Chapter Text
14 days
14 days since he has seen Jaekyung or any human OR any living being for that matter.
14 days of silence and dark
14 days 1 meal and 1 cup of water a day
14 days of numbness, no sense of time, or anything.
14 days spent in the place he rarely visited, is now his humble abode.
Is this how he is going to die…he should be grateful that happens. But Jaekyung had taken away that privilege. He clearly remembers his promise.
“Move your feet, princeling. Or do you think the chains make you special?" The guard's boot nudged the prisoner's ankle, hard enough to bruise. The man in irons didn't flinch, just lifted his head slowly. His hair, matted with stale sweat and dirt, clung to his neck like a second set of shackles.
After days of nothingness, the gates suddenly opened and men came, shacked and are now taking him or more like kicking him to god knows where.
The prince's cracked lips split into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Special? No. Just wondering if your mother still screams when she sees what crawled out between her legs." The guard's face darkened, hand twitching toward his whip, but a sharp cough from the corridor stopped him mid-motion.
Dust motes swirled in the single shaft of light cutting through the barred window high above, illuminating the prince's bare feet—once soft, now crusted with old blood and fresh blisters. He flexed his toes against the stone floor, feeling the cold seep into his bones. Somewhere beyond these walls, trumpets blared
The guard spat at his feet. "Hear that? That's our Prince being crowned where you should've been." A fly landed on the prince's shoulder, tasting salt. He let it crawl toward his neck, focusing on the tickling legs instead of the hollow ache spreading beneath his ribs.
From the shadows, another prisoner, one of his own courtman rattled his chains—a sound like laughter. "Careful," came a voice like gravel. "They always break the pretty ones first." The prince tilted his head, studying the man's missing fingers. He'd seen worse in his father's dungeon. Far worse.
The trumpets outside swelled into a triumphant fanfare, shaking loose mortar from the ceiling. The prince inhaled sharply as a fine powder settled on his tongue—bitter, like the dregs of betrayal. He wondered if Jaekyung's ceremonial robes would smell of the lavender sachets their tailor used to tuck in the royal clothes as a tradition. The thought was a knife-twist.
A key scraped in the lock. The guard stiffened as a silk-clad figure stepped into the cell, their embroidered slippers pristine against the filth. "Leave us," said a woman's voice, smooth as poisoned honey. The prince's pulse jumped—he knew that perfume. Jasmine and nightshade. His friend.. ex-friend….once his betrothed never visited without purpose.
She crouched before him, her golden hairpins catching the light like a warning. "Still breathing," she murmured, tilting his chin up with one jeweled finger. Her nails dug in just enough to promise tomorrow's bruises. "Good. The people need to see what becomes of their bright prince." The prince exhaled through his nose, catching the metallic tang of fresh ink beneath her scent. Ah. She'd already signed the orders.
Outside, the crowd roared Jaekyung's name. A muscle twitched in the prince's jaw. Yoongu smiled, tracing it with her thumb. "Listen to them. They'd tear you apart with their teeth if Jaekyung allowed it." Her breath warmed his ear as she whispered, "I almost pity you. All those years playing the perfect heir... wasted."
Another fly crawled into his collar. He focused on its wings brushing his skin instead of the bile rising in his throat. "Come to gloat before the headsman does?" His voice rasped like rope on stone. She laughed, the sound bouncing off the damp walls like a dropped coin.
They dragged him through the palace by his chains—past the gilded mirrors where he'd once adjusted his ceremonial robes, now cracked and smeared with bloody fingerprints. His bare feet left dark streaks on the marble. The crowd's jeers hit like thrown rocks. Someone spat. The gob landed warm on his cheekbone. He kept his chin up. Let them see their golden prince broken. Let them remember who built these fucking statues.
The throne loomed ahead, wrapped in banners bearing Jaekyung's new crest—a serpent swallowing its own tail. The Man sat draped in his grandfather's ermine cloak, its edges still stiff with old bloodstains. Their eyes met. Jaekyung's fingers twitched on the armrest. The prince bared his teeth in something too jagged to be a smile.
Yongu’s nails bit into his shoulder as trumpets blared. "Kneel," she hissed. The guards kicked his legs out from under him. His kneecaps hit stone with a wet crack. The crowd roared. Somewhere, a child laughed. The prince closed his eyes and tasted iron. He'd make them choke on it.
Jaekyung's new crown caught the midday sun, sending spears of light across the hall. It looked heavy. The prince wondered if this brute could feel the weight of his ancestors' skulls welded beneath the gold. Yongu pinched his earlobe, twisting until cartilage tore. "Open your eyes," she sang. The wound wept down his neck like molten wax.
The usurper's first decree slithered from his lips—something about clemency, about mercy. The prince snorted. Jaekyung's jaw tightened. All he smelled now was the reek of fresh paint and the guard's stale breath behind him. He spat. The glob landed at the base of the throne, quivering like a dying thing.
A murmur rippled through the nobles as Jaekyung rose. His ermine cloak whispered secrets against the marble steps. When he crouched, the dagger at his belt pressed cold against the prince's jugular. "Sweet princeling," he sighed, thumbing away the spit. His touch lingered, sticky with perfumed oil. "Did they teach you nothing about kneeling?"
The prince's breath hitched as Jaekyung's fingers slid under his chin—not to lift, but to twist. Cartilage popped. The crowd's gasp tasted sweeter than the blood flooding his mouth. Through watering eyes, he saw Yongu's smile sharpen. Her golden hairpin gleamed like a guillotine's edge.
"Kim Dan will crown me," Jaekyung announced, rising abruptly and the throne room's murmurs curdled into silence.
Kim Dan. The name slithered through the prince's ribs like a shiv. His father's last loyal general, the man who'd taught him swordplay, who'd tucked lavender sachets into his armor before battles—now stepping from the shadows with a crown balanced on velvet. The general's ceremonial scars gleamed wet in the torchlight, but his eyes were dry as the executioner's block.