.”
Sanghyeok’s eyes are as sharp as the steel of his blade. “Then let them whisper. I have stopped them from achieving worse.”
Minseok swallows his frustration. “You can’t rule by fear forever, hyung. Fear makes people loyal, yes, but only for as long as they are afraid. Love, on the other hand–”
“Love?” Sanghyeok repeats derisively. “Now you lie to me. You believe me so foolish that I would hope to find love in a marriage arranged for politics? Spare me the poetry, Minseok. I have no patience for dreams.”
Minseok exhales shakily. He’s so used to dealing with this version of Sanghyeok, the cutting, cold ruler who has maintained the peace of the nation with an iron fist, but today, he can’t afford to retreat. “Then call it duty if you must,” he says. “But all I’m suggesting is that an alliance with this Jihoon might not be the unpleasant sentence that you believe it to be. He’s young, like you say, but he is also capable. He’s led men through storms you wouldn’t sail through yourself. You of all people should respect that.”
That earns him a brief, dangerous silence. Sanghyeok’s eyes narrow. “Respect,” he murmurs, “is not the same as submission. I understand how the world works, Minseok. An alpha, of princely status nonetheless, will never kneel to me. That is not a partnership. That is a challenge waiting to happen.”
“And yet you face challenges every day,” Minseok says. “You overcome challenges every day. You have faced armies, kings, betrayal, without so much as flinching. But you cower at the idea of this one man?”
Sanghyeok’s eyes widen, and then a flicker of amusement passes across his face. “You have grown bold with your tongue, Minseok.”
Minseok smiles weakly. “Only because you taught me to be, hyung.”
Sanghyeok shares his smile for a moment, but then it disappears. For several, tense seconds, he says nothing. Minseok sees the disquiet, the unhappiness, as it passes across Sanghyeok’s composed features. The hand that grips the hilt of his sword tightens hard enough that his fingers tremble. Within the cool set of his jaw, the defiance is still there, but then the king shuts his eyes with a deep exhale.
When his eyes next reopen, his expression is calm.
“Fine,” he says at last. “If it will silence the council and ease your worries, then you have my answer. Do what you must.”
Minseok’s heart leaps into his throat. “That’s a yes?”
Sanghyeok gives him a stern look. “Make sure I don’t regret this decision.”
“Yes,” Minseok says gratefully. He bows as relief rushes through him. Finally, he thinks. “I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly, hyung– I mean, Your Majesty. Thank you for your consideration on this matter.”
Sanghyeok nods, and then exhales another short breath. A little sardonically, he adds:
“Though if this Jeong Jihoon even dares to think that he can tame me,” he says quietly, “he will learn soon enough that dragons are not meant to be caged.”
Jihoon stands by the starboard railing, breathing in the glorious breeze. High in the sky, the sun winks at him from behind a thick cloud as soft as cotton, warming him up with its heat and painting the Durgan coastline with brilliant rays of iridescent gold. The beautiful turquoise waters of the coastal shallows glitter in the light – a treat for his hungry eyes.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he announces cheerfully. “The kind of day songs are written about.”
“I’d enjoy it,” his subordinate, Minggyu responds from beside him, looking rather green. “If I didn’t feel like I’m going to be sick again.”
Jihoon, who has always enjoyed the rolling motions of the dancing waves at sea, has never really understood how a man of the navy could feel nauseous aboard the galleon.
“I will never understand why you signed up for this,” he teases amusedly. “Imagine what the people would say. One of the strongest warriors of the Durgan navy, famed worldwide for its seafaring prowess, is a victim of seasickness. Oh, how the commoners will despair.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re as purebred Durgan as they come. I’m half Aguaran, remember?” Minggyu grumbles. “Unfortunately, it looks like I’ve been afflicted with my father’s constitution rather than my mother’s, and I can’t get a new stomach.”
“Why are we discussing stomachs?” A new voice says from behind them.
Sir Kim Giin of the Durgan royal army stands behind them with an amused expression on his face. For as long as Jihoon can remember, Giin has been his guardsman and companion, and when he’d expressed his interest as a young adolescent to join the nation’s navy, it had only been natural that Giin would follow. Ten years later, he’s become every bit as adept on the galleon as Jihoon has always been, and well respected in the ranks for it despite not technically being part of the navy.
“Minggyu wants to exchange mine for his,” Jihoon explains cheerfully.
Giin scoffs. “Seasickness is all in your head, idiot.”
“Yes,” Minggyu bemoans. “I want it out of my head.”
Jihoon gestures at the horizon as the galleon pulls into the prosperous harbour of the royal port. “Hey, at least we’re docking at the harbour soon. You can appreciate solid ground until our next mission.”
Minggyu makes a face at the very idea. Jihoon watches with pride as the soldiers who work under his command efficiently and carefully maneuver the main galleon of his fleet, christened Hermes after a foreign god, to dock at the harbor. The Hermes is a triple-decked warship built by Jihoon’s great-grandfather, and has been the pride and joy of the Durgan navy since its construction almost a century prior. It boasts carriage-mounted guns on each of its decks, and is equipped to host half a thousand soldiers within its barracks. Standing tall, proud, polished and well-kept, it is the picturesque figurehead of Durgan success.
Minggyu and Giin disembark as soon as the ship lands at the port, but Jihoon waits aboard to make sure everything is in order. The nation of Durga has been mostly at peace, save for a couple of minor skirmishes, for well over two decades now, but that doesn’t mean that the size of their navy has lessened. Durga has spent the years since the tentative peace brokered with their greatest enemy growing stronger rather than frailer, and Jihoon is proud to have done his part to accumulate that strength.
At this point, however, the smile on Jihoon’s face disappears when he spies Giin clambering back aboard the main deck of the galleon, with an uncertain expression on his face. Jihoon watches him as he walks back over, and the first thing he does is emanate a heavy, resigned sigh.
“The dowager queen has summoned you,” he says unhappily. “Says she needs you back at the castle at once.”
Jihoon makes a face. “God, why?”
The expression on Giin’s face grows even more unpleasant, but he seems hesitant to say whatever it is that he has learnt. He sighs. “She has arranged for a carriage to take us back to the castle at once. I think it’s best that you hear this from your mother.”
Jihoon doesn’t like the sound of that one bit. He disembarks from the galleon alongside Giin in silence, and follows him to the carriage that awaits at the outskirts of the port. A royal carriage, lined with gold and ornately carved. It glides along the cobblestone streets, gilded wheels clicking rhythmically with every turn. Outside, the port city stretches and hums with the lively din of trade, with hawking merchants, shouting sailors and gulls crying overhead. Normally, Jihoon would relish in the noise and bustle, in the proof of Durga’s prosperity, but today the sound seems distant, smothered beneath the unease coiling in his chest.
Giin sits across from him in silence, arms folded. His calm expression has hardened into something grim. Jihoon drums his fingers impatiently on the window ledge.
“You could at least give me a hint,” he says finally. “She’s not dying or something like that, is she?”
“No,” Giin answers, and provides no further explanation.
“But it’s something bad,” Jihoon guesses. Unease coils in his chest. “My brother is fine? Nothing happened to him, right?”
“He’s fine,” Giin sighs. “Nobody’s dying.”
Jihoon narrows his eyes. “That’s not comforting.”
The carriage jolts over a stone ridge. Giin flickers his eyes to Jihoon, and then exhales. “It’s… political.”
“Gee, that’s a shocker,” Jihoon deadpans. “It’s not like nothing in my life is political or anything.”
“More than usual this time,” Giin adds.
Jihoon’s brow furrows, but before he can press further, the carriage slows to a halt at the palace gates. Two sentries bow as the doors are opened. The air here smells familiarly of hyacinth and salt, sweet and sharp.
Everything appears normal inside the palace. If anything, things are livelier than usual, if the hustle and bustle of the servants are any indication. But it’s when Jihoon enters the inner garden where his mother waits that he knows instantly that something truly unpleasant awaits.
The dowager queen stands by the marble fountain carved in the likeness of a tiger at the center, veiled lightly in white lace though the day is warm. Time has not softened her posture nor her gaze; she is still the same queen who once led armies alongside Jihoon’s father. Her hands are clasped before her, but her eyes are sharp as they turn to fix on him with an unreadable expression.
“Mother,” Jihoon greets, bowing. “You asked for me.”
“I did.” Her voice is even. “I hope the seas treated you kindly.”
“They always do.” Jihoon hesitates, and then takes a step closer to her. “What’s this about?”
The queen’s gaze flicks briefly toward the sky before returning to Jihoon. “Since you were a child, you’ve served Durga well, my son. Your father would have been proud of the man you’ve become. The council and the commoners too, speak highly of your accomplishments.”
“Thank you,” Jihoon says slowly, sensing the preamble. “But?”
“But,” she says, voice softening slightly, “duty does not always end on the battlefield. The council of Gargouille has extended a proposal of alliance. One that will strengthen both our nations, and ensure the peace we have fought so hard to keep.”
Jihoon straightens. “Alliance?”
“In the form of marriage,” she says. “To the Gargouillian reigning monarch – King Lee Sanghyeok.”
For a moment, Jihoon thinks he must have misheard her. It’s Giin’s uneasy expression from earlier that clicks into clarity, and helps him make sense of the absurd words that have just been uttered from his mother’s lips.
He laughs incredulously. “You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
“King Sanghyeok,” Jihoon repeats, disbelief giving way to outrage. “The Dragon of Gargouille? The man who executed three of his own generals just last year? You can’t possibly expect me to–”
“I expect you to listen when I tell you to.” The queen’s tone slices cleanly through his protest. “This is not a punishment, Jihoon. This is an honor. The union will secure our borders and ensure that no other kingdom dares to test our strength.”
“An honor,” Jihoon echoes bitterly. “To be sent off to a man known for spilling blood like it’s water. I have done my time as a soldier, mother, and you would not like to hear the stories I have heard about the cruelty of that demon.”
“That’s enough.” The queen says sharply. “You are a prince of Durga. You will not sully your brother’s name by speaking of your betrothed with such disrespect. As ruthless as the stories about King Sanghyeok may paint him to be, the fact remains that he is an omegan monarch who is yet to secure an heir. Do you realize the depth of what this opportunity allows us?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jihoon insists. “You would marry me off like a prize horse.”
“You still do not see the reality here,” the queen retorts. “The council has given you the opportunity to put the Jeong dynasty on the Gargouillian throne, and you are speaking as if we are selling you off like poultry. Lee Sanghyeok may rule with iron, yes, but with him allied to you – by blood, by heirs – the Jeong name will command both of our realms. Any children born of this union will stand under your name.”
His mother speaks like the idea is a great honor, but Jihoon has never been interested in the idea of power. Not a single word that escapes her lips sounds pleasant to him. “I have been content living in my brother’s shadow. Why should I agree to let you pluck me out and place me in a cold court to further some selfish ambition?”
“As befits your duty as a prince,” the queen says coolly. “As demanded of you by your duty as a second son. The Jeong house has always been about duty. Your father, your uncles, your grandfather – none of them were content. They accepted the strain of the role because someone had to. Jihoon, they are giving you the chance to put the strongest nation in the realm in your grasp!”
“But it’s a landlocked country,” Jihoon snaps, impossible to see anything in this concept other than ridiculousness. “What am I even supposed to do there? I’ve spent my life commanding ships. I live on the open water. I have no interest in being trapped inside walls as a stud for some cold monarch. How am I to be content there? How will I ever be anything but an outsider, a foreign trophy?”
“Those are fears, not facts,” his mother replies. “Do you think Lee Sanghyeok will tolerate a man who does not contribute? He will demand usefulness of you, and you will provide it. You will bring order, connections, and – most importantly – children who answer to your name. Your naval command will not vanish, Jihoon. It will be a bargaining piece, and a lever to exert your strength.”
Jihoon scowls. “But I don’t want to be used, or traded away like the prize in a chess game. I don’t like this, mother.”
“You don’t have to like it,” she responds. “Nor did I, when I was first married into this family. I was a second daughter in a noble house, as you are a second son. This is what our duty is, Jihoon-ah. Accept this, and you will help forge a peace that will hold when we are gone. Refuse, and you risk destabilizing the entire realm. Millions will suffer. And our house must bear the shame – your brother must bear the shame of going back on his word.”
She turns to leave the garden. Before she goes, she places a placating hand on Jihoon’s shoulder, with a softness that almost speaks of pity.
“If you love him at all, then you will consider that before you make a hasty decision,” she advises. “There is much to be gained here, Jihoonie. Please think of all the consequences wisely.”
The old council tower always smells faintly of cedar and dust, even after years of being sealed. It’s not been used since his father’s passing, and the wilderness has claimed the cracked stone and marble. Jihoon comes here often, when he wants to think. As a young child, he would sit here on this very windowsill for hours on end, listening as his father strategized with the council on how best to end the centuries-long war that had plagued their nation.
As a grown man, it’s not as comfortable as it had been for him as a child, to sit on the windowsill with boots on the wood and head in his hands. But the open stone window provides a good view of the distant port and the briny sea beyond. The distant clatter and ringing of the city is muted from up here, and the stillness of the world provides comfort.
Over the rush of the wind, he doesn’t hear his brother enter until the old door creaks.
“I knew you’d be here,” comes the voice, soft with familiarity.
Jihoon glances up. His brother, now the king, stands by the threshold. He must have returned from an official duty, because he’s dressed in the embroidered cloak of Durgan royalty with the crown atop his head. It looks almost like the weight of it has pressed years into his posture, making him look older than he really is, but the same quiet gentleness that had been in his eyes as a younger man still remains.
For once, though, Jihoon doesn’t greet him with a smile.
“Did you do this to me, then?”
His brother doesn’t respond. He wears a sad smile, and then comes to crowd himself onto the tiny space on the windowsill by Jihoon’s raised feet. Strange how hard it is for the both of them to fit here now, when they used to sit side by side here so comfortably before.
“Mother sent you here to look for me,” Jihoon guesses.
“She doesn’t have to send me. You’re my brother,” he says. “And there is more to this that I must speak to you about than what mother has already told you.”
“She’s said everything there is to say,” Jihoon mutters. “The glory of uniting two realms under our name, blah blah.”
His brother shakes his head. “There’s more. You know of Lee Sanghyeok’s campaigns in the smaller provinces of the northern nations. You know that the size of his army only increases each year, and you know that Gargouille has swallowed every tiny province that hasn’t bowed fast enough. I fear that if he continues unchecked, he may eventually turn his eyes southward – toward us. A union with you might deter him from that. Might slow his conquest even, and soften him.”
“How can you possibly expect me to do something like that?” Jihoon laughs. “I’m not some master negotiator, hyung. I don’t even like the court. If I hadn’t sworn my life to the navy, half the council would consider me a liability.”
“You’re my brother,” the king says, and this time there is iron beneath the warmth. “You may not like the court, but you are still Jeong by blood. Lee Sanghyeok may be prideful, but so are you. You will not be subdued by the likes of him as easily as he thinks. We tigers are not cowards, Jihoon. We are a proud nation, and we will not surrender to a conqueror so easily.”
The words strike him as very profound. Jihoon stares at his brother, and with a twinge of respect, wonders how the young man who used to play at battle in the castle courtyard with him and climbed the armory rooftop now carries an entire kingdom in his hands. It’s amazing, with how much finesse, his brother has taken to the challenge. It’s almost like he can see the stern shadow of his father’s likeness in the gentle familiarity of his brother’s features.
Jihoon watches him silently. “You really believe this is the best way to keep us safe?”
“I believe it’s worth trying,” he says. “And I believe that you’re the only one I can trust to have the strength to stand up to someone like him. You have nothing to fear, Jihoon. If he truly is cruel to you, then I will not accept that slight lightly.”
“I’m not afraid,” Jihoon scoffs. “And I don’t want a war either.”
“Good,” the king says. “Make sure there isn’t one, then.”
With that, his brother rises from the windowsill, ruffling his windswept hair affectionately as he goes. Jihoon says nothing as he departs from the room, and stares out at the harbor where all the ships docked in the water gleam with polish and pride. Everything he has worked for, for the past decade, all thrown to the wayside…
But perhaps they’re all right. His brother, his mother, his father… they’ve all done their duty with due diligence.
Now that it’s his time, maybe it’s only right that he also commits to his own.
But if this Lee Sanghyeok thinks he is an easy cub to be tamed and molded to his wishes, then Jihoon is more than prepared to prove him wrong.
Jihoon is very quiet in the carriage on the way to the outer borders of Gargouille. He barely has a week to get all his affairs in order and provide his resignation to the navy before the time comes for him to be ferried away to a foreign nation. No matter how much his brother or his mother insists that this is an honor and an opportunity, Jihoon feels nothing about the oncoming marriage except for a festering sensation of dread, that deepens almost into something akin to despair as the carriage draws further and further away from the coast, and deeper north into the continent.
But he grits his teeth and goes through with everything required of him, as befits his rank and title. As a small comfort, perhaps, Giin will accompany him to Gargouille, to continue his duty as his guardsman and shadow. The fact that he will have at least one familiar friend in a world that is potentially hostile is somewhat of a relief.
The first sight of Gargouille is not what Jihoon expects. As the carriage climbs the final mountain pass, the capital city unfolds below him in the valley. It’s not a city of light and salt, like his home, but a jewel hidden in the mountainside. Emerald-green pine forests cling to sharp slopes, and cascading waterfalls veil the stone in mist. The architecture of the city in the valley is graceful, with bridges arching between hills and buildings terraced into the cliffs. It’s beautiful, in a way, but so alien to Jihoon, whose soul is made of the sea. The air here is crisp and thin, and scented with damp rock and cold pine, a world away from the briny, sun-warmed breezes of home.
After the long journey, he is greeted at the castle gates by a small entourage dressed in the colors of the Gargouillian royals, in deep maroons and blacks. At their head stands a short man who looks vaguely familiar.
“Your Highness,” he says cheerfully. “It is a pleasure to meet you once again.”
Jihoon wracks his memory, and manages to place the face to a banquet he’d attended some time ago, representing his brother. This young man had been there, in place of the Gargouillian king. Minseok, he thinks his name is.
Jihoon inclines his head. “I’m grateful for your welcome, counselor.”
“I’m sure you would like a moment to rest before the ceremony tonight,” he continues. “I’m sure the journey must have been very long.”
A few more pleasantries, and then he is ushered through the impressive courtyard and into the castle standing at its center. The castle halls are high and narrow, their ceilings veined with black marble and lit by cold sunlight spilling through glass. It’s emptier and larger than his own palace, and the difference is startling, even in his travel-worn state.
He’s so tired that he’s hardly aware of the words Minseok speaks to him. He’s only vaguely aware of being guided through long corridors, up flights of stairs, all the way to what looks like a guest antechamber – a lofty room with a large bed in the center, and privacy, which is what Jihoon wants most right now.
“You can rest here for now,” Minseok says. “His Majesty is occupied at the moment, but he will most likely wish to greet you before the ceremony.”
If Jihoon had been less tired, those words might have filled him with more nervousness. As it is, he’s just grateful for the chance to lie down. “Thank you,” he says politely. Minseok then flickers his eyes to Giin.
“We also have a guest room prepared for your companion,” he offers.
Giin looks dead on his feet as well, but he shakes his head. “I’ll wait out here in case Jihoon – er, I mean, His Highness, needs me.”
“It’s okay,” Jihoon says. “You need rest, too. I’ll be fine.”
Giin’s shoulders sag with some relief. “If you’re sure.”
Jihoon nods at him, and then watches as Minseok ushers the only familiar face he has in this cold, lonely city away from him. With that, he turns and enters the guest chamber with a heavy, resigned sigh. What the hell has he been roped into? He has no idea what he’s doing here.
For the moment, however, he only wants to rest.
He doesn’t mean to fall into a deep sleep, but the exhaustion of the journey and the weight of his new reality pull him under the moment his head touches the pillow. His sleep is dreamless and heavy, a temporary escape from the cage he’s been put into.
He’s pulled from it by a firm, insistent knock on the chamber door.
Disoriented, Jihoon blinks in the sudden light as he wakes. The sun has moved to sit high in the sky, filling the chamber with the warmth and brightness of noon. For a second, he half expects to see the wooden beams of his cabin aboard the Hermes, to feel the gentle rock of the waves. But then he registers his bearings, and the stillness of the stone walls suffocates him back into reality.
The knock comes again.
“A moment,” he says roughly. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He hasn’t even had a chance to change or wash off the grime of travel. This is no way to meet a king – especially not this king.
Jihoon allows himself to take one small breath of preparation before opening the door.
The man standing in the hallways is both exactly and nothing like the paintings Jihoon has seen of him. The portraits have not quite captured the severe handsomeness, the sharp jawline, the intense gaze. They have not captured his presence. Lee Sanghyeok is not a tall man – shorter than Jihoon is, for a fact – but he carries himself an absolute authority that seems to fill the entire corridor. He’s not dressed in ceremonial robes, but in a light, practical tunic and trousers.
Jihoon’s first ridiculous thought is a pleasant one. Lee Sanghyeok is a beautiful man. He could certainly do much worse. Once the harsh austerity of his posture gives way, the underlying effect is certainly agreeable. His lips, pouted sternly as they are, look pretty and soft, and the sharp line of his dark eyes only adds to the angular beauty of his features.
But then those dark eyes sweep over Jihoon from head to toe in one swift, assessing glance. The appraisal is clearly unimpressed.
“So,” Sanghyeok says, his voice a low baritone that Jihoon doesn’t expect. “This is the famous Admiral of the Durgan Navy. The Tiger of the Southern Seas.”
Jihoon straightens his spine, trying to force the semblance of the pride he feels on his own deck. “Your Majesty.”
Sanghyeok takes a deliberate step forward, crossing the threshold into Jihoon’s space without invitation. The move is a blatant power play, forcing Jihoon to step back or stand his ground. Jihoon holds his position firmly.
“I’ve heard stories of you,” Sanghyeok continues, his gaze lingering on Jihoon’s face with a detached curiosity. “Of your… daring. They say you are as fierce as you are beautiful. I see that the stories of your beauty, at least, were not exaggerated.”
The words are not a compliment. They are a dismissal, a reduction of all Jihoon’s accomplishments to a single, superficial trait. Heat flushes up his neck in a mixture of fury and humiliation.
“I am a naval officer,” Jihoon says uncertainly. He’s been instructed to maintain politeness, and the sudden challenge in this foreign king’s voice is startling. “My command speaks for itself.”
“Does it?” Sanghyeok’s pretty lips curve into a faint, mocking smile. “But here, you have no ships to command. Your duties will be of a… different nature.”
He takes another step closer, and Jihoon is suddenly hit with the powerful scent of honeysuckle after rain. A strange, soft scent, so in juxtaposition to the coldness that radiates off this man. He’d expected something cold, something like steel and iron, and the contrast puts him off his guard.
Sanghyeok smiles at the hesitation in Jihoon’s eyes. His eyes drop from Jihoon’s eyes to his mouth, and the alpha in Jihoon bristles at the blatant challenge. This is not the greeting of a prospective partner. This is a predator, marking his territory.
Before Jihoon can snap a retort to that effect, Sanghyeok raises his hand. Deceptively casual, but his grip is strong as lithe fingers frame his jaw. His fingers are cool against Jihoon’s skin. Then, with a deliberate, teasing slowness that makes his blood boil, Sanghyeok traces the shape of Jihoon’s lower lip with his thumb. An intimate gesture, one to be shared between partners, yet utterly devoid of warmth.
A mockery. An assessment of an object. A check of a breeding stock’s teeth.
“Such a proud, pretty mouth,” Sanghyeok murmurs, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Let us see if you can put it to better use than issuing commands to sailors.”
Jihoon wrenches his head back, instinctively forcing himself away from the king’s hand. Fire blazes in his eyes, all fatigue forgotten in the wake of the pure, undiluted rage that now burns through him. “Don’t touch me.”
Sanghyeok doesn’t look offended at his impertinence. He looks satisfied. As if Jihoon’s furious reaction is everything he wanted.
“You will find,” Sanghyeok says, his tone once again cool and imperious as he takes a step back, “that in Gargouille, I will do as I please. Rest well while you can, Prince Jihoon. The ceremony begins at sundown, and I expect you to be on time. I shall meet you at the altar.”
Laughing to himself quietly, he turns and walks away. Jihoon stands there in the doorway, trembling with a hatred so profound that it feels like a physical force. He can still feel the ghost of that mocking thumb on his lip, a brand of humiliation.
No.
He thinks, clenching his hands into fists hard enough that his nails bite into his palms.
No way.
There is no way he is going to go through with this.