Four.

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“You wanted to see me?” Jonghyun says as soon as he is within the enclosed space of the prince’s private quarters. He is still wearing his training clothes—metal and leather armor layering his form—with a sheathed sword dangling from the leather belt strapped around his waist and his hair in a disarrayed knot at the top of his head.

 

Minho has never envied anyone more than he does at that moment.

 

“Your Highness?” Jonghyun prods hesitantly. It gets Minho to narrow his eyes menacingly, delighting in the way Jonghyun looks startled by his hostility. “Sire, I—”

 

“Don’t you dare call me that,” Minho warns lowly. Jonghyun’s eyes widen for a moment before it clears. The foreign tenseness in his expression visibly melts into something friendlier—something familiar. He finally begins to look like the Jonghyun Minho knew.

 

Still, it does not help ease anything inside Minho.

 

“Alright, okay, Minho—” he begins again, taking a deep breath. Minho is quick to rebut him.

 

“Minseok,” he corrects. Jonghyun gives him a neutral stare, turning to share a meaningful look with Jinki, before turning back to Minho. Next to him, Jinki walks over to where the guards and handmaidens are waiting.

 

Minho looks over Jonghyun’s shoulder, watching as Jinki speaks in a low voice to the guards, who nod their heads once he is finished. A moment later, they dutifully shuffle out of the room. Jinki closes the door behind them gently; the faint ‘thud’ satisfyingly final.

 

As soon as the room is clear, Jonghyun clears his throat, gathering Minho’s attention back to round on him.

 

“I know you have questions,” he says, as if Minho needs him to spell it out. Minho glares at him, but Jonghyun chooses to wave it off. “But I am not the right person to answer them.”

 

It would be easy, so easy for Minho to just snap and punch Jonghyun in the face for making his life difficult. No one would blame him; Jinki would not be so unwise as to pit the Council against the newly found prince, and Jonghyun himself… he would probably take the hit without so much as a blink. It is the knowledge of the latter that holds Minho back.

 

“Then who should I ask? The guards? The handmaids? I was told not to talk to them, because, apparently, it is beneath me to do so! So who should I ask? Jinki?” Minho barks the last word with such ferocity that Jonghyun has to swallow his flinch before it manifests. There is no use yielding in the face of Minho’s wrath; it would only make him angrier. “Should I ask the ‘Royal Advisor’—” here Minho makes a quote with his fingers. “—whom I just met not two hours ago? Am I supposed to just believe everything he says about my father? About the heritage I didn’t realize I had? Am I supposed to listen to complete strangers as they recite my family tree like it’s something out of a history book?”

 

“Yes!” Jonghyun snaps, ignoring Jinki’s surprised, warning look thrown to the side of his face. “Yes, you are. I know you have no reason to trust Sir Jinki, or I, or even Her Majesty, but the only ones who had the real ability to explain everything to you are your parents, and they are gone. So here we are, a bunch of misshapen characters, molding with one another to help you get what you deserve: an understanding of your own history!”

 

The silence that settles upon Jonghyun’s outburst is so heavy that the air feels as if it is punctured with crackles of energy. Minho’s eyes are hard as they meet Jonghyun’s solemn stare, and for several long minutes, none of them seems close to backing down.

 

“So.” Jonghyun’s voice cuts through the thick tension like a rigged blade—harsh and uneven—but it is not enough to pull Minho out of his quiet rage. “Are you going to give us a chance to help you?”

 

“If you’re asking me to trust you, then you’re asking for something I can’t afford to give,” Minho says instead, voice calmer than the raging storm in his eyes. Jonghyun drops his eyes, ducking his head to hide the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugs on his lips. Jinki watches him carefully, making sure to control the hope that blooms in his chest at the ceasefire shaping before him.

 

“No,” Jonghyun lifts his head back up, the look on his face infinitely lighter than it had been just short moments ago. “That is not what I am asking. I am asking for a chance. You may trust us, or you may not. All I need is for you to let us help.”

 

“And then what?” Minho demands hotly. “Once I know my parents’ history, and then what?”

 

“And then,” this time it is Jinki who speaks up, his voice a welcome change amidst the unnervingly similar forces the prince and his soldier exude. Alpha males, Jinki thinks, young ones. “You fulfill your destiny.”

 

Minho’s eyes flares at that, and he looks as if he wants to put up another fight, start an entirely different argument. It lasts too short for either Jinki or Jonghyun to react to, and then Minho is deflating.

 

“My destiny,” Minho repeats hollowly. A fortnight ago, he had just made up his mind; his chosen destiny was to become the Crown Shield. He was ready to drop everything to become one. And yet.

 

And yet the universe is not in his favor.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Three days after his arrival at the Palace, and two nights since his adopted father is sent back to the village—with promises of new lands and slaves—the Queen summons Minho for a supper.

 

Minho, if left to tend for himself, would not know what to make of his situation. How should he present himself in situations like this? When one’s queen is also one’s father’s wife? Would Her Majesty be spiteful of Minho? Would she let her jealousy come through once they are alone? Minho knows—the logical part of his brain has supplied—that he Queen has been nothing but welcoming since he day he was dragged here.

 

Yet it does nothing to assuage Minho’s worries.

 

Hence why he mostly keeps to himself as his handmaids and servants bustle around his chambers, each carrying a tray full of different concoctions and piles of fabric Minho does not dare dream to identify. They seem to have delegated the tasks upon themselves, because they are highly efficient as they usher Minho into his bath, with two male servants following in stride.

 

The bath—though Minho had seen it before—is still fascinating to him. It is a magnificent space filled with clear water, smooth stones, and several stone craters. The first servant helps him out of his sleeping attire and into the water, laying out different kinds of fragrance and foreign, sweet-smelling substances he proceeds to pour into the water. The other servant moves with quick steps to ready the fresh fruits and drinks next to Minho’s elbow.

 

“Are the two of you not leaving?” Minho asks curiously. He had always been left alone to bath before; the servants would bring the fragrances and his bathing robe in, settle the trays on the safe, dry spots, and then excuse themselves out. This time, however, they do not seem to be taking the usual route.

 

The servants look at each other and shake their heads slowly, eyes still firmly down. Minho resists the urge to sigh. He lets himself relax as the first servant begin to wash him up with a smooth stone, covered with the fragrant, slimy substance, while the other servant proceeds with feeding Minho bites of chopped fruit.

 

Minho feels like a fool, but his compliance seems to make his servants happy, and after a moment, their aura of contentment spreads to Minho; enough for him to close his eyes and accept the pampering.

 

Once Minho is squeaky clean all over—and smelling strongly of flowers and wood—he is urged to step out and rinse. The servants then move around wordlessly, draping the soft bathing robes around him. Minho tightens the robes himself, and thanks them quietly before walking out of the bathing chamber.

 

Outside, the rest of the handmaids and servants are waiting, sitting on the floor with their backs straight and their eyes down. Upon Minho’s arrival, they begin their uniformed, delegated tasks of ridding Minho of his robes, putting on the first layer of his Hanfu, and crisscrossing the rest of the glimmering fabric over it. Once the black and gold Hanfu is folded neatly over Minho’s form, one of the handmaids loop a belt around Minho’s waist, tying the knot with sure, lightning-quick fingers.

 

Once everything is in place, Minho is gently steered to a chair, where a servant is waiting with a wooden comb, and another handmaid stands behind him with a tray of golden headpieces and black silk cloths. As soon as he is seated, the servant begins to work on gathering his hair, neatly knotting it on top of his head; the sweet-smelling water he covers his comb with aiding the way so that no single strand of hair is out of place. Then, with gentleness Minho thinks is unnecessary, the servant takes one piece of silk cloth and loops it around the knot of Minho’s hair. Satisfied, he quickly moves to gather the golden headpiece and places it on top of the knot, puncturing the mid of it with a long, sharp piece of gold.

 

As soon as everything is finished, the servants and handmaids take their steps back; all of them forming a straight line behind Minho, and immediately sink to their knees as Minho stands. It would have been impressive—their movements and routines so seamless it is as if they are putting on a performance—if Minho is in a right state of mind to be appreciative of such a show.

 

Today, however, all he can focus on is the approaching supper time; one he will have to endure with stoicism. Minho refuses to show weakness in front of the Queen.

 

After a moment’s wait, the doors to his private chambers open, revealing Jonghyun in his full regalia. Minho wonders if this is how they are supposed to look each time the Queen summons them. The thought makes him slightly uneasy.

 

“Sire,” Jonghyun gets down on one knee, head bowed low. Minho resists the urge to squirm. “Her Majesty is ready to welcome His Highness.”

 

Minho’s mind whirls over the lightning-quick lessons of mannerism and proper phrasing his tutor—a scholarly old woman who treated Minho like an obsolete child—had drilled into him for the past two days. He comes up short. “Lead the way.”

 

Jonghyun nods wordlessly, rising to his feet and stepping aside to let Minho through first. As soon as he steps out of the threshold of his private space, Jonghyun turns around and rapidly falls into step next to him. Behind them, the handmaids and servants dutifully form two neat lines, their steps quick and silent as they follow along; like a quiet, regal parade.

 

Despite not having been given a proper tour, Minho has no trouble deducing their destination. As Jonghyun silently steer them to a hallway leading to the gardens, Minho knows they are closing in. He is proven right when, not a moment later, the gardens they cross come to an end, revealing a tall, wooden double-door that immediately parts through the middle as soon as they are near. Minho squares his shoulders.

 

“It is time,” Jonghyun mumbles under his breath. Minho tilts his head towards him almost imperceptibly. “Your Highness.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

When Minho was twelve, his adopted mother told him to help her clean their main house. She told him that they were expecting very important guests, which was why she needed every inch of the house polished and dust-free. Minho had grumpily obliged, half-heartedly listening to her patient explanation as to why the state of their home was one of the most crucial things to pay attention to when they were about to welcome guests. She had told him how a home was a private space that could say a lot about the individuals living in it. Minho had barely paid any attention to her, but he had remembered.

 

He still remembers.

 

Therefore, upon his entrance to the Queen’s chambers, he could not help but observe; taking in each and every detail as he likes to do each time he visited someplace new. The chambers are decorated lavishly, with warm hues of browns and reds wherein Minho’s had been lighter whites and deep blues. The woods are carved skillfully; showing off delicate detailing on each piece. Pillars stand tall in several strategic spaces, with polished, wooden dragons climbing up each one, roaring towards the tall ceiling. In each of the dragons’ eyes are the familiar sapphire gemstones. They give off such menacing, intimidating aura that Minho wonders if the spirits are breathed into them.

 

In front of him, right in the middle of the room, is a large, round table surrounded by three high-backed chairs. The table is full with plates after plates of steaming dishes, all in different colors and shapes, emitting such enticing smell that swirls around the room. On the tallest of the chairs, the Queen is seated.

 

She looks far more formal than the day Minho came by. Her robes are matched with the deep green and gold of her jade headpiece. The neutral expression that graced her face upon their first meeting is replaced by a warm smile, and she stands as Minho comes closer.

 

“My child, welcome,” she opens her arms, eyes fond as she gazes upon Minho. Minho tries his best to keep his wariness up, but it is rather difficult when the sight of the Queen’s smile reminds him of his mothers’.

 

As he walks in deeper, he realizes that Jonghyun is no longer by his side. Before he can stop himself, Minho turns sharply, trying to catch a glimpse of his guard—the only familiar figure he has. Jonghyun meets his eyes where he is standing by the door, giving him a minuscule nod. Minho feels like a small child as he looks back at him, unable to crush the wish that he could keep Jonghyun close, just as a precaution.

 

Thankfully, the Queen does not seem to notice—or at least, she does not seem to mind—his slip of composure, as she continues to smile when he looks back and takes another step forward. Finally, he reaches the seat facing hers, standing in front of it as a servant wordlessly pulls the chair back.

 

“Please, take your seat,” the Queen urges, lowering herself with such grace Minho can only dream of. As soon as she is properly seated, Minho allows himself to relax. He sits down and presses his open palms against his thighs, trying to get them to stop shaking. Behind them, the servants and handmaids clear the room.

 

Minho zeroes his attention on the Queen, using everything he has to resist the urge to look back and check whether Jonghyun is still in the room.

 

He is not a child.

 

A servant tops their cups with steaming tea, and Minho turns to thank him. The servant startles, his hands shaking as he tips his head in a minuscule nod before bowing and stepping away. In front of Minho, the Queen does not even seem to notice.

 

“Have you been settling in well? No problems with your accommodations, I believe?” The Queen lifts the cup of tea up to her lips, eyes still firmly trained on Minho. Avoiding her gaze, Minho chooses to zero his attention on the way the Queen’s hands seem to glide through the air; effortlessly graceful and seemingly weightless.

 

“No, Your Majesty,” he answers dutifully, eyes trailing further down to the platters of food arranged into a beautiful feast on the table between them.

 

“And the help, as well? Sir Jinki and Major Kim?” she prods, placing a large piece of meat on top of Minho’s steaming bowl of rice. Minho stops himself before he can mutter his casual, reflexive word of gratitude.

 

“Thank you, Your Majesty, and no. No problems with them at all. They have been…,” Minho thinks of saying a huge help, but the bitter voice at the back of his head stops him. “Decent company.”

 

“That is wonderful to hear,” the Queen nods, and to Minho’s astonishment, she sounds as if she is sincere.

 

The Queen does not ask anymore question for a long time after, instead focusing on the dishes laid out in front of them. She sometimes pauses to place something onto Minho’s bowl or plate, wordlessly urging him to try things he has never tried before. Minho wonders if she has done this to his father as well, and whether his father shared his tastes, because she has not recommended anything Minho is not immediately fond of.

 

Speaking of his father.

 

“Your Majesty,” he tries, clearing his throat when his voice sounds hesitant and small. The Queen looks up to meet his stare with a smile readily plastered on her face.

 

“Yes, my child?”

 

“I apologize if I am too forward, but… I have questions I am certain you would be able to answer,” Minho prods on, watching the Queen’s expression closely to search for a hint of disapproval. He does not find any. Instead, the Queen simply looks melancholic.

 

Putting her chopsticks down, she lifts one corner of the embroidered white cloth on her lap and dabs her lips with it gently. Her eyes lose their focus for a few seconds before she recollects herself and shoots an encouraging smile Minho’s way.

 

“I would be surprised if you do not,” she nods, gesturing at Minho to continue.

 

Minho hesitates, weighing in where to start.

 

“How… did Your Majesty come to know of my existence? After all these years… why now?” Minho straightens his shoulders as the Queen’s eyes rake over his expression searchingly. The smile that seems to always be present on her face is dimming under the burden of her thoughts.

 

“I found a letter. Your mother’s. I doubt my husband had ever seen it, because if he had—” here a flash of pain colors her eyes, but it is gone before Minho can decipher it. “—if he had known… we would have brought you home much sooner.”

 

Something in that sentence riles Minho up, and his voice is cold when he speaks up once more. “And what of my mother? Would you and my father take her too? Or are you just going to take her only child away from her and left her in that godforsaken village to die?” Minho feels the regret bubbling up his throat as soon as the words leave his mouth; pushing a bitter wave of bile that springs pained tears to the back of his eyes.

 

The Queen takes a deep, shaky breath that seems to be nowhere near enough to help shield the raw emotions in her eyes. Minho looks away.

 

“No, of course not.” Her voice is brittle, yet somehow void of emotions. Minho keeps his eyes firmly on a delicate carving across the wooden paneling to his left. “Minho, your mother…”

 

Minho turns to look at her at that, eyes hard and challenging, as if daring her to say anything against his dead mother.

 

But the Queen shakes her head, voice thick with the beginning of her tears. “Your mother is the only woman your father has ever loved. Their wedding ring—he requested to be buried with it, and nothing else. Not his family ring, not his designated crown, not the gifts from his mother. Nothing. He asked me to bury him with the only piece of your mother he had left.”

 

The world tilts on its axis, leaving everything askew and off-balance. Minho feels suffocated, as if some invisible hands have taken hold of his throat and his heart and squeezes them with all their might. He closes his eyes against the rush of horrendously painful emotions. His heart throbs so hard his ears ring, and he can feel his breath shortening, quickening; everything spiraling out of control.

 

The only woman your father has ever loved.

 

They could have been a family. They could have been together—

 

Minho could have known his father. He could have been loved. He could have had a family; a real one, with his loving parents.

 

He could have had his parents, if only—

 

If only what?

 

“Your Highness,” a familiar voice calls, but it is far too weak to pass through the fog that has layered Minho’s mind. “Your—Minho, focus on me. On my voice. Minho, deep breaths, come on. Deep breaths—” Minho feels as if he is swimming through mud; thick and unrelenting. Yet he manages, somehow, to reach the voice. Minho holds onto the voice with everything he has. “There you go. Another, Minho, deep breaths.”

 

The voice gradually becomes lower, until it is nothing more than a whisper. Minho opens his eyes to try and find the source, but all that comes to his focus is his whitening knuckles, clutching the edge of the table. He looks up to meet the Queen’s worried eyes, and immediately feels the humiliation crashing over him, cold and unforgiving.

 

“Minho,” the voice calls again, from a space to his right. Minho turns to face the source, feeling a surge of complicated emotions unraveling at the sight of Jonghyun kneeling by his side. Minho quickly looks away. “Your Highness—”

 

“Your assistance is appreciated yet unnecessary, Major Kim,” Minho cuts him off, voice harder than steel. Jonghyun immediately backs up, clearing his face of any remaining, incriminating expressions and gets to his feet. He bows once before taking large steps back.

 

The silence is tense.

 

“Minho,” the Queen tries again, gently. Minho does not understand why.

 

“Why? Why did you tell—how could you accept that?” Minho does not understand what he wants. He does not understand the fury that seems to be burning his insides. He does not understand what is it he wants to hear. He does not understand whether it is the thought of his parents’ lost chance, or the tragedy he had to endure by himself—the same tragedy that could have been avoided had his father been man enough to protect his mother. Minho closes his eyes. Who is this anger sparked for? Is he angry at his father? At his mother? At the Queen? He feels as if the whole world is at fault, and yet none of it is. “Did you not love my father?”

 

“Your father…,” she lets out a breath. “It is complicated.”

 

“Explain.” A lightning-quick thought flashes through Minho’s mind as he continues to glare at the Queen; how far can he push this until Her Majesty orders for his head to be served on a silver platter as payback for his blatant disrespect?

 

But the Queen hardly bats an eyelash at his demand. “We were strangers when we met, as most royals do. Your father was the Crown Prince of the largest kingdom across the peninsula. I was the most esteemed Princess of a powerful ally. We were a perfect political match.”

 

“He was cold when I met him. Drowning in his own world, seemingly out of self-pity.” The Queen’s voice begins to take on a faraway nuance as she swims deeper into her memory. “I did not take a liking to him, at first. He stayed that way for months thereafter.”

 

Minho imagines the man his mother described and puts him next to the man the Queen is describing. He finds it difficult to imagine them as the same person. He finds it impossible to imagine his father as a human being, instead of a two-dimensional character everyone around him made up during rounds of storytelling.

 

“Little did I know that he was the way he was because… he was going through heartbreak. Regardless… soon, after a year of marriage he began to change. He became friendlier. He opened up to me, enough for us to get to know one another.” Despite the inevitable jealousy Minho is certain he will be feeling upon hearing the continuation of the Queen’s tale, he does not seem to be able to stop listening. He does not want to. “We became friends. Years passed, and we only grew closer. We became best friends, partners. He was a patient man, but he had close to no passion for politics. I was his voice of reason. We were a force together.”

 

The Queen pauses, her faraway stare focusing back onto Minho. She is no longer smiling, and the worried crease near her eyes remains. “Your father was my best friend. I trust him with my life. He trusted me with his. I would sooner die than betray him, and he was the same with me.”

 

“Do you not love my father,” Minho repeats, dissatisfied. The Queen’s smile gradually makes its way back to her face, fond.

 

“I do,” the Queen tells him. Her voice is clear and sure, driving the burn of jealousy right up Minho’s chest. “However, my love for him, and his for me… it is not the same kind of love he shared with your mother. It is not comparable, even if I was foolish enough to make such comparisons.”

 

Topping both their cups with more tea, the Queen shakes her head, even before Minho can open his mouth. “I know you do not understand, but there is time enough to ensure a change. Now,” she lifts her cup towards him; a silent peace offering. “Let us speak of happier times. To the future.”

 

Minho releases a breath and lifts his own cup, clinking it against hers. He is nowhere near a closure, even as he dutifully mimics her. “To the future.”

 

He is on his way.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

While the days before his meeting with Her Majesty seem to drag on to unimaginable lengths, the days after chooses to fly by with lightning speed. Minho is knee-deep in history lessons, political talks, and economical debates before he can even take a proper breath. Any chance of ruminating about his father, about the life he could have had, about his parents’ history and the many questions he has regarding it, is swept away by a wave of responsibilities Minho continuously receives, day in and day out.

 

By the time his third week rolls around, Minho has already been introduced to more than a dozen people; each responsible for grooming him one way or another. He is a man who thrives under pressure and challenges, but there is a limit that he himself has never dared to push prior to this. After being told, repeatedly, that he has 21-years’ worth of learning to catch up on, Minho finds himself feeling simply depleted. Wrung out.

 

It is one of the reasons why, instead of coming down to the west gardens to meet with his history teacher, Minho opts to travel to the southern parts of the Palace. He has had to convince—and, in the end, threaten—his servants and guards to not follow him on his adventures, and it had taken longer than Minho is comfortable with, but he is certain it will be worth it.

 

If he has to listen to anyone mention Queen Sankyu’s unbridled obsession with luxury boats one more time, Minho will not be held responsible for the possible violent reactions he might emit.

 

His history teacher, Scholar Jun, is truly a lucky man, Minho thinks. He is, after all—out of Minho’s own generosity, of course—freed from the responsibility of facing Minho’s unseemly, yet inevitable, tantrum. He ought to be thankful Minho chose to run away instead.

 

Minho is still chuckling at his flawed logic when his steps falter and halt to a stop. He blinks at the scene before him. His brain seems to take precious time to process the occurrence, mainly because it is such a—for the lack of a better word—bizarre sight to behold.

 

In the pavilion right in the middle of the southern gardens, a foreign young man—possibly a couple years younger than Minho himself, even—is lounging on a wooden reclining chair, lazily playing a lyre. Around him, seated on plush cushions on the floor, are three handmaidens, each busy with a task of their own. One of them is hand-feeding the man; bringing green grapes up to his lips every other minute. Another is gently fanning him; the movement slow and gentle, resulting in a breeze that pushes the loose strands of his hair up and around his face. The last handmaid has her shoulders hunched down, eyes fixated on a piece of parchment, her lips moving delicately around words Minho cannot make out.

 

The young man is being pampered within an inch of his life.

 

For some reason, the whole scene irks Minho to no end. So he charges forward, forgetting, for a moment, his real purpose of heading this way. He can continue running away after he finds out what in Gods’ heaven is going on over in that pavilion.

 

As soon as he is within hearing range, Minho clears his throat pointedly. The four occupants of the pavilion immediately look up. At the sight of him, the handmaids smoothly lean forward on their knees and bows deeply. The man reclining on the chair, however, looks perfectly unbothered as he sits up properly, still cradling his lyre as he tilts his head questioningly at Minho.

 

“Is something the matter, Your Highness?” he asks, voice sweet and so innocent that it triggers the bells of alarm in Minho’s head. If he did not suspect the man of planning any ill shenanigans, he definitely does now.

 

“Yes,” Minho says boldly. “Who are you?”

 

The man laughs at that; a pleasant, elite sound that Minho cannot deny is somewhat attractive. Still, Minho is a man on a mission, so he decides to ignore the laugh and raises an expectant eyebrow at him instead.

 

“I am Taemin, Prince of Baekje, the Glimmering Jewel of the Seventh Kingdom,” the man—Taemin—smirks, looking up at Minho from beneath his eyelashes. Minho thinks it is sickening how beautiful he is; like something out of a painting. Something that does not belong to the realm of reality.

 

Sickening, truly.

 

“’Glimmering Jewel’,” Minho repeats flatly. The smirk grows in response. “How…” distasteful? Clichéd? Fitting? “Charming.”

 

The prince lets out another laugh, this time slightly louder than the first. He shakes his head at Minho and grins. “Do you not have a history lesson to attend to, Sire? From my experience, Scholar Jun is not a forgiving man. Especially of runaway students.”

 

“Were you one, then? A runaway student?” Minho demands instead. Taemin bats his eyelashes at him, eyes glinting wickedly.

 

“Of course not, Sire. I was perfectly model.” Somehow, Minho does not believe that. He does not bother pointing it out, however, and instead purses his lips to prevent himself from blurting anything untoward.

 

“Right,” Minho clears his throat, gathering his wits back to figure out what it was that brought him here. “Why are you here?”

 

Taemin stares at him neutrally. “Officially, I am on a diplomatic visit. Unofficially, I am visiting my best friend, Prince Kibum. You may choose which answer suits your taste best, Your Highness.”

 

Honestly, Minho is not a classist. He believes respect is something one earns, not demands. But this prince truly is pressing on all the wrong buttons inside Minho with his blatant disrespect.

 

“Either answer still does not explain why you are here, lazing around, with neither diplomats nor Prince Kibum around.” In truth, Minho does not particularly care. He never is the type of man to snoop into another man’s business. Something about this prince, however, bothers him. It is as if he has an itch at the back of his mind that can only be scratched by chasing this young man away from his gardens. “So, I repeat my earlier question. Why are you here?”

 

Taemin raises an eyebrow at him, eyes narrowing in annoyance. “If you must know, I am here to take full advantage of Her Majesty’s hospitality, as Her Majesty always tells me to do each time I come to visit,” he moves to the end of his chair and stands up gracefully, lyre laid forgotten near the edge of his seat. “Also, the ladies wanted me to play some music for them so they can rest and enjoy the gardens. So here we are.”

 

Minho blinks at the handmaidens, whose silence seems to sharpen with guilt. Minho instantly feels terrible. Out of all the possible explanations that the prince could have given; he had given Minho the one he can never possibly foresee.

 

“I… see,” he lets out finally, still meeting Taemin’s slowly softening eyes. A beat later, Taemin sighs.

 

“You can join—”

 

“I should leave you to—”

 

They both stop and blink at each other for a split second. Before Minho can react further, Taemin laughs again, ducking his head. While the annoyance towards the prince’s behavior is gradually lessening, Minho still finds himself irrationally irked by his beauty.

 

No man should look like so, Minho is sure. He wonders if it is a common thing in Baekje, because it certainly is not in Goguryeo.

 

“I must continue on my…,” Minho gestures vaguely, and Taemin nods.

 

“Right. Of course. Have fun running away, Your Highness,” he sends Minho another quick smile, before turning to reclaim his place on the chair.

 

By the time Minho turns to walk away, the sound of Taemin’s lyre already streams through the wind around the gardens once again.

 

Minho pretends he had never interrupted them.

 

 

 

**

 

A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait. As always, comments are appreciated and cherished xx