Chapter Text
Standing paralyzed
In the freedom that was tied
A little fantasy inside of me- Halazia
"This way!" the young man ordered, his voice hoarse with urgency as they fled through the serpentine corridors of the besieged castle.
Beyond the stone walls, the din of war echoed. The sharp scream of steel on steel, the wet sigh of blades cutting flesh, the hollow groans of men whose last breaths stained the earth.
Wooyoung ran barefoot after the servant, the soles of his feet scraping against the cold stone. There was no time for dignity. No cape, no boots, just the clothes that clung to his body: a tunic and fine trousers under a golden cloak, with frayed embroidery, in the colors of the Southern flag.
The South. Once, it shone like sunlight. But now, no sun could break through the veil of smoke that strangled the fortress.
Yeonjun locked the heavy door behind them, his fingers trembling as he struck a flint to light the iron candlestick. The flame crackled, casting jagged shadows across his face.
"You know what must be done," he murmured, the words laden with quiet fear. "You were created for this, my lord."
Wooyoung nodded. He knew . This chamber was either their tomb or their salvation. They would wait until the end of the battle, whether it was hours or days. The room contained enough provisions for fifteen men. For two? They could stay there for weeks.
The hiding place was bare, as befitted its purpose: barrels of water, sacks of grain, candles to ward off the darkness. And books— always books , stacked like fragile shields against madness. A kindness, perhaps. However, Wooyoung, inquisitive by nature, had memorized each page long ago.
"Yeonjun…"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Do you think my brothers still breathe?"
The question hung like a blade. Wooyoung, the lone omega among three alphas, had always known his fate. His brothers would die with swords in hand, their names sung in ballads. He had learned to hide.
Yeonjun's voice was a whisper. "I hope so."
Night fell and the roar of battle faded, replaced by the biting wind that scratched at the ancient structures of the fortress.
"Yeonjun, wake up! Footsteps... I hear them! The fight is over."
"Please remain calm. No foreigner knows this place."
But then... voices . Harsh voices. The splintering crack of wood giving way to force.
The door was brutally kicked in, shards of wood still hanging in the air as the silence was swallowed by his presence. The man who walked in was the kind of man who filled the room—not with words, but with the undeniable certainty that if he wanted to, no one would leave alive. His dark eyes swept the space with chilling calm, each step he took slow, precise, terrifying in its restraint—like a predator who knew he didn't need to run to capture his prey.
Two others flanked him, one of them dragging a beaten figure between them.
“Felix!” Wooyoung charged torward his younger brother —only to freeze as a blade flashed, blocking his path. The third man, a towering blond, pulled Felix’s arms back.
“Forgive me,” Felix murmured, his face a mosaic of bruises. “They… they made me bring them here.”
Wooyoung shook his head, his vision burning. "It's not your fault. Where... where are the others?"
The leader's smile was the curve of a scythe. "Dead. Han Jisung's head decorates the staircase."
The words hit him like a mace. Wooyoung staggered, his knees giving way. Yeonjun held him, his grip the only anchor in Wooyoung’s broken world.
He expected that fate for Bang Chan. How could he not? The Tyrant King ruled in fear. Every sword in the North was sharpened with his name. But Han...
Han was never supposed to die. Han, with his radiant smile and his pockets full of gifts from foreign lands. Han, who had whispered wild dreams in Wooyoung’s room when life locked away in the wave-battered fortress had seemed too dull. His embrace was the warmest place he’d ever known, and he’d always told him he didn’t have to marry if he didn’t want to, that no man in the four kingdoms was worthy of Wooyoung’s wit anyway.
And now... he's gone. Just like that.
Changbin grabbed Yeonjun’s arm, his gloved fingers digging into his flesh. “Who is it?” he asked Felix, his gaze never leaving the servant. “We were told there was only one heir left.”
"And there is."
“Yeonjun is my servant!" Wooyoung barked the words defiantly. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, the sadness would have to wait.
Changbin turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His sword rose, the tip brushing against Wooyoung’s chest, a lover’s caress, a lover made of steel.
"Speak," he murmured, "only when you are allowed to." The steel pressed harder. "But since you beg for my attention..."
The blade plunged, but didn't reach the prince's flesh.
Wooyoung's scream tore through the chamber.
Yeonjun gasped, arching his body as Changbin yanked the sword free. Scarlet gushed from his lips, a grotesque fountain, before he fell forward—into Wooyoung’s arms.
"NO. No, please—"
“M-my lord…” Yeonjun gasped, his fingers twitching against Wooyoung’s sleeve. Then… one last tremor . Violet blood flowed, thick and bright, onto the stones.
...
San entered the great hall with a frown, his gaze sweeping over the flags and braziers as voices buzzed through the vaulted space.
"Have you seen Jongho?" he asked, standing next to Mingi, who was relaxing with all the naturalness of a man watching a play, not a military council.
Mingi raised an eyebrow, his lips already twitching. "Our resident sunshine? Not today."
San snorted. "He should be with us."
“He should have attended the last council too. Instead, he sent a message with a note that said, and I quote, ‘Discussing nonsense is unacceptable to me.’” Mingi smiled. “My guess? Either perfecting his thinking in a dark hallway or shooting arrows at trees while imagining they are our faces.”
San gave a wry smile despite himself, the younger brother could easily be doing that.
And then the doors creaked open.
The group of warriors crossed the threshold of the castle, their boots covered in mud and blood from the South. At the front marched Changbin, dragging behind him a hollow-eyed boy, drowned in an oversized jacket, the sleeves of which slipped like a shroud over his shoulders.
"Who is that?" San muttered to Mingi, though his gaze never left the prisoner.
Mingi’s lips curled. “They razed the Southern Court. Who do you think he is?”
The Northern Prince looked at the boy, too pale, too proud even in defeat and felt something twist in his stomach.
“Was it really necessary to display him like this? Half-dressed, like he was... object?” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Are we barbarians now?”
"Do you think I like it?" Mingi squeezed San's wrist, warning him. "But Changbin loves spectacle. You know that."
"Yeah." San clenched his jaw. "I know."
They descended the stairs, flanking the king as the war party knelt.
"Your Majesty," Changbin intoned, flanked by Yunho and Jooheon, their armor still smoking.
The king's smile was slow and satisfied.
"It seems the south winds are blowing favorably."
“Your lands have been reclaimed,” Changbin said. “King Bang Chan perished on the cliffs. His body was lost in the ravine. But we bring his third brother, Lee Yongbok, as his prisoner.”
"The third?" The king's eyes shone as he examined Felix, now chained up by Officer Lee. "Where's the second... Jisung?"
"Dead," Yunho replied dryly. "He died with his sword in his hand."
Yunho did not know it, but his name had been branded into Wooyoung’s mind. The butcher who killed Han.
The king waved a hand. "A warrior’s end, then. But, and the omega?"
Changbin’s grip tightened on Wooyoung’s arm, shoving him forward. "Jung Wooyoung. The last jewel of the Southern crown."
King Hongjoong’s gaze raked over him. Assessing, stripping him bare. Wooyoung recoiled, fists clenching in the jacket’s fabric.Yunho’s jacket, still smelling of steel and sweat.
"A treasure." the king mused. "But why bring him? Omegas cannot be jailed like common prisoners. It violates the wartime accords."
Changbin’s smile was a knife’s edge.
"I anticipated your wisdom, Majesty. Then perhaps…" He stepped closer. "Let him be my reward."
San’s breath caught. His father considered it. By the gods...
"Have the coffers I emptied for your campaign not sufficed, General?" the king asked mildly.
"I would never question your generosity," Changbin demurred. "But can gold compare to a noble blood omega you deem… worthless?"
"He can’t do this—" San snarled under his breath.
Mingi’s nails dug into his arm. "Don’t."
The king sighed. "Very well. Take him, if you desire."
Felix struggled against the soldiers' grip, blood running into his eye.
"Never!" he shouted. "You can't take him!"
Jooheon twisted his arms tighter. "Stay still."
Felix cried out, but froze when cold steel kissed his throat.
Yunho raised his blade, voice low. "One more word, and I end it."
Breathing hard, Felix went still. Wooyoung needed him alive.
Wooyoung’s knees nearly buckled. Changbin bowed, triumph flaring in his eyes.
"WAIT!" San freed himself from Mingi's arms, vaulting down the stairs. He halted just shy of Wooyoung—close enough to see the tremor in his lashes—before turning to the throne. "Tomorrow is my birthright," he declared. "You swore I could claim any boon."
"I did." The king answered.
"Then I want him!"
A ripple through the court. The king arched a brow. "You? You’ve a betrothal in a moon’s turn. Your groom will arrive within nights. If you itch for a bedmate, any pretty whelp would gladly."
San turned his face away, he couldn’t look at Wooyoung as he said it.
"That’s true... But none of them carry royal blood."
A beat.
Then the king laughed.
"Clever boy... but and after? Will you discard him like a spent whore?"
San’s eyes flicked to Mingi in silent plea.
"Uncle," Mingi interrupted softly, "won't Yeosang be back soon? He'll need servants worthy of his station. Who better to teach him the ways of the court than someone who was born to it?"
“Ah!” The king’s smile widened. “A great idea!” He inclined his head to Changbin. “Does that satisfy you, General?”
The man's mask of deference cracked for an instant before he bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."
“Good. Prepare the boy…” The king’s fingers drummed on the arm of the throne, his gaze sliding toward the shadowed archway behind the dais. “Seonghwa will take care of that.”
A murmur ran through the court. The royal consort's name spoken not as a suggestion but as a decree.
"After all," Hongjoong continued, his lips curling as he winked at San, "who better to prepare a gift than the one who knows its... value best? Happy birthday in advance, my son!"
San’s lips curved into the smile expected of a prince. Cold, victorious, but behind his eyes, something nagged at him. This was the game: humiliate to protect, betray to protect. His father’s approval tasted like ash on his tongue as he spoke: “My gratitude.” Every syllable was a nail in his own chest—and Wooyoung’s.