The journey took longer than anticipated.
They moved like thieves, shrouded and stealthy, hearts pounding in tandem and silence.
Ji-hwan hadn't intended for this to be freedom.
But with Seong-min at his side, without crowns or thrones between them—
it nearly was.
They shared campfires. Whispered laughter. Slumbered back to back beneath a pilfered sky.
One evening, after too much rice wine and not enough care, Ji-hwan leaned too far in while attending the fire.
Seong-min did not draw back.
Rather, he spoke, voice little more than a whisper,
"Would it have been like this? If we were not born enemies?"
Ji-hwan stared at him, the firelight brushing gold across his cheekbones.
"I don't know," he whispered. "But I don't think I would have wanted you any less."
Seong-min's hand swept across his. A touch, tentative—then sure.
No one's looking," he said. "Tonight, no one is."
Ji-hwan didn't reply.
He didn't have to.
Because when Seong-min leaned in, he met him there—
not as a subject, not as a king—
but just as a man who had once loved him, and never forgotten.
The kiss was slow. Guarded.
Like a promise they didn't know how to fulfill.
When they broke apart, the stars appeared closer.
And for the first time in two lives, Ji-hwan felt. warm.
Safe.
But safety is always a lie before the fall.
Because in the forest behind them—
someone watched.
Someone who wore a monk's robe,
but whose eyes shone with silver light and something far older than prophecy.