Chapter Text
The West wind didn't blow — it gnawed.
It howled between the gray stone towers of Rigor Montis, the most renowned boarding school in the country. It wasn't merely a place of learning; it was a fortress of ambition and exile, where the children of Kings and Lords were sent to be polished, broken, or simply forgotten.
Lee Minho felt the roughness of the granite through the soles of his new boots. Every step was a calculation, every breath an act of will. He kept his posture straight, his right hand firmly resting on his cane, his left closed at his side.
Sounds were his landscape: the distant echo of swords in the training yard, the movement of servants or students in the hallway, the heavy creaking of oak doors. He mapped it, reviewed every detail in his mind. Every curve or staircase previously studied. He needed to memorize, since he had chosen to go there without the company of servants. What at first seemed like an act of courage now felt like foolishness.
"The room in the South wing, for Lord Lee," announced some attendant tasked with leading new students to their quarters, whom he promptly dismissed.
The room was warm, but less so than the hallway. It smelled of beeswax and slight mustiness, the standard perfume of forced antiquity. But there was something else, something he couldn't yet distinguish.
He took a few precise steps, his cane lightly touching the furniture. A bed. A desk. A wardrobe. A window — the breeze coming from it brushed against his face. And then, he found something like a box on the floor. A suitcase. Not his, which was perfectly positioned beside the bed.
Before he could process it, a voice burst into the room, as abrupt and carefree as a wave crashing on the shore.
"Ah, great! I think you're my roommate! I'm Han Jisung, from the South."
Minho froze. The voice came from the other side of the room. It was young, laced with a singsong accent he had rarely heard before. It was... invasive.
"Hope you don't mind, I arrived a bit earlier and already unpacked my things," the voice continued, approaching. Minho heard light footsteps across the room. "And from the colors you're wearing, you must be a Lord from the East, right?"
Minho didn't turn. He kept his face toward the window, as if he could see the semi-arid landscape outside. He knew the boy's name. Someone of his position knew the names of royalty by heart. Jisung was a prince, just like him.
"I'm not just a Lord, I'm the heir to the throne, Lee Minho. I was told the room was private." His own voice came out colder than the stones of the Eastern dungeons.
"Well, seems like they were mistaken, Your Highness." Jisung laughed, a carefree sound that seemed to desecrate the solemn quiet of the place.
Minho heard the boy moving around the room, the agitated energy of the second in line to the Southern throne filling every inch of the space.
"Things around here are a bit depressing, don't you think, Lord Lee? Everything is so gray! I brought some stuff to liven it up a bit — my harmonica, shells to remind me of home, some herbs in particular that might take you to the stars!"
Minho then recognized the smell of the sea. The scent was salty, but also fresh, and there was something sweet, like tropical fruits. It was Jisung's scent, a violent contrast to the arid environment. Strong, yet still fresh for an alpha.
"I'd rather not experiment with things of uncertain origin," he replied stiffly, sitting on the bed.
"Your choice," Jisung answered, not seeming offended. Minho heard the sound of fabric being unrolled. "I'm just going to hang this here on my side of the wall — it's my kingdom's flag. There's a big golden sun in the middle, you know? To remind me where I came from. Don't you think it'll brighten up the place?"
The Prince of the East didn't answer. He himself had no desire to remember where he came from. He slowly lifted his head, facing Jisung's direction. His blindness wasn't a weakness — it was a fact, and he refused to allow it to be met with pity.
"Didn't they inform you?" Minho asked, his voice a thread of steel.
"Inform me of what?"
"That I'm blind."
There was a brief pause. Minho could almost feel the other boy's curiosity.
"Oh right, there's that," Jisung said vaguely, as if it were no big deal.
"If you know, spare me the questions about what I think of colors or how light or dark it is!"
Instead of retreating, Minho heard the boy stand up and approach.
"So you see in other ways. Through sounds, through smells, through touch?"
He paused, and Minho felt a very light breeze, as if the other's hand had approached his face — making him flinch away quickly.
Jisung laughed.
"Wow! That's actually pretty interesting! It's like you have superpowers! Something magical, I'd say. You're not a wizard, are you? By the seas, I'm not the bravest person I know!"
Minho was speechless. Interesting? Superpower? He was used to disdain, to pity, or to forced admiration. Never to that.
Perhaps because in the East, no one saw him that way, he thought bitterly. There, his blindness was a flaw to be compensated for, a debt that accrued interest since birth. His parents, the Kings, had looked at their firstborn who couldn't see and immediately produced Hyunjin — a second son, beautiful, healthy... but an omega. And when they couldn't have more children, King Jaebeom had to swallow his pride and accept: the heir would be the blind son. King Jinyoung, in turn, had arranged with his longtime friend the betrothal of their youngest to the future heir of the North. Hyunjin would be security, placed on a golden platter for a good match. Not that Hyunjin minded — he wanted that. He wanted San. He wanted to be far from the older voices of the Eastern Lords who surrounded him like vultures.
So no, Minho wasn't used to being called interesting. He was used to being a problem.
"It's a disability, not a talent!" he retorted, setting his cane aside and lying down.
"Actually, everything is a matter of perspective," he heard the Southerner say, his voice now a bit softer. "My father always said the sea is dangerous for those who can't swim, but it's the road home for those who know how to navigate."
Minho turned toward where he imagined the wall to be. He didn't want cheap philosophies from a disheveled maritime prince. He wanted solitude, order, and silence to fulfill his duty in that place.
But when Jisung began to softly whistle a strange, rhythmic melody — what seemed like a sailor's song — Minho realized, with a chill down his spine, that the silence was over.
...
More than a month had passed since they began sharing a room, and every day was a cold war. Jisung would throw the windows open to let the muggy air in; Minho would close them. Jisung would leave his clothes scattered across the floor; Minho would stack them on top of the trunk. They existed in parallel in that room, two planets in the same orbit, never quite colliding.
From the things he overheard here and there, Minho knew the Southerner kept getting into trouble. Fights in the courtyard. Sharp words in the dining hall. Insults hurled his way that he never seemed to return. That was the part Minho didn't understand. Jisung possessed a peace that got under Minho's skin, an infuriating refusal to fight back. If he was as good in hand-to-hand combat as they said, why didn't he return the attacks he suffered?
Not to mention his understanding, or lack thereof, of his own kingdom's politics. Didn't he realize that if Bang Chan continued as he was, an invasion of the South was imminent? And then who would take the throne? The fact that everyone was against his brother's reign didn't mean they were against him. Didn't Jisung see that? Didn't he understand that a few well-placed moves could earn respect, could shift the balance of the board?
But Jisung just took it. Smiled. Moved on.
The blind young man told himself he didn't care. Jisung's problems were his own. The South's politics were none of his concern.
Then the Southerner entered the room. If Minho thought he had trouble making friends, at least he went unnoticed. Jisung, on the other hand, collected enemies like others collected stamps. He was seen by everyone. Talked about by everyone. A walking target, probably wearing shades of yellow.
The footsteps that usually echoed with bouncing energy through the stone hallway today dragged. The scent of sea that always surrounded him was covered by the damp mud of the courtyard. The young man had fallen. Or been pushed.
"Is the West grass particularly treacherous, Lord Han?" Minho's question came out more acidic than he intended, but he couldn't help it. His days with Jisung ignited his sarcastic side. A wonderfully new side.
Jisung let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Something like that. Though I believe more treacherous are the lords who tread on it."
Minho paused. He didn't care about the other students' intrigues. They were background noise, irrelevant. But something in Jisung's voice made his analytical mind turn to the problem.
"The South didn't make many friends in the last war," he observed in a neutral tone. "A certain… coldness was to be expected."
"Coldness I understand," Jisung replied, and Minho heard the sound of his boots being thrown into the corner. "What I don't understand is their obsession with my brother."
Minho slowly turned his head toward the direction of the voice.
"Bang Chan?"
"They call him mad. Whisper that the Southern throne is withering." Jisung's voice broke, not with sadness, but with anger. "He's good! He just… he just carries the weight of the world since our parents died."
It was the first time Jisung had spoken of his family. Minho remained silent, allowing the confession to hang in the air. He knew the same gossip. The new King of the South was becoming unpredictable, and unpredictable kingdoms were dangerous. But hearing Jisung's fervent defense painted the rumor in a different color, more human.
"And your other brothers?" Minho asked, before he could contain his curiosity.
The shift in the atmosphere was instant. The tone of anger gave way to something soft, almost tender.
"Felix, the youngest, is a golden earthquake. He never stops, wants to follow me everywhere. And Woo…" Jisung's voice softened so much that Minho had to lean forward to hear. "Wooyoung is different. He's an omega. The only one among us."
Minho already knew this too. The existence of an omega prince was always political information.
"He's curious as a sparrow and smarter than all of us combined," Jisung continued, and Minho could hear the smile in his voice and an animated movement from him. "I'm setting aside books to take to him during break. Things about herbs and history that he loves. He devours knowledge!"
There was a pause, and when Jisung spoke again, his voice was lower, darker.
"Chan… he looks at Woo in a way he shouldn't. In the South, they've allowed such things before. Marriages between siblings to 'purify the bloodline.'" He spat the words as if they were poison. "That's why I'm here. To make alliances. To find a good partner for Wooyoung, far from there. Someone worthy enough for Chan to grant his hand."
The silence that followed was different from all the others. It wasn't empty. It was charged with the rawest, most vulnerable truth. The young man felt a knot of revulsion and unexpected understanding form in his stomach. He had spent his entire life fighting against the perception of weakness due to his blindness. But the threat Jisung described was of an entirely different nature, a domestic and insidious danger that he, a prince, had never had to protect himself from. He remembered his own brother, Hyunjin.
Hyunjin couldn't be more different from the omega Jisung mentioned. His younger brother didn't care about knowledge; he cared about being perfect. In a few years, with the war ended, he could finally marry San, and Minho could guarantee there was nothing his brother desired more.
Still, despite living solely to shine at the center of the court, Hyunjin was the one who seemed to best understand and love Minho. He already missed the youngest's frivolities.
Minho didn't say "I'm sorry." He offered no comfort. Such words would be useless and insulting.
Instead, he rose from the desk and walked slowly to his own bed. Beneath the mattress, he kept a tactile map of the boarding school he had made himself, with different textures for each hallway and room. He had spent nights mapping every inch of Rigor Montis before even setting foot there, because in the dark, knowledge was the only sword he could wield.
He unrolled it on the bed, feeling the familiar textures beneath his fingers. Every corridor, every staircase, every room.
"Come here," his voice came out rough, but not hostile.
Jisung seemed taken by surprise before decisively approaching. Minho heard his breath change as his eyes probably found the map.
"What is that?" The curiosity in his voice was genuine. "It looks like… a patchwork map?"
"It's a map," Minho replied, dry. "For those who can't see with their eyes, here touch is vision."
There was a pause. Then the sound of movement. Jisung leaning in, his fingers probably hovering over the fabric without daring to touch.
"Wow! You made this? This is incredible!" Jisung spoke loudly like a child with a new toy. "I mean… I can only imagine all the work you had to make something so detailed! You really are as smart as they say!"
Minho felt an uncomfortable warmth creep up the back of his neck. He wasn't used to being seen, much less admired like this.
"A servant helped me," he said quickly, pointing to the area with the linen texture. "Now pay attention! The dining hall, the East lords always sit in the south corner, near the fireplaces. They're the loudest and the ones who drink the most."
He moved his finger.
"The West sits in the center. They're easier to handle if you appeal to their pride. Jeong Jaehyun, in particular. He's vain, but he has an unshakable code of honor. West and South are old allies, as you must know. But the West is fickle, they change sides depending on the wind, much like their king. If you're going to offer an alliance, make sure the wind is blowing in the South's favor first."
"You really think of everything?" Jisung asked finally. "How do you keep all of this in your head?"
"Practice," Minho replied. "Necessity."
"Teach me?"
The question caught Minho off guard.
"To make maps? It's a meticulous process. It takes time and—"
"No!" Jisung interrupted, and there was a smile in his voice. "Teach me to read it your way."
Before Minho could process it, he heard the rustle of clothes. Jisung sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. Then silence. And then:
"Done."
"Done what?"
"I closed my eyes."
Minho blinked. A useless gesture for him, but the surprise was real.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to understand!" Jisung's voice rose from the floor, closer now. "You said touch is vision for those who can't see. So I won't see either. Show me. Be my guide!"
Minho was silent for a long moment. The Southerner's audacity was, as always, disconcerting. But there was something else there, a genuine willingness to enter his world, to understand, to adapt. It wasn't pity. It was curiosity.
"It's foolish," he said, but his voice came out softer than intended. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," Jisung replied, seeming excited. "But I want to."
The silence stretched. Minho listened to Jisung's calm breathing, felt his presence there on the floor, eyes closed, waiting. Trusting.
Slowly, Minho reached out his hand. His fingers found empty air for a moment, then Jisung's hair. Soft, in disheveled waves. He recoiled as if he'd touched fire, readjusted his angle, and finally his hand came to rest over Jisung's.
"Here," he said, pulling the other's hand onto the map. "Feel this?"
Jisung inhaled.
"It's rough. Like… linen?"
"Yes. It's the dining hall. Now come."
Minho guided Jisung's fingers over the fabric, slowly. He felt the warmth of the other's hand beneath his, skin hotter than his own, and tried to ignore the discomfort. Not of revulsion, but of an intimacy he wasn't prepared for.
"This coarse wool texture is the North dormitories. They're on the west side of the main courtyard. Avoid after nightfall. They hold informal fights, and we know you're not their favorite person."
Jisung laughed as if in agreement, but continued to let himself be guided obediently.
"And this one?" he asked, touching an area Minho hadn't indicated.
"Silk. It's the library. It's quiet, safe. If you need to hide, go there. The librarian is deaf and doesn't mind students out of hours."
Jisung laughed softly, but didn't open his eyes.
For a moment, they stayed like that — Minho guiding Jisung's hand over the map, explaining each texture, each territory, each danger. Jisung's hand trembled slightly, as if Minho were showing him a new world, as foreign as the sea would be to him.
When they finished, Jisung didn't open his eyes immediately.
"Is this how you see?" he asked, his voice low. "Everything becomes texture. Temperature. Sound?"
"Yes."
"It must be exhausting. Always being aware of everything."
Minho didn't answer. No one had ever asked that. No one had ever considered it.
Jisung finally opened his eyes. Minho heard the movement of eyelids, the subtle shift in breathing.
"Thank you, Lino," he said, and there was something in his voice Minho couldn't identify. "For showing me your treasure."
"Lino?"
"Yes, the nickname I gave you."
"Since when?"
"Since the first time you told me your name. I just hadn't had a chance to use it yet. You seemed not to like me."
"And who said I do like you?"
Jisung smiled.
"I know you do. We're friends now!"
Minho thought about protesting. After all, he was a lord and his name should be taken seriously. But for the first time, the sound of his name in Jisung's mouth — even if it wasn't his actual name, but an intimate, shortened version — didn't sound like an invasion. It sounded like a pact. Perhaps he was glad to have Han as a friend.
Happiness that lasted a short while, given that the Prince of the South was a sea of unpredictability. He heard Jisung get up from the floor, his knees cracking.
"But there's something you didn't map."
"What?"
"The surroundings of the fortress."
"I'm not interested in the surroundings. Besides, we can't leave here."
"Actually, we can. We just shouldn't," Han said, seeming amused. "Let's take a walk."
"What?"
"That's what you heard. Let's go! You showed me on the map, but I want to feel it for real. With you."
Minho opened his mouth to refuse. He had rules. He had schedules. He had a reputation to maintain.
"No."
The word came out dry, definitive. He waited for the protest, the argument, Jisung's insistent way of never taking no for an answer.
But the silence that came was different. Jisung said nothing. Minho heard his breathing, calm, patient, and for a moment thought the matter was settled.
Then Jisung spoke, in an almost casual tone:
"Fine. If you don't come, I'll scream."
Minho froze.
"What?"
"Scream," Jisung repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Right there in the hallway. Something really loud, really scandalous. I'll wake up the whole school. They'll think someone died. Or that a real ghost finally appeared in these old walls."
"You wouldn't do that."
"Wanna bet?"
The silence was different now. Minho could feel the tension in the air — not of anger, but of an absurdly childish challenge. And the worst part was that he knew. He knew, with absolute and terrifying certainty, that Jisung would do it. He was impulsive enough. Chaotic enough. And somehow, stubborn enough to think a nighttime scandal was worth it if it meant getting Minho out of the room.
"You're the most annoying person I've ever met!" Minho said, but he was already getting up, reaching for his cane.
"I know, I know," Jisung replied, his voice dancing. "Now let's go!"
...
The corridors of Rigor Montis at night were a different creature. Minho hated not having mapped that path. He hated depending on the hand Jisung had extended to guide him. He hated spending so much time touching another person's hand.
But above all, he hated that Jisung had convinced him.
"How much longer?" Minho asked, his voice a rough whisper.
"Patience, Your Highness. Patience is a virtue."
"Patience is for those who have time. I have a bed waiting."
Jisung laughed softly, and the sound echoed gently against the stone walls. His hand squeezed Minho's more firmly.
"Almost there. I promise it's worth it."
Minho wanted to argue. He wanted to say he didn't trust the promises of a chaotic Southerner who collected enemies like others collected stamps. But the truth was, after a month of sharing a room, after that night of confessions and maps and hands guiding fingers over textures, he no longer knew what was true or false when it came to his impressions of Jisung.
He only knew he was there. Following. Trusting.
The journey through the corridors was different. With Jisung by his side, whispering directions "three steps ahead, the stone is chipped in the middle" the path seemed less hostile. Jisung's hand never let go of his.
Then, they passed through the large iron gates to the outer courtyard.
The air changed instantly. It became vast and open, charged with the humidity that announced vegetation, even if sparse. The wind, which before only howled against the towers, now brought nuances: the smell of running water over rocks, the distant mud of the resilient trees that lined the banks.
"We're on the bridge," Jisung announced, stopping. His arm pressed lightly against Minho's, a brief, guiding touch. "The river runs below. Listen."
Minho stopped.
And then, he heard it.
It wasn't the howling of the wind or the creaking of stone. It was a living sound, constant and musical. Water hitting rocks, flowing with purpose. It was chaotic and ordered at the same time. It frightened him as much as it enchanted him.
"It's... noisy," Minho commented, but his voice didn't carry its usual criticism.
"It's free!" Jisung corrected, his Southern accent singing softly over the word. "It comes from the mountains and goes to the sea, no matter who tries to block it or divert it. It just flows."
Minho thought of Jisung. Of how he also flowed, despite the pushes, the falls, the insults. Of how he refused to harden.
"Much further?" he asked, surprised that he didn't want the walk to end.
"No. We're almost there."
They crossed the bridge and followed a narrow downward path. Minho felt the grass change beneath his feet, taller now, wilder. The smell of fresh water grew stronger with each step.
"Here," Jisung finally said, and his voice was different. Softer. Almost reverent.
Minho felt the space open before him. The air was cooler, but not cold. It was that good freshness that comes from water, that announces relief. He heard the soft sound of crickets and other insects. The East had rivers and waterfalls; he just never visited them.
"It's a lake," Jisung explained, and Minho could hear the smile in his voice. "Hidden behind the trees. Almost no one comes here. The water should be warm from the hot day."
Minho processed the information. A lake. Unplanned. Unmapped. Unsafe.
"I don't know this terrain," he warned, his voice tenser than he would have liked.
"I know. That's why we're here!"
The answer was simple. Direct. And somehow, it disarmed all the arguments Minho had been preparing.
"What's it like?" he asked, surprising himself.
Jisung took a moment to respond, as if choosing his words carefully.
"It's round, more or less. Surrounded by old trees, the branches almost touch the water. The moon is reflecting in the center, creating a silver path to the shore. And the water... the water is so still it looks like glass."
Minho listened. He saw with his ears, with his skin, with his imagination.
"The grass where you're standing is soft," Jisung continued. "But at the edge, there are smooth stones. Perfect for sitting. Or for going in."
"Going in?"
"Into the lake, Lino. What did you think I brought you here for?"
Minho felt the heat rise to his face.
"I'm not going to—"
"I'll go first," Jisung interrupted, and Minho heard the sound of his footsteps moving away. "I'll go halfway. Then I'll come back and get you, okay?"
Before Minho could protest, he heard the sound of water moving. Jisung entering without fear, as always. As if the world were made to be lived like this, in plunges.
"You have to try this! The water is perfect!" Jisung's voice came with the sound of water being stirred, small droplets hitting Minho's skin. "It's warm, just like I said, and shallow up to here. You can sit in the water, but it's better to stand further in. Come on."
Minho hesitated. But he felt wet fingers touch his, and before he could think, his feet found the edge, the smooth stones Jisung had described. The water lapped at his boots, cool and inviting.
"I don't know..."
"Lino." Jisung's voice was closer now. He must have come back. "I'll be right here. I'll hold your hand until you get used to it. Then you can let go. Or not. You choose."
The offer was simple. Practical. No pressure.
Minho extended his foot, found the warm water, and descended slowly. The bottom was soft mud or fine sand, he couldn't tell. The water rose up his legs, waist, chest. When he stopped, the water was at waist height. His breathing was now slow and slightly nervous.
"I'm here," Jisung said more softly, tightening his grip on Minho's hands.
They stayed like that for a moment, hands intertwined in the warm water, the invisible moon above their heads, the soft sound of the lake around them.
Minho felt the stiffness in his shoulders — the ever-present armor — begin to dissolve.
"You can let go," he said finally.
"Can I?"
"You can."
Jisung released his fingers. But he stayed close. Minho felt his presence in the water, in the warmth he radiated, in his calm breathing.
They were silent for a long time. Just the lake. The moon. The warm night. Minho couldn't resist turning his face upward.
Then Jisung spoke, his voice strangely rough:
"Lino."
"Mm?"
"The moon is lighting up your face right now."
Minho didn't respond. But he didn't look away.
"I can see every line," Jisung continued, quieter. "Every shadow. You look..."
"Look like what?"
Jisung took a moment to answer. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
"Like someone I want to show the whole world."
Minho felt the heat rise to his face. He begged the Gods, if they existed, that it wasn't visible.
He couldn't see, but he could feel. He felt it even more when Jisung's hand found his again beneath the water, and this time it didn't ask for permission. It just held.
Minho didn't pull away.
---
Minho didn't know, of course, that Jisung — who had seen so many moons, who had traveled to so many places and witnessed the sun set over seas of different shades of blue — was now completely hypnotized.
His attention was no longer on the lake or the moon's reflection.
It was on the silvery light that bathed Minho's face. It illuminated the decided line of his jaw, the serene curve of his slightly parted lips, the temporary peace that softened his usually furrowed brow. Minho's eyes, empty to the world, were turned upward, toward the moon he couldn't see, and yet they seemed to hold all the stars.
Jisung had never been to the East, the land famous for its diamond mines. But in that moment, looking at that quiet, strong young man who faced the world in a way different from everyone else, he had no doubts.
Minho did full and complete justice to the fame of his homeland. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, the brightest thing Jisung had ever seen.
Brighter than any diamond.
And in that moment, Jisung felt that his destiny had been redrawn. He didn't know how, he didn't know why or where it would lead, but something fundamental in the line of his life had been forever altered.