The chamber smelled faintly of sandalwood and burning wax. Beyond the open screens, the afternoon sun spilled across the carved floor, catching the gold threads in the young prince's robe.
"Your Highness," said a gentle voice. "I have been assigned to you by the Emperor."
Yeun walked slowly, each step measured and soundless until she stopped before him. Her robe, white as winter frost, trailed behind her like mist. Then she knelt, head bowed.
Han Ji's eyes were cold. His face revealed nothing, a perfect mask of royal discipline. He sat motionless on the throne-like chair, one hand resting carelessly on the armrest, the other folded on his lap. He looked like a painting—alive yet distant, present but unreachable.
The young woman dared to raise her eyes. She lifted a hand, barely brushing her fingers over the prince's sleeve. The silk was soft, the skin beneath it even softer. Han Ji did not move. He didn't even glance at her, as though her touch meant nothing.
"Your Highness," she murmured, "are you deep in thought? If so, perhaps I can help ease your mind."
Her voice was calm, coaxing, and sure of itself. She rose gracefully and moved to sit beside him. Her robe whispered against the floor, the motion carrying a quiet power that seemed to fill the room.
Han Ji remained silent. Though his composure held, his heart was uneasy. He was young—a child, still new to the heavy, secret customs of the court. His expression might have been that of a statue, yet within him, uncertainty twisted like a hidden flame.
It wasn't that he was lost in thought; he was afraid. The woman before him was young, but older than him. She carried herself with a confidence that unsettled him. He sensed that she knew more about the world than he did—perhaps even more than he wished to know.
She had come a long way from Niang, a distant province known for its refined arts and strict traditions. That distant king had sent her to the capital for a reason. Her duty, as she had said, was to instruct the Crown Prince. But no one had told Han Ji what the lesson would be.
Now, seeing her up close, feeling the warmth of her presence, he become more uncomfortable—and he didn't know whether to be angry, embarrassed, or simply afraid.
When she reached for his chin and turned his face toward hers, his breath caught. Her touch was deliberate but not harsh. Their faces were so close that he could feel her breath against his lips. His composure faltered. He turned away quickly, eyes wide.
She smiled faintly. He was proud, yes—but also young enough for pride to hide confusion.
The Emperor had introduced them that very morning. Han Ji had thought she was a potential bride. The thought had terrified him; he wasn't ready to share his life with anyone, let alone a stranger chosen for him. But after the brief formal introduction, the Emperor had told them to spend the afternoon together. Only later did the truth emerge. She was his instructor, though she hadn't yet said what subject she would teach.
Now, with her beside him, everything became clear—and unbearable.
There was something in her manner that made him question all his bravery. Her calmness, her gaze that did not waver even under his royal stare, carried a kind of authority that he had never encountered from anyone except his father.
Earlier that day, in the palace garden, she had knelt before him. The roses were in bloom, and their scent clung to the air. Her sudden gesture had startled him.
"Why are you not at ease, Your Highness?" she had asked with a smile that disarmed him completely.
He had frowned, trying to mask the discomfort twisting inside him. "Are we getting married?" he had blurted out.
Her laughter had been soft, like wind stirring the petals around them. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her eyes were luminous and steady, her lips curved into a smile both kind and dangerous.
"What is your name?" she had asked instead.
Han Ji had looked away, pretending annoyance. "Don't you know my name? How can you marry someone if you don't even know who he is?" His voice was sharp, but his ears burned with heat.
She had tilted her head, still smiling. "Do you know mine?"
He had tried to pull his hand from hers, but her grip, though gentle, was firm.
"I didn't know you were even coming until today," he said stiffly. "You knew you were coming to marry someone, so technically—"
She interrupted smoothly, finishing his sentence for him. "Technically, we are both at fault. You, too, were told you might wed, yet you never asked who it would be."
"I didn't know," he said quickly. His gaze, when it met hers, faltered again.
"Yeun," she said simply, rising from where she knelt towering the prince. "That is my name."
He had watched her then, his heart uncertain. She looked so sure of herself, so unlike the quiet court women who bowed and whispered around him.
"And no," she added with a teasing calmness, "we are not to be married. What I have been sent to teach you is something else—something close to it, but not quite." She paused, the corner of her mouth curving. "More intimate."
Her words struck him harder than any command. For a long moment, he could only stare at her.
Trying to recover, he spoke with mock dignity: "Just to be clear, I prefer my staff to be… fresh." Then he turned away, hoping she wouldn't see the flush rising to his ears.
Yeun had only smiled at his retreating figure. "I am your instructor, Your Highness," she called softly.
He stopped, half-turned. "Instructor? Wait—what does that even mean? What are you instructing me in?"
Her answer came steadily across the garden. "The art of closeness."
Then she was gone, her figure disappearing beyond the rose hedges, leaving the prince standing alone amid the drifting petals.
For a moment, he stood in stunned silence. Her final word echoed in his mind, heavy and confusing. He repeated it under his breath, as though saying it aloud might make it less strange.
"Closeness....se..x??"
The wind stirred again, carrying the scent of roses and sandalwood.
Han Ji could not stop thinking of her. Not of her beauty—though she was undeniably beautiful—but of the way she had looked at him, as if she could see through his princely facade to the uncertain boy still learning how to be a man.
That evening, when he sat again in the chamber and heard her footsteps approach, his heartbeat quickened despite his efforts to remain composed. Yeun entered, the same calm light in her eyes, and knelt once more.
"Your lessons," she said, "begin today."
Han Ji looked away, jaw tight. He could not decide whether to face her or to flee. But he stayed.
And when she smiled faintly, the candlelight trembling across her face, he felt for the first time that perhaps the Emperor's strange command was not a punishment—but a test.
A test he was both afraid and eager to understand.