The years rolled by like waves across the kingdom's quiet shores. Seasons came and went, kings aged, and princes became the men they were meant — or doomed — to be.
Prince Yul, now the Crown Prince, had grown into the very image of what the court wanted:
calm, dignified, and wise. He carried his father's authority with poise, and his mother's
ambition with polish. In council chambers filled with gray-haired ministers, his voice was
measured and sure.
When the king was unwell, Yul presided — his presence silencing even the oldest courtier.
The people adored him for his consistency. Every month, no matter the weather, Yul would
ride through the capital, visit the markets, listen to grievances, and leave with promises that were often kept. To the people, he was the ideal prince, a ruler in bloom. To the court, he
was proof that their loyalty had not been misplaced.
But beyond the palace — outside the marbled walls and golden corridors — another prince's
legend was being forged in fire and steel.
Taehyung, the Sword of the Kingdom, had become a name that stirred both reverence and awe. His command over the flames was unmatched; even the strongest soldiers could not meet his eyes without feeling a chill born from respect and fear. His presence in the
battlefield practices was said to ignite men's spirits. His sword strikes — fast as light, precise as truth — were lessons written in movement.
To the soldiers, he was not a cursed prince but a commander worth dying for.
To the people, he was not a royal shadow but the protector who stood among them.
He did not hide in the palace. Instead, he walked among the common folk, his armor dulled from real battle drills, his face open and sincere. And beside him, wherever he went, was Lady Aera.
Aera, now older and steadier, had grown into something otherworldly yet human. Her frost
no longer lashed out uncontrolled — it flowed like calm water, smooth and deliberate. Under
Taehyung's patient tutelage, she learned swordsmanship — an art of motion, discipline, and inner silence.
He still remembered the day two years earlier when she had first asked him to teach her.
"I want to learn the sword," she had said quietly, eyes steady.
Taehyung had blinked, almost disbelieving.
"You? Why?"
"Because frost is nothing without control," she replied. "And the sword teaches control."
That was the first time she had spoken to him of her own will — the first spark of something
that was neither duty nor healing, but understanding.
From then, they had grown closer — not through words, but through rhythm. Sword and
frost, flame and silence. She mirrored his movements, her slender hands carving arcs of
cold air, each strike deliberate, her expression unreadable.
Now, as they moved together through the villages, it was as if flame and frost walked in
harmony.
The people would gather in awe — the children running first, the elders bowing low. Aera
would lift her hands, frost glimmering softly like snowlight, casting her blessings upon the
sick and the weary. Crops that had withered bloomed again, wells ran clearer, and laughter
replaced hunger.
Taehyung would stand a few steps away, watching her smile. It was not the bright joy of
innocence — it was a practiced, gentle smile, one that spoke of pain and duty intertwined.
But it was still beautiful. And when she smiled, the people smiled too.
He never said it aloud, but that smile reminded him of his mother — soft, quiet, and fleeting.
After the blessings, Taehyung would speak with the townspeople, checking on their crops,
their defenses, their safety. His questions were simple, his tone even. Yet every person he
spoke to left feeling seen — truly seen — in a way that nobles never managed.
And then, when the duties were done and the adults went back to their homes, the children
would gather around him, laughing and tugging at his cloak.
He would drop his sword to the grass, crouch down, and play with them. Sometimes, he'd let
them try to lift his blade — though none ever could. Other times, he'd conjure a small flame
in his palm, shaping it into a bird or a flower to their delight.
Aera would watch from a distance, frost still lingering on her fingers. She'd observe the ease in his movements — how the coldness that shrouded him in the palace seemed to melt away among these simple lives.
"He laughs easily with them," she thought once.
"And yet, the weight in his eyes never fades. He carries it even when he smiles."
She never said it aloud. She was curious — endlessly curious — about the man who bore
flames like a curse and yet used them so gently. She wondered how someone could be both feared and kind. How someone who had lost so much could still kneel to play with children instead of burning the world that betrayed him.
Perhaps, she thought, this was what true strength was — not power, not mastery, but
restraint.
As dusk fell, and the day's blessings ended, Taehyung would turn to her and say quietly,
"Let's go back."
She'd nod, and together they would return to the palace — flame and frost, walking side by
side beneath the dying light, bound by duty, scarred by fate, and unknowingly shaping the
legend that would one day shake the kingdom.
That night, the palace glowed from afar, its towers bright with lanterns. Inside its walls, two
princes bore the kingdom's hopes — one through diplomacy, one through strength.
But only one, the boy once cursed by flame, walked with the people who would one day call
him the true heir.
Taehyung has no scars due to Aera's healing powers and his flames, which was
unbelievable—the very flames that should one day take his life now healed his external
wounds, though deep inside he was still burning and wounded. He never expected any help from his deceased grandfather's faction; in truth, he didn't even know he had a grandfather, nor did he care. His world had been built on isolation and duty. The only piece of warmth left from his mother came from the frost that Aera's mother sealed within his chest—the frost that preserved fragments of her memory, like a heartbeat frozen in time.
Now nineteen, Taehyung stood before the court, his calm presence pressing down like silent fire. He was breathtakingly handsome—his features sharp yet serene, his brown hair falling in soft waves that framed eyes too deep to read, like still waters hiding storms beneath. His expression rarely changed, but his very silence intimidated men who were twice his age.
Every motion of his carried quiet strength; even his stillness demanded attention. The ministers whispered among themselves, their eyes shifting uneasily. The crown prince,
Yul, sat on the throne with a smirk that barely hid his satisfaction.
"Ever since you have been the sword of the Kingdom," Yul began, his voice steady but filled with hidden venom, "you have fought and defended the realm well, and as the crown prince,I am grateful for your service."
Taehyung stood without emotion, his long robe swaying lightly with the faint wind that swept
through the open court.
Yul continued, "However, the battles you have fought were not of great importance. Prince
Taehyung, you have yet to fully fulfill your duty. In order for you to do that, you must face the
rebels from the South—those who have waged silent wars against us since our ancestors'
time. We have sought peace, but they remain our greatest threat. As the sword of the
Kingdom, it is your duty to eliminate them."
The court fell silent. Every man in that hall knew what this meant. Facing the Southern rebels was a death sentence.
Taehyung's eyes narrowed faintly, though his tone remained calm. His voice was low yet
heavy, resonating through the hall like a distant thunder.
"What are you implying, Your Majesty?"
Yul smirked, leaning back. "It's simple. If you refuse to go into the battlefield, then you do not
deserve to be called the Sword of the Kingdom."
It was a trap. Everyone knew it—but no one spoke. The ministers who once supported
Taehyung's late grandfather lowered their heads, afraid to breathe too loudly. Even the air
around Taehyung seemed to still, heavy and cold.
Yet Taehyung did not flinch. He slowly walked forward until his shadow reached the steps of
the throne. The guards stiffened, hands tightening around their weapons, but the young prince's calm expression didn't waver. He bowed slightly, his voice firm and clear:
"This will be the last time I bow to you, Your Majesty"
The words echoed across the marble walls like a verdict.
"Once I return victorious from this battlefield," Taehyung continued, his gaze rising—calm,
unyielding, almost divine—"you will acknowledge that I stand as your equal, not beneath you."
A stunned silence fell. No one had ever spoken to the crown prince like that before.
The flames within Taehyung's heart flickered faintly through his eyes—a faint red glimmer
quickly hidden beneath his calm, unreadable face.
Yul leaned forward slightly, forcing a thin smile. "Very well," he said coldly. "As long as you're
still alive."
A faint smirk tugged at Taehyung's lips, a smile without warmth—beautiful yet dangerous.
"Then I shall return alive," he said softly.
And with that, the Sword of the Kingdom turned his back to the court, his cloak brushing
against the polished floor, leaving behind a silence heavier than any words.
Everyone could feel it—the presence of a man calm as still water yet burning like the sun
within. A prince not just of fire, but of unshakable resolve.