Chapter Text
The palace glittered like it was holding its breath.
Tonight, eight princes—each from a different allied house—were hosting the Grand Concordia Ball, a yearly gathering meant to display unity, elegance, and political charm. Yet none of them cared for diplomacy tonight. The chandeliers burned brighter than usual, the musicians played sweeter, and even the walls seemed to shimmer with anticipation.
Because something—someone—was about to arrive.
Prince Chan stood at the top of the marble staircase, the ceremonial host sash draped across his broad chest. He had been greeting nobles for nearly an hour when he felt, rather than saw, the subtle shift in the room. A quiet hush swept the ballroom floor, passing like a ripple of awe. Conversations dulled, fans stilled mid-flutter, and even the violinist missed a note.
Chan followed the gaze of the crowd.
And his breath caught.
Descending the staircase was a vision—no, a revelation.
Changbin.
Seo Changbin of the modest but respected House of Seo, invited as a courtesy… but suddenly the most important person in the room.
And tonight—he was wearing a gown.
A true Victorian masterpiece of a gown, too; the sort that sculpted and framed the body in reverent artistry. Midnight satin swept around him in a full bell-shaped skirt, nipped tight at the waist, flaring elegantly over his hips. His bodice was fitted, supported by a corset that curved around him like it had been crafted by worship. His shoulders and strong arms were framed by soft tulle sleeves, and a string of obsidian gems kissed his throat. His hair was pinned up with silver, a few strands falling loose against his neck.
The dress made his silhouette divine.
The era adored silhouettes like his—full, powerful, beautifully shaped. The sort of body painters begged to immortalize and poets lost their minds over. But even that wasn’t enough to explain the sudden, stunned hunger in every royal gaze.
He looked radiant.
He looked like a dream sculpted into human form.
And he looked just a little shy to be seen.
Felix whispered first, leaning close to Hyunjin. “He’s… breathtaking.”
Hyunjin didn’t even blink. “He’s perfection.”
Jisung, flustered, gripped Jeongin’s arm. “Is this what love at first sight feels like? My knees feel weak.”
Jeongin, usually reserved, whispered, “My heart actually hurts—like physically.”
Seungmin had completely forgotten to hold his fan correctly. “He’s wearing obsidian jewelry,” he murmured, “as if he didn’t already have enough power.”
Minho, elegant and unreadable, narrowed his eyes. “Everyone is staring at him.”
His voice dropped.
“I don’t like competition.”
Chan swallowed thickly. “We should… welcome him.”
Felix clapped delicately. “We should court him.”
“No,” Hyunjin corrected softly, “we should woo him.”
Jisung sighed dreamily. “I want to compose symphonies about his waistline.”
Minho muttered, “I want a duel with anyone who looks at him too long. Including all of you.”
Jeongin raised his hand politely. “I would like to hold his hand.”
Chan ran a hand through his hair, trying to recenter himself. “Gentlemen, we are royalty. Composure.”
They all nodded.
Harmony lasted approximately three seconds.
Because Changbin reached the bottom step—
looked up through his lashes—
and smiled.
A soft, warm smile as sweet as cream and as devastating as cannon fire.
Seven princes staggered.
Chan forgot English, all eloquence, decorum, and dignity swiftly forgotten.
Hyunjin visibly swayed, weak in the knees.
Minho’s jaw actually dropped.
Felix clasped his hands under his chin, eyes starry.
Seungmin whispered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
Jisung made a noise that did not belong in polite society.
Jeongin’s fan slipped from his fingers, hands subconsciously wanting to reach out and touch.
And Changbin—sweet, radiant Changbin—gave a small, courteous bow.
“Your Highnesses,” he said softly.
The princes answered in catastrophic unison,
“HEL—WELCOME—GOOD EVENIN—YOU LOOK GORGEO—HI—HELLO—YOU’RE BEAUTIF—UH—”
Changbin blinked.
Chan stepped forward, recovering shreds of dignity. “Noble Changbin,” he said gently, offering his gloved hand, “welcome to our hall. Might we—perhaps—have the honor of escorting you this evening?”
Changbin’s cheeks warmed. “You are all very kind.”
Felix swooped in on Chan’s other side. “We would like to be… even kinder.”
Minho added, “Individually. And extensively.”
Hyunjin smiled a slow, dangerous smile. “Allow us to compete for your favor, darling.”
Seungmin bowed. “Or allow us to share it.”
Jisung chirped, “We can fight or we can share—either way, we all adore you!”
Jeongin simply showed him a freshly recovered fan and murmured, “You look lovely tonight.”
Changbin’s blush deepened, blooming like a rose.
“Then,” he said softly, “I suppose you may try.”
The ballroom buzzed around them, alive with curiosity and envy.
Because eight princes of the realm had just declared a silent war.
A courtship war.
And Changbin—glorious, radiant, breathtaking Changbin—was the prize they would all devote themselves to winning.
Or… perhaps, sharing.
But that decision, of course, was his to make
꧁ ༺ ♔ ༻ ꧂
The music swelled, the chandeliers glittered, and Changbin—radiant in midnight satin—took a careful breath, letting himself settle into the rhythm of the ball. Compliments swirled around him, sweet but overwhelming, each prince eager in his own loud, bright way.
Except one.
Prince Minho.
Minho stood across the ballroom, posture perfect, his expression unreadable save for the faint tug at the corner of his lips. He held a beautifully lacquered fan—black and gold, painted with a stalking tiger—and for a moment Changbin wondered if the prince even planned to approach him.
Then Minho flicked his wrist.
The fan opened in one perfect, elegant snap.
Changbin’s breath hitched.
Fan language…
He knows.
Changbin turned slightly, pretending to admire a floral arrangement while keeping Minho in his peripheral view. If this was truly Victorian fan language—stolen glances, coded gestures, silent confessions—then Minho was doing more than looking.
He was speaking.
Changbin lowered his own small cream-colored fan, fingers brushing the carved ivory ribs. His heart fluttered. Slowly—very slowly—he lifted it halfway.
Minho saw.
Minho responded.
He let the fan rest against his cheek.
Changbin’s eyes widened.
I wish to be near you.
A bold message, too bold for a crowded ballroom—but Minho’s gaze didn’t waver. The prince bent his head in the faintest bow, then lowered his fan just enough for Changbin to see his eyes.
Dark. Intent. Beautiful.
Changbin swallowed and answered with a flutter of his fan.
A quick opening and closing.
We are being watched.
Minho’s lips curved just slightly, the smallest reward for Changbin’s fluency. He drifted closer—unhurried, perfectly measured—until they were a mere few steps apart, still not acknowledging each other aloud.
To the casual observer, they were strangers admiring the same garden of roses.
But their fans were having a conversation louder than any spoken words.
Minho tapped his fan gently against his heart.
You have my interest.
Changbin lifted his fan to cover the lower half of his face.
You flatter me.
Minho exhaled, amused. Then, without warning, he snapped his fan shut sharply.
I am growing impatient.
Changbin’s breath left him.
Oh.
Oh, this was dangerous.
A tiny tremble went through him, and to steady his hands he circled the fan slowly, deliberately.
You may proceed.
Minho’s pupils dilated.
He stepped just a fraction closer. The tiger-painted fan came up again, angled toward Changbin’s throat before drifting away—never touching, but close enough to make Changbin’s pulse jump.
Then Minho flicked the fan open and hid the lower half of his face behind it.
When may I speak to you alone?
Changbin startled, then quickly lifted his own fan to his forehead.
After this dance.
Minho’s brows lifted in genuine surprise—Changbin’s first victory.
The prince bowed slightly, fan still raised.
Then he twirled it—slow, sensual, confident.
I will wait for you.
Changbin, cheeks warm, answered with a flutter that made his wrist tremble.
And I will come.
For a heartbeat, everything fell away—the music, the palace, the jealous glances of the other princes.
Just Minho.
Just Changbin.
Just their fans whispering secrets no one else could hear.
Changbin finally lowered his fan, offering Minho a tiny smile.
Minho dropped his fan to his side—no gesture, no coded message.
Just a man momentarily undone.
And Changbin felt powerful.
꧁ ༺ ♔ ༻ ꧂
Chan prided himself on discipline.
On composure. On the ability to stand steady and gracious in the face of politics, chaos, and even palace scandal.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for Changbin’s body in a Victorian ball gown.
The satin hugged him lovingly, cinched at the waist to emphasize every sumptuous curve. The skirt flared just enough to hint at the powerful thighs beneath, and every soft, full line of him looked sculpted by a deity who had been in an especially indulgent mood.
Chan was trying.
He swore he was trying.
But he was failing catastrophically.
“Your Highness,” Changbin said warmly, bowing in that way that made his skirt sweep elegantly around his legs.
Chan nearly folded in half.
He forced a smile—polite, princely, respectable—but his throat tightened as his gaze trailed down just a little too far, drawn helplessly to the generous sweep of Changbin’s waistline. The gown framed him so perfectly that Chan was genuinely angry at the era for not already declaring body types like Changbin’s the eternal standard of beauty.
Changbin straightened, cheeks faintly rosy from the attention of every royal in the room. “It’s a lovely event you’ve arranged tonight.”
Chan opened his mouth.
Words did not happen.
He coughed—regal cough, he hoped—and tried again.
“Yes—I mean, thank you. You look—”
He stopped, panicked, recalibrated.
“—very well tonight.”
Very well tonight?
Chan wanted to leap into the nearest fountain.
Changbin only smiled. “You’re very kind.”
Chan clutched the stem of his wine glass with both hands to stop himself from staring blatantly. But even while looking away, his mind was treacherously painting the image again—the plush curve of Changbin’s sides beneath the corset, the silhouette so round and full that it made Chan’s breath stutter.
He couldn’t help it.
Changbin looked like every baroque painting come to life.
Full. Lush. Glorious.
And Chan?
Chan was trying not to visibly drool like an untrained footman.
“I hope,” Changbin said softly, unaware of the torture he was inflicting, “I’m not making a spectacle of myself.”
That snapped Chan out of his trance.
“No!” he said too loud, too fast.
Half the room turned.
Chan turned crimson.
Then he cleared his throat again and took a gentler tone. “You’re not a spectacle. You… you’re the reason the ballroom looks alive tonight.”
Changbin’s eyes widened, and Chan’s heart throbbed with panic—too much? too forward?
But Changbin ducked his head shyly, fingers brushing the edge of his skirt.
“That’s… very sweet of you.”
Chan exhaled, relieved—and then ruined his restraint all over again when Changbin shifted his weight, making the fabric pull tight across his hips.
Chan’s glass nearly slipped.
He gripped it tighter. Harder. As though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.
He needed to be dignified.
He needed to act princely.
He needed to STOP STARING AT THE THIGHS.
But the gown curved around them in heavenly arcs.
Fruit-like.
Perfect.
Full of strength and softness all at once.
Chan swallowed.
“If—if you’d ever like a dance… or simply a moment of rest… you need only ask. I’d be honored.”
Changbin smiled again, radiant and warm. “Then perhaps I’ll ask soon.”
Chan felt something in his soul quietly combust.
He bowed—deeply, properly, forcing composure back into his bones.
But as soon as Changbin turned away, Chan’s fan snapped open.
He hid half his face behind it.
And whispered into the painted silk:
“…holy hell.”
꧁ ༺ ♔ ༻ ꧂
Seungmin had always been careful with his heart.
Not cold—never cold—but measured. Observant. The kind of prince who studied a person before he let admiration grow into affection. His tutors praised his restraint; the court praised his logic.
And Seungmin himself believed that nothing could move him except wit, intellect, and depth of character.
Beauty alone never swayed him.
But Changbin…
Changbin was undoing him in a way Seungmin hadn’t expected.
It began not with a glance, but with a conversation.
Changbin, in his breathtaking midnight gown, had been standing near the library doors—an accidental haven for those who sought quiet from the chaos of the ball. Seungmin had approached intending only to introduce himself politely.
Then Changbin had turned.
“I heard,” he said with gentle earnestness, “that this palace keeps the first edition of The Histories of the Three Kingdoms. Is that true?”
Seungmin blinked.
Most nobles knew nothing beyond surface-level politics. They cared more about gossip, fashion, lineage. But Changbin’s eyes shone with curiosity—not the shallow kind, but the real kind. The kind that lived in people who read for pleasure, who asked questions for joy, who thought deeply and loved deeply.
“It is true,” Seungmin said softly. “And rarely does anyone ask about it.”
Changbin laughed—a warm, bright sound that made Seungmin’s chest tighten. “I’ve always preferred books to banquets. Though tonight’s gowns are quite extraordinary.”
Seungmin smiled carefully. “Your gown is the extraordinary one.”
He expected Changbin to fluster, to deflect with shyness or modesty.
But instead, Changbin tilted his head thoughtfully.
“You’re kind. But truly, I love the architecture of knowledge more than the architecture of clothing.”
Architecture of knowledge.
What a phrase.
Seungmin inhaled, suddenly and absolutely enchanted.
He found himself stepping closer.
“You speak beautifully,” Seungmin murmured. “And unusually.”
“I was told that once,” Changbin said with a soft smile. “I read often. It makes the world feel… larger. Closer. Less lonely.”
Seungmin’s heart did something unfamiliar—
a warm, spreading ache that wasn’t pain, but the beginning of longing.
“Do you read philosophy?” Seungmin asked quietly.
Changbin’s entire face lit up. “Oh, yes! The kind that asks more questions than it answers. My favorite kind.”
And then—
Changbin quoted something.
From memory.
A thoughtful line about symmetry in human nature, about contradictions, about how people could be strong and soft at the same time. It wasn’t perfectly polished; the words occasionally stumbled, like he was trying to recall the exact phrasing. But the meaning came through.
It struck Seungmin like a bell.
Because that line… that exact passage…
was from a text almost no one read anymore.
Seungmin whispered, “You’ve read Nalor.”
Changbin’s eyes widened. “You know him too?”
Seungmin’s breath left him.
Not in shock.
In awe.
Almost no one did.
Nalor’s writings were dense, difficult, philosophical. They challenged hierarchy, prodded at emotion, probed the soul.
“This,” Seungmin said, voice low, “is the first time I’ve met anyone who quotes him.”
Changbin shifted shyly, fingertips brushing the spine of a nearby book. “He’s one of the few authors who makes me feel… understood. Like the things that feel contradictory in me make sense when he explains them.”
Seungmin swallowed hard.
He wanted—desperately—to know those contradictions.
To hear how Changbin explained himself.
To listen for hours.
The ballroom noise faded behind them. Instead of silk and perfume, Seungmin smelled old parchment. Instead of music, he heard only Changbin’s soft breaths and the steady, delicate hum of his thoughts.
“You’re remarkable,” Seungmin said before he could stop himself.
Changbin blinked, startled. “Me?”
Seungmin nodded slowly. “Intelligence like yours is rare. It leaves an impression… a lasting one.”
The faintest blush touched Changbin’s cheeks.
“And,” Seungmin added quietly, “I would be honored if you allowed me to continue this conversation sometime. Anywhere. Any topic. Any book.”
Changbin’s gaze softened—deep, warm, grateful.
“You make me feel,” he murmured, “like my mind matters.”
Seungmin’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“It matters to me… more than you know.”
The ball churned behind them—princes fighting for Changbin’s attention, suitors trying to catch a glimpse of that beautiful silhouette.
But here, in the shadow of the library, something quieter was happening.
Not lust.
Not spectacle.
Understanding.
Curiosity.
Two minds reaching toward each other.
Seungmin felt it like a spark under his ribs.
And Changbin—sweet, brilliant Changbin—smiled at him with a soft glow that Seungmin instantly knew he wanted to protect
꧁ ༺ ♔ ༻ ꧂
The ballroom had grown louder—strings rushing, skirts sweeping, princes circling like jeweled hawks—but in the quiet alcove near the library doors, Seungmin and Changbin lingered in their soft pocket of peace.
They were still speaking quietly about philosophy—well, Changbin was speaking and Seungmin was floating somewhere between listening and falling in love—when a sudden movement cut through the calm.
Hyunjin.
Of course it was Hyunjin.
He swept across the ballroom floor like a painting come to life, golden hair perfectly coiffed, his silk jacket shimmering as he moved. Subtlety had never been his gift; he thrived in spectacle. And right now, his bright gaze was fixed hungrily on Changbin.
He approached with a flourish of his embroidered fan.
“Darling Changbin,” Hyunjin sang, bowing low enough that his earrings brushed his shoulder. “The orchestra is beginning the waltz, and I simply must claim you before anyone else does.”
Seungmin felt something sharp twist low in his stomach.
He didn’t glare—Seungmin did not glare—but his expression cooled by a noticeable degree. Hyunjin did not notice. Hyunjin noticed very little when he wanted something.
Changbin blinked, caught off guard. “Oh… the waltz?”
“You’ll be magnificent,” Hyunjin said confidently, already reaching for Changbin’s hand.
Seungmin’s voice slipped out before he could stop it—soft, polite, but firm.
“Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin paused mid-reach, arching a brow. “Yes, dear Seungmin?”
“Changbin and I,” Seungmin said in that impeccable court tone that hid knives beneath ribbons, “were in the middle of discussing a text that is rarely studied. It would be a shame to interrupt.”
Hyunjin froze.
Then—
slowly—
he turned his head toward Changbin.
“You read philosophy?”
Changbin, suddenly shy, nodded. “Sometimes.”
Hyunjin blinked as if someone had slapped him with a lace glove. “Well. That is… unexpectedly enchanting.”
Seungmin subtly stepped closer to Changbin, the protective energy unmistakable. “He reads deeply,” he added, looking at Changbin instead of Hyunjin, “and thoughtfully. Something you should respect, Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin’s mouth fell open in exaggerated offense. “Are you implying I don’t respect intellect?”
Seungmin didn’t answer—because Changbin let out a very tiny, undeniably adorable laugh.
Hyunjin placed a hand over his heart, wounded. “Changbin! Don’t let Seungmin taint your perception of me. I adore intelligent men.”
“Uh-huh,” Seungmin murmured.
Changbin covered his mouth to hide another laugh.
Hyunjin moved in again, undeterred. “My dear, would you do me the honor—”
Changbin hesitated, glancing instinctively toward Seungmin as though seeking guidance.
And Seungmin, with a soft inhale, understood:
Changbin cared what he thought.
That knowledge was a quiet lightning strike.
He softened. “If you want to dance,” he told Changbin gently, “I won’t keep you.”
Changbin’s lips parted. For a moment, he simply looked at Seungmin, eyes warm—too warm—and then he turned back to Hyunjin with a small smile.
“A single dance,” he agreed. “But only one.”
Hyunjin lit up like dawn breaking. “Splendid!”
Changbin placed his hand in Hyunjin’s and let himself be led toward the dance floor. His gown swayed around him beautifully, his silhouette glowing against the chandelier light.
Seungmin watched him go, hands clasped behind him, expression calm.
But inside?
Inside he was burning.
Jisung slipped up beside him without warning. “You okay?”
Seungmin inhaled very slowly. “I dislike interruptions.”
Jisung snorted. “You mean you’re jealous.”
Seungmin didn’t react for two seconds.
Then—
“…yes.”
Jisung’s jaw dropped. “Wait—really? Seungmin! You like him?”
Seungmin turned his head, gaze drifting to Changbin as he stepped gracefully into Hyunjin’s arms for the first turn of the waltz.
The music swelled.
Changbin laughed softly at something Hyunjin whispered.
And Seungmin’s chest tightened.
“Intensely,” he admitted.
Jisung whispered, “Oh no.”
“Oh no?” Seungmin echoed flatly.
Jisung nodded vigorously. “Hyunjin is going to ramp up the charm. And Felix. And Chan. And probably everyone else. You’re in trouble.”
Seungmin finally looked at Jisung, eyes clear, voice certain.
“No.”
Then he glanced back at Changbin, mind already calculating, heart already aching.
“They are.”