The groom did not come on their wedding night.
Cheongya sat at the edge of the bed in her wedding clothes and watched the candles burn halfway down. The silk quilt, faintly scented with danflower incense, lay folded and untouched. The two cups of unity wine on the table cooled alone.
Still, she sat there for a long time.
Every time the wind blew, the paper window rustled softly, and each time it did, Cheongya turned her head. Not to check whether he was coming. It was simply that when a sound came, she looked. That was all.
She had known he felt nothing. She had watched his eyes throughout the ceremony—eyes that worked hard to hold nothing. She had felt the distance between their shoulders, a fist's width of empty air. So this, too, was only natural.
Natural. Of course it was.
When the last candle burned out, Cheongya untied the sash of her wedding clothes and spread the quilt herself.
"…Great. I was nervous for nothing."
The small murmur drifted through the empty room and dissolved.
The second day was the same. And the day after that.
What came from Huiryeong Hall were only the meal trays, delivered on schedule. Whenever a court lady set down a tray and withdrew, their eyes would sometimes meet—and there was something like pity in those eyes, which killed Cheongya's appetite entirely.
*She thinks I'm pathetic.*
She didn't say it aloud. Instead of picking up her spoon, she drained three cups of danflower tea from the tray.
Cheongya had spent twenty-four years at the mountain estate. The palaces in the books she'd bought at the market below the mountain were grand and full of people—someone always speaking, someone always laughing, flower-viewing parties in the gardens, banquets filling the halls.
The real palace was quiet.
The corridors were long. Through the roof tiles she could see the sky, and it struck her as strange that it was the same sky she had seen from the mountain estate. The same sky, the same wind moving beneath it. And yet the wind that had met her on the mountain and the wind that threaded through the roof tiles here were different temperatures entirely.
Looking up at that sky, Cheongya felt something press against her chest.
On the second day, she left the bridal chamber.
She had no particular destination. She walked simply because sitting still made the walls feel like they were closing in. A court lady called after her—"Your Highness, where are you—"—but Cheongya only waved a hand. She had walked like this at the mountain estate too. When things felt heavy, she walked, and walking helped. She didn't see why a palace should be any different.
It was different.
On the mountain, she could go anywhere. If there was no path, she made one; if something blocked her way, she went around. The palace had paths, but far more places she was not allowed to go. After hearing "you cannot go that way" three times, Cheongya felt irritation beginning to rise.
On the third day, she lost her lady's maid entirely.
It was easier than slipping past the servants' eyes to sneak out of the mountain estate as a child. She chose the places where the eaves hung low, ducked her head, and walked toward the quieter parts of the grounds. By the time she reached the far edge of the palace, the path ended.
Or rather—it didn't end. The path was there; it was simply that no one used it.
Nameless weeds crowded the gaps between the stones, and vines trailed down over the top of the wall. A few footprints were pressed into the grass here and there. Sparse.
"There's a place like this inside the palace."
Cheongya's feet didn't slow. They quickened. She had always wanted to go where she was told not to.
The wall wasn't high. Tiles had fallen away in places, and tree roots had pushed up between the stones, making natural footholds. Cheongya gathered her skirt and climbed. Easier than the boulders on the mountain behind the estate.
From the top of the wall, she could see inside. A large house with worn roof tiles. A flower garden breathing out a sweet fragrance. A blue lake shattering the sunlight. A small pavilion. And beneath the eaves—
Two people.
Inside Suyeong Palace, beneath the eaves overlooking the lake, two people sat together.
Each time the wind moved, the paper cranes and butterflies hanging from the eaves knocked against each other with a soft, whispering rustle. Ihwa had made them. When the cranes' wings caught the breeze, small shadows swayed and shifted beneath them.
Cheonghyeon was watching Ihwa's hands.
A brush moved across white paper. It looked like an orchid—the leaves so fine that when the wind blew, it seemed as though the painted leaves might tremble too. Ihwa never spoke while drawing. He was a quiet person to begin with, but when he held a brush, even his breathing went still.
"…The wedding went all right?"
Ihwa spoke first. His gaze stayed on the tip of the brush.
"Yes."
"I'm glad."
There was something long between those two words. Cheonghyeon knew it, and Ihwa knew it. But neither of them reached for it. It had always been this way. Ihwa never asked, and Cheonghyeon could never bring himself to speak first.
"What is she like? The queen?"
Ihwa asked without lifting the brush.
Cheonghyeon didn't answer.
The brush stopped. Ihwa turned and looked at him. Those blue-and-red eyes read Cheonghyeon's face for a long, quiet beat.
Cheonghyeon said nothing. He looked out at the lake instead.
Ihwa raised the brush again. He drew the last leaf of the orchid and set the brush down.
"I hope she's a good person."
His voice was even. He was smiling, as he always was—the kind of smile that put people at ease. Every time Cheonghyeon saw that smile, something tightened deep in his throat.
"…Yeah."
As Cheonghyeon said it, his gaze drifted somewhere far away.
*Fifteen days before the wedding ceremony*
Wolha Hall. Cheonghyeon sat on the throne. Documents detailing the wedding procedures were stacked before him, spaces left blank where the royal seal had yet to be pressed. The secretary presented the third document. Cheonghyeon did not pick up the brush.
"Your Majesty, the date of the ceremony must now be—"
"Leave."
The secretary withdrew. The door closed. Cheonghyeon pushed the documents aside. Ink bled across the wedding robe design.
Marriage would join their powers. The kingdom would be stabilized. It was a king's duty. He knew all of this.
But marriage—marriage was confirming Ihwa's death with his own hands. Ihwa, born male, had never once been given the chance to enter the Selection. And so to go through the ceremony under his own name, to press that seal himself—
The brush rolled across the desk. Ink soaked into his sleeve.
The shaman came to Suyeong Palace the following day.
Ihwa was lying in the middle of the flower garden. Sunlight filtered down through the danflowers, and if he closed his eyes, it felt less like the familiar palace and more like lying in an open field somewhere wide and far away.
Unfamiliar footsteps approached. Ihwa opened his eyes.
An old woman stood over him. A curved back, deeply carved wrinkles—but her eyes were sharp. Eyes that held the weight of countless years. Ihwa knew those eyes. Once, long ago, when he was small. The eyes that had told him everything, without warmth.
The one who maintained the wards of Suyeong Palace. The one who kept him bound here.
"It's been a while."
Ihwa sat up. Grass clung to his clothes. He didn't brush it off.
"His Majesty must soon hold the wedding ceremony."
"…Yes."
"And yet His Majesty is refusing."
Ihwa said nothing. He already knew. Cheonghyeon had not pressed the royal seal on the documents.
The shaman crouched down in front of him. An old hand reached out and picked up the paper crane resting on his knee.
"You will persuade him."
Ihwa looked up.
"His Majesty listens to you. If you tell him you are all right with it, he will accept it."
She set the paper crane back on his knee. One wing bent flat under her hand.
"No one else can do this. Only you."
The shaman rose. She turned her back. Her footsteps faded. Ihwa looked down at the paper crane on his knee. He pressed his fingertip to the bent wing and tried to straighten it. It didn't go back to the way it had been.
That evening, the shaman came to Wolha Hall.
Cheonghyeon was attending to his duties. Or pretending to. When the door opened and the old woman with the curved back walked in, something shifted in his eyes.
"Get out."
The shaman did not leave. She crossed the floor in slow steps until she stood before the throne.
"You must hold the wedding ceremony."
"You dare give me orders."
"It is a plea, Your Majesty."
Cheonghyeon said nothing. The shaman continued.
"If Your Majesty refuses the marriage, the royal house will weaken and the kingdom will falter. And—"
She paused. The silence was deliberate.
"The child in Suyeong Palace will not be comfortable either."
Cheonghyeon's hand went still.
"If the court's eyes turn toward Suyeong Palace—that child will not be at ease."
The shaman's voice was low and quiet. But what it carried was unmistakably a threat. The one who had imprisoned Ihwa was now holding Ihwa as a shield.
Cheonghyeon rose from the throne. Slowly. He descended from the dais.
The shaman did not step back. Someone who had endured for countless years did not flinch at a king's anger.
A sound cut through the hall.
The sound of a blade parting flesh. The sound of steel grazing bone. The shaman's body lurched. Something red spread across the floor. An immortal body did not fall from that alone. But everything below her right ankle was gone.
"You are the one who imprisoned Ihwa, and you are the one who invokes his name."
Cheonghyeon's voice rang through the hall.
The shaman pressed one hand to the floor. Blood ran from the severed place, but those sharp eyes did not change.
"If this eases Your Majesty's anger, then do as you will. But. You must not refuse the wedding ceremony."
The light in Cheonghyeon's eyes went cold and flat. His pale blue gaze filled with something like revulsion.
"…Hyowon. Have this person taken to the prison."
Hyowon entered. He took in the blood on the floor, the shaman collapsed there, the sword in Cheonghyeon's hand. He asked nothing. He took the shaman by the arm, hauled her upright, and led her out.
The door closed.
Cheonghyeon set down the sword. Blood was on his hands. The blood of the one who had imprisoned Ihwa. His own hands, which could not protect Ihwa. Hands that, in the end, could protect nothing.
He arrived at Suyeong Palace in the night.
Ihwa was sitting in the pavilion, folding paper. In the moonlight, his slender fingers moved across the white paper. He looked up at the sound of Cheonghyeon's footsteps.
"You came."
His voice was the same as always. Cheonghyeon couldn't answer. He tucked his hands inside his sleeves. The feeling of blood had not yet dried.
Ihwa looked at Cheonghyeon's face. He looked for a long time. Then he set down the paper.
"Cheonghyeon."
"Something happened."
Cheonghyeon's eyes wavered.
Ihwa rose from his seat. Slowly. His body swayed, but he didn't stop. He walked to Cheonghyeon and reached out. Thin fingers touched Cheonghyeon's cheek. Cold. His hands were always cold.
"You know what—I want you both to be happy."
Cheonghyeon's breath caught.
"I want to see you hold the wedding ceremony. I want to see a child born."
The hand moved across his cheek. Slowly. As though trying to memorize something.
"It's my wish… are you really going to say no?"
Cheonghyeon couldn't speak. Ihwa's hand rested against his cheek. Cold, dry, weightless. He could not pull away from this hand. He could not refuse this person's wish.
He closed his eyes.
He lifted his own hand and placed it over Ihwa's.
It was trembling.
"You're really too much, you know that."
Ihwa laughed quietly.
"Though I don't think I actually said the words *get married.*"
Cheonghyeon let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"You already did."
"—Cheonghyeon."
His name pulled him back from wherever his thoughts had gone. Ihwa was waving a hand in front of his face.
"…Sorry. I'm a little tired."
Ihwa's mismatched eyes studied him steadily.
Cheonghyeon smiled, though it came out crooked. He could never lie to that face. Could never refuse it.
"Really. The wedding, the court business—I've just been tired."
"—a place like this."
An unfamiliar voice. Both Cheonghyeon and Ihwa turned toward the wall.
A woman with blue-green hair was perched on top of it.
She had hiked her long skirt up without a trace of decorum and was straddling the wall. Cheonghyeon stared at her for a moment, then quickly pulled Ihwa against him.
"Leave."
The cold words rang through the still palace grounds.
Cheongya made a face. *What is wrong with this man.* She shifted her weight to find a better position on the wall—and her skirt caught on a jutting roof tile.
Her balance broke.
"…Huh?"
The world spun. When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at the sky.
Her back and everything below it hurt terribly.
"…Ow."
She sat up and shook out her skirt. Two pairs of shoes stood in front of her. She looked up.
Her husband was staring down at her with an expression of pure disbelief. Beside him stood someone with hair so pale it was nearly white, the faintest shade of sky blue. Blue-and-red eyes looked back at her.
That person extended a hand.
"Are you all right?"
"…You're beautiful."
Cheongya had been murmuring it in a daze before she caught herself and clapped both hands over her mouth.
Ihwa blinked in surprise—then broke into a soft, helpless laugh.
It was a meeting that was never meant to happen.