After the discussion in the court, the king and the queen retired to their chambers, silence
thick in the air. The moment the doors closed, the queen turned sharply toward the king, her voice trembling with restrained fury.
How could you make him the Sword?" she demanded. "What if he points it toward the
princes—toward his own brother?"
The king sat down heavily, exhaustion lining his face. He looked older than before, the crown weighing on him as if it carried centuries of regret. "Taehyung would not point it towards the princes," he said slowly, his tone quiet yet firm. "Not unless they do something that deserves it."
The queen's eyes widened in disbelief. "How could you even say that?" she snapped,
stepping closer. "Are you really feeling guilty right now? After all these years of neglect—you pity him now?"
"I'm not feeling guilty," the king replied coldly, though his eyes wavered for a moment. "And
you don't need to worry. He will not raise his sword against his brother. I will make sure of it."
The queen folded her arms, her expression turning sharp and suspicious. "And how exactly will you make sure of that?" she asked.
The king's gaze darkened. "You don't need to know," he said, his tone final. "Just trust that I
will handle it."
The queen stared at him for a long moment before turning away with a bitter scoff. "Trust?"
she muttered under her breath. "You can't even trust your own son without binding him to
your fear."
Meanwhile, Taehyung walked down the long, quiet corridor, the echo of his footsteps
following him like a whisper of fate. The weight of his new title pressed on him—The Sword
of the Kingdom. It was not a position of honor in his heart but one of purpose, a path chosen
out of defiance and pain.
He made his way to the training grounds where his most trusted mentor, Master Jiwan, was
waiting, polishing an old blade under the dim lantern light. Jiwan looked up as Taehyung
entered, his face unreadable.
"I'm finally the Sword of the Kingdom," Taehyung said, his voice steady but with a faint trace of exhaustion and disbelief.
Jiwan stared at him for a long moment before setting the sword down. "A sword in name," he
said quietly, standing to face him. "You need to prove it."
Taehyung tilted his head slightly. "Prove it?" he repeated.
"Yes," Jiwan replied firmly. "The title alone means nothing. A true Sword is not chosen by
decree but by strength, by will, and by the hearts of the people he protects. Right now, you are only a blade waiting to be forged."
Taehyung's expression hardened. "Then I'll prove it," he said, gripping the hilt of his sword.
"I'll prove I am more than just a cursed prince."
Jiwan nodded approvingly. "Good. But remember, Taehyung… a sword is sharp, yes—but it can also break if it carries too much hatred. You must learn to wield it with more than anger."
For a moment, Taehyung was silent, his eyes reflecting the faint glow of the lantern. "I don't
know what else I have left to wield it with," he said quietly before walking past his master
toward the training field.
Jiwan watched him go, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. "Just like your mother," he
murmured under his breath. "Strong… but burning."
The corridors of the palace were quieter at dusk; the day's pomp had thinned into shadows and the low murmur of servants. Taehyung walked with a weight in his limbs that no amount of training could steel away — not tonight. The title pressed at his throat like a second skin:
Sword of the Kingdom. He had said the words aloud and the court had answered with
whispers and ire. Now all that remained was the small, private world of rooms and the one
presence that soothed the inferno in his chest.
As he passed the western gallery, two figures slipped from between the pillars and fell into
step beside him. Prince Mijin — watchful, sharp-eyed, a mind already folded in strategy — grinned impulsively and plucked at Taehyung's sleeve.
"Hyung, congratulations," Mijin said, voice bright despite the heavy day. "From now on you'll only grow stronger. When I'm strong enough, I'll stand by your side." He puffed out his chest, earnest and boyish, the way only younger brothers could be.
"Me too!" Jung added, the younger twin, who loved the clang of training and wore
determination in every scrape on his knees. He punched Taehyung lightly on the arm,
laughing, the edge of his youthful excitement dispelling some of the gloom.
Taehyung surprised himself with a small laugh, a sound that rose from some place that felt
almost like relief. For a crack of a moment he could be a brother, not a banner. "I can't wait
for that day," he said, and in his voice there was softness — a memory of what it was to be
wanted for something other than fate.
They talked, for only a few minutes: nonsense about training regimens, what snacks the
soldiers smuggled, who had the worst stance in the barracks. The sound of it worked in him
like a cooling hand. When Mijin and Jung fell back to their own path, Taehyung felt steadier.
He pushed on, thinking only of the quiet room where Aera would wait, the small mercy of her
frost.
But at the turn before his wing, a darker shape blocked his way. Prince Yul stood with his
back to the lattice, the moonlight sharpening the planes of his face. Even in the dim corridor,
Taehyung could see the tension coiled in his shoulders. Yul's expression was a tight thing —
like a bow pulled taut.
Prince Taehyung," Yul said, low at first, as if he hoped to keep the exchange private. "How
could you do this to me?" His words unfolded like a wound. "You abandoned your
responsibility and left it to me."
Taehyung opened his mouth — to explain, to tell Yul that he had thought long, that this was
not escaping but choosing a way to protect the kingdom — but Yul would not listen. He
stepped forward, eyes stinging with a fury Taehyung had never seen directed at him.
"Now I have to clean your mess," Yul spat. "Now I must carry what you refused. How can
you be so selfish? So cruel?" He walked a slow circle, a predator scenting fear. "Do you think
being the Sword will lighten your burden? You are only running away. You are nothing but a
pathetic prince. Who always run from his problems and not face it. No wonder you were born a monster."
The corridor seemed to tighten. Taehyung felt each syllable as if they were blows; they
landed not on armor but on memory — the endless nights of being unseen, the empty chair at the table, his small body learning to bear more than a child should.
"From this moment on," Yul snarled, words dropping like a sentence, "I have no hyung. We
are at war." He leaned close, voice cold as a blade, "I will destroy you with everything I
have." Then he turned and left, his footsteps ringing down the stone hall like a bell tolling
doom.
Taehyung remained where he stood, stunned, the echo of Yul's vow curling in the air. The
sword in his hand felt suddenly foreign, heavy with meaning. He had imagined opposition in
the court; he had not imagined war within his own blood.
Tears came then — hot, sudden, unbidden. They ran down his face, cutting tracks through
the grit of a day's sweat. He pressed his fist hard against his mouth, tasting iron, trying to
smother the sound. He was not used to letting them fall. He had sworn to no longer give his
grief free passage.
But the hurt was a living thing; it would not be contained by will alone. The memory of Saha's
unseen lullabies, Hanuel's cold sacrifice, the countless nights Aera had knelt and folded her
frost into him — all of it coalesced into a single, sharp loneliness. The world had chosen him
for a role, and now even those who were nearest had turned their faces.
He straightened slowly, as if the motion required an effort of muscle and oath. The tears stung, but he had learned to distrust pity more than pain. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and started forward again, toward the one place where his flames cooled and his decisions ceased to burn so sharply.
Aera was there, as she always was: a quiet silhouette in the doorway, white breath like a soft fog. She did not speak. She never did. But tonight she saw him in a new way — not as a
patient or a curiosity, but as a boy with a sword and a wound. She stepped in, hands already
glowing with faint blue light, and laid the coolness across his chest. The flames receded like tide at her touch.
He did not look at her. He knelt on the floor and let the ice trace through him, let the ache
dull to an ember. He swallowed the sound of his grief until it became resolve.
"No one will use me," he told the cold air when he could finally speak, voice low and steady.
"Not for dreams of crowns nor for fears of men. If war comes, I will choose its terms. And since Yul has decided to see me as an enemy I will not run but fight back with all I have got, since he will destroy me with everything he has then I will defend and live with everything I have got even if it means losing a family."
Aera's expression remained placid, but she lingered a moment longer, curious more than
comforted. Then, as always, she left him with the small mercy of frost cooling an old burn.
Taehyung rose at last and sheathed his blade. The corridor outside the chamber swallowed
the echo.
Blood and pain, strategy and vow: the court had given him a title, his brother had given him
an enemy, and Taehyung — with his flame tempered and his sword ready — stepped into
the new shape of his fate.