Chapter Text
The rough, unwashed wool of a tunic three sizes too big chafed against Jisung’s collarbones as he worked. He dipped his brush back into the bucket, muscle memory guiding his arms to scrub a section of the west wing ballroom floor that was already spotless. It was a cruel joke. This room hadn’t been used since the night he was born, yet he spent hours polishing it while wearing garments that should have been turned into rags years ago.
Every ache in his spine reminded him of his place. He was a prince by blood, a servant by mandate, and an inconvenience by birth—an omega prince whom no one wanted. The rest of the palace staff took their cues directly from the throne; if the king treated Jisung like dirt beneath his boots, the servants saw no reason to do otherwise.
A sharp cramp flared in his side, a lingering reminder of his failed escape three years ago. The memory of being dragged back by the guards, the crushing weight of his father’s fists, and the agonizing days spent literally crawling across these stone floors to finish his chores was enough to keep his eyes glued firmly to the wood. He didn’t look up, not even when the massive ballroom doors groaned open.
Two guards marched across the floor, their heavy, iron-shod boots leaving dark streaks on his fresh polish. Before he could stand, rough hands clamped around his upper arms and hauled him to his feet. Jisung didn’t fight. He let his limbs go loose, quietly obeying as they dragged him out. Experience had taught him that struggling only invited broken bones.
As they hurried him down the corridor, Jisung mentally ran through the possibilities. The king likely needed a punching bag after his afternoon meeting with the Miroh emissaries. Or perhaps his older brother, Daehwan, wanted a live target for archery practice again. Jisung suppressed a bitter, humorless smile at the thought. Frankly, he wasn't too worried about the arrows; he had once watched Daehwan fire a bow and somehow miss a castle wall standing a mere ten feet away.
But they weren’t heading toward the training grounds. The guards halted in front of the towering oak doors of the throne room. Father’s punching bag it is, Jisung thought, bracing himself.
The doors swung open with a resounding thud, and he was shoved violently into the room.
Jisung stumbled, catching his balance before raising his head toward the dais. The king sat draped across his oversized chair, wearing a look of profound boredom. Next to him, Daehwan lounged in a slightly smaller, equally audacious seat, a smug smile plastered across his face.
But the space between the door and the throne wasn’t empty. Three strangers stood in the center of the room, and the air between them and the king practically crackled with tension.
“As we have already stated in our letter, we aided you during your war with the northern kingdom,” the tallest of the three men barked, his voice dripping with irritation. “You owe us. We will give you two options: either pay us in coin… or pay in blood.”
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Jisung watched the smirk on his brother’s face stretch into a wide, malicious grin.
“If that’s how you want it, then we will pay in blood,” Daehwan said, tilting his chin directly toward Jisung. “His blood.”
The words hung in the air like a noose. Jisung felt the color drain from his face. He was a lamb being offered up to the slaughter, utterly powerless to stop the hand holding the knife.
The three men turned as one to look at him. The leader’s gaze swept over Jisung, his eyes hardening with the exact same contempt and disgust Jisung saw on the faces of the palace staff every single day. Yet, Jisung found himself staring back, struck by the stranger’s ethereal beauty. Long, ink-black hair was pulled back into a loose, messy ponytail, though a few stray strands escaped to frame a jawline so sharp it felt like a warning.
The man looked from Jisung’s threadbare clothes back to the king, his dark eyes narrowing.
“You don’t honestly believe one servant boy is worth enough to clear your debt, do you?” the leader asked, his voice low and deadpan.
Daehwan smirked. “He’s not just any servant. He’s part of the royal family.”
Confusion rippled through the three men. “You expect us to believe that?” the sharp-eyed beta asked, his tone skeptical.
The king sneered from his throne, waving a dismissive, ring-laden hand. “It’s true. He is my son from the first queen—Jisung. A prince of the bloodline. If you want payment in blood, take him.”
The tall man froze. His ink-dark eyes narrowed as he took a deliberate step closer to Jisung. The two men flanking him—a broad-shouldered, imposing alpha and the beta—shifted immediately, stepping up on either side of their leader.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the throne room.
Jisung held his breath as the three strangers stopped just inches away. He expected a blow, a sneer, or another comment about how utterly worthless he was. Instead, the tall leader closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.
Even through the stench of stale dishwater and the rough wool of his oversized tunic, Jisung knew what they were catching. It was the faint, deeply suppressed note of golden honey buried under layers of neglect—his royal omega scent.
The tall man opened his eyes. There was no explosive anger. No defense of Jisung’s honor. His breathtaking face remained an unreadable, icy mask as he looked from Jisung’s bruised wrists back to the throne.
Beside him, the broad-shouldered alpha tensed, a low, barely audible growl vibrating in his chest, while the beta simply watched the king with cold, calculating detachment. Neither of them said a word about the rags Jisung wore, or the fact that a prince was being traded like cattle.
The leader turned his back on the throne, his long black ponytail swaying against his spine. He looked down at Jisung, his ink-dark eyes completely blank.
“The debt is settled,” the tall man announced to the room, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
They didn't rough Jisung up, nor did the broad alpha grab him by the hair. The beta simply gestured toward the door, expecting Jisung to move. They were taking him, silently accepting the king's terms without a single complaint about his wretched state.
Jisung’s stomach dropped into a hollow, freezing pit. They didn't care. They saw how he was treated, they caught the scent of his bloodline, and they didn't care at all. He was just a transaction—a piece of meat to clear a ledger, being led away into the unknown.
Jisung didn’t say a word. He didn’t beg, he didn’t cry, and he certainly didn’t ask to stop by his room to grab his things. Every wretched item in that tiny broom closet was something he was more than happy to leave behind to rot.
A secret, treacherous spark of thrill flickered beneath his dread. He was finally leaving. Even if it meant trading one prison for another, he was getting out.
Before the heavy throne room doors could shut him out forever, Jisung cast one final look back over his shoulder.
On the dais, Daehwan’s smirk was wide and victorious. Next to him, the king looked profoundly satisfied, leaning back in his audacious chair as if a great weight had been lifted. They were ecstatic. In a single transaction, their crushing debt was entirely paid, and they were finally rid of the burden they had never wanted in the first place.
The heavy doors slammed shut with a definitive click, cutting off his old life forever.