The palace was just as he recalled—overwhelming, grand, confining.
Yoon Ji-hwan walked through its halls with slow, uncertain steps, his heart pounding against his ribs. He had lived here for years in his past life, love and obligation clouding his eyes. And it was where he had been put to death.
The throne room doors loomed before him. The guards bowed and pushed them open.
Ji-hwan maintained his blank face as he entered.
And there he was.
Lee Seong-min.
Seated upon the golden throne, clad in red silk and golden brocade, he was the exact likeness of the young king Ji-hwan recalled. And yet there was a difference—a difference in his eyes.
In his past existence, those black eyes had been cold, far away, mistrustful. Now, they were piercing yet questioning, as if he was trying to reassemble a half-forgotten dream.
Ji-hwan pushed himself into a bow. "Yoon Ji-hwan greets Your Majesty."
Seong-min remained silent at first. Ji-hwan could sense his eyes lingering. He did not avert.
"You have returned from exile," Seong-min finally spoke, his voice cutting. "But I do not recall having sent you into exile."
Ji-hwan's fists were tucked inside his sleeves. Naturally, he didn't. Seong-min had not remembered their past life yet.
Your Majesty is mistaken," Ji-hwan responded guardedly. "This humble subject has never ventured beyond the capital.".
A stop. Then—"I see.".
Ji-hwan was courageous enough to look up and noticed Seong-min still staring at him. Something in his eye was not quite right, something wrong.
Ji-hwan had come here intending to avoid him.
But something led him to think that Seong-min would not release him so easily.