She’s used to a nomad’s pace, fleeing at the merest sight of trouble pinching her heels.

Their rampage continues, spreading beyond vacant warehouses and decrepitated complexes to picturesque modern townhouses and grand suburban chalets; embers the air, painting speckles of grey smog on the dark skies.

Absolutely spellbinding, Luna thinks, spiteful flame crackling in the breeze. The sparks dancing in his beautiful irises. Hyeon-min’s fingers dovetailing with hers. Before the firefighters arrive, they escape from the scene, back to the den they fashioned a home out of deplorable furniture and shabby sheets.

She’s used to a nomad’s pace, fleeing at the merest sight of trouble pinching her heels. With him and his ragtag brother-in-arms, she finds drifting a stale routine. Damaged goods often makes the strangest bedfellows, but Luna doesn’t mind—no one is perfect.

“So, anything?” Hyeon-min asks, out of habit and dogged persistence. Hopeful as ever.

Call signs replace names among the men—each one is a mockery of their scars, no one wants a reminder of  their actual ranks or bearings. The rest calls her lover ‘Umbrella’ for the black umbrella he yields like a sword.

“Same old thing. Unprecedented hike in arson cases. Accidents,” Ears—hearing aid clinging to his left ear—hisses.  

“Not a single bombing make it to the front page,” Stick pauses, squinting at the crumpled newspaper. “Three shops coincidentally burnt down on the same night. They’re calling it freak accidents.”

“Not even one mentioned the manifesto we printed,” Tremors sighs—unsteady hands waving the manifesto flyers. “We tried distributing it around, no one is interested.”

Fences—his scars are hidden from view—narrows his eyes at them, lips slashing into a snarl. “This is a waste of time. We should be doing something big. Not sitting around, waiting for the media to notice us. What happened to—”

“One stupid move and we’re all over,” Luna counters, aware she’s far shorter than Fence’s six foot frame.  

Hyeon-min doesn’t raise his voice, even in the face of insubordination. “Be patient. We will get there eventually.”

Fences runs his mouth freely, only his emotions guiding him and no sense of respect. “Patience hasn’t got us any—”

She lunges at him, a feline out to cut down its rival. Slams her fist against his chest. Presses cold blade-for-claws at his neck. It takes only one absolutely deep cut, his blood would spill currant rivulet like a broken pipe. “So far, all you do is whine, so shut your mouth or your next lesson will be learning the sign language.”

“It’s fine. Fences isn’t right in the head since his last tour, Luna,” Hyeon-min utters, curling his fingers tenderly around her wrist. His smile isn’t wide, or even all teeth—but it is calm and generous.

“We need a bigger bang. Like an event where we can make our statement,” Stick notes, rapping the chewed-end of a chipped pool stick on cratered wall.  

“How about a peace summit then?” Tremors meekly suggests, ing stable hands cradling a glossy blue-white pamphlet to Hyeon-min. “I’m familiar with the venue.”

The political arena is far from anaemic, thorns and spikes laid charily in the wings of state meetings, Koo Seo-ryeong has each one memorised and a neutral façade in place. Never has she seen men gasp in abashed unison when she first sauntered into the meeting,  fabulous black pantsuit clinging to her curves and ruby-glitter pumps pattered against the linoleum.

That sight tasted mighty sweet than boyish tears whose valedictorian award she snatched.

Her ensemble is prudently selected from the lightest of colours, never veering into darker shades unless it will spark an uproar among crusty old men. The colour of her lips will always be bold.

Then, there is Lee Gon.

Rather than the sporadic meetings she’d hoped for, his presence is a fixture—even seasoned analysts found him an abnormality for he is the emperor pulling the strings in the shadows, routing the spotlight elsewhere.

Clashes are inevitable.

Progressive motions never sit well with conservative beliefs. The king basks in the popularity afforded by his traditionalist people. She does not. Veiled taunts and snide remarks pepper the sessions like snowflakes tumbling in mid-winter.

The trade of barbed civility and two beautiful adversaries attracted the attention of the people, like gaudy circus show and the Shakespearean thought of hate fissuring into love gains more hits, sells more papers than political works.

There is a split between those who fixates on the intensely closeness between the king and his guard, and there are those who believe the king and her shared a closeted familiarity. When ambushed in a stint of guesting someone’s podcast, Seo-ryeong can neither confirm or deny of such thing.

Still, she has to play her cards right. Frequent opposition of the empire, against the king, will not further her down the path of ambition. She picks her battles. Amasses her allies. The war to woo minds will not end, even with the youngsters’ exaltation in her pocket.

It is a quarter passed midnight when she arrives at his study, decked in denim dress—not her finest and put up as she likes it to be—and he seemingly plagiarised his attire right from a regency era leading man.

“To what I owe the pleasure—” Gon opens, removing his glasses and sets them on the table. The edges of his ruby lips curving into a smile.

“Kim Gui-seon,” she interrupts, her own brilliant smile intact. Always the lack of Your Majesty—or any kind of formality, really—twists his guard into knots of tension. She wonders, what else can she do to evoke another rise.  

Gon fingers the sand-crystal decanter, smile morphing into evasive smirk and wiggles his finely-shaped eyebrows conspiratorially. “So, you got another problem needing a little help?”

“I want him rotting in jail, but alive. But that’s much of a fantasy than me marrying Hyun Bin,” she retorts, rolling her eyes at his predisposition for surreptitious assassination. “For a man going to be the new Chief of Justice.”

“It is not set in stone yet,” he disappointedly utters, peering at his clipped fingernails, as if it contains the secrets to the universe. “However, he is a strong contender. I like him.”

“He’s a bastard.” Crass language apparently riles the guard into daggering stares. Seo-ryeong presses on, whittling a generic smile to faux indifference. “That son of a made Humbert Humbert looked like a ing saint.”

“He’s got that going on,” he agrees, settling two empty lowballed glasses on his desk and pours generous amount of raw vodka into both glasses. He pushes one towards her, sipping on his.

She picks up the glass; dangerous blue liquid swirling, splashing on the polished oaken flooring. “Choose someone else.”

“Cute dogs. Loves pink handcuffs, leather whips and you cannot forget the ball chain. Exciting stuffs,” he recites, his grin flints into wolfish victory.

The desire to slap the grin off from his face flickers, co-existing with the want to press her lips on his, tasting the vodka, his dinner from his apple-painted lips. Mostly the wish to claw his smirk outstrips the curiosity bubbling within.

“Ko Han-min. Jo Jae-yun. Kim Dong-gyun. , there’s even Yoon Joon-man,” she says, half-hissing. “You’re not a dense man.”

Jo Yeong wills his dog-like impatience, contorting facial muscles into a muted grimace. Backhanded compliment to the king triumphs over his thinning unflappability.

“The other judges are so boring. Misdemeanour at best.”

“Not him.”

For once, he drops the façade of amour-tinted jesting. “The man satisfied all the requirements. His records are impeccable. He’s achieved a lot during his time as a lawyer. There is no reason why I shouldn’t pick him.”

“Look, if you want to stay in the hearts of your people, Your Majesty, that man is the  wrong choice. You know it,” she retorts, biting back the jagged edges, smoothening her advice into supple stones.

He sighs. “Would Ko Han-min satisfy you then?”

She drains her glass empty, pivoting on her heels. “You will thank me later. Consider this a debt paid.”

Elsewhere in the palace, a triad of women is convening. Mo Mi-do walks in harried steps, slinking across the floor, a hare darting from falconic eyes into a dimmed room.

“Ah, Secretary Mo,” Court Lady Noh Ok-nam greets. The wooden shutters closed behind her, the room brightens to the octogenarian smiling and a younger girl, perhaps in her twenties, waves a nervous hello. “Now, we can start.”

“Court Lady Noh? And you are?” Mi-do asks, unsure whether she should take another step forward or leave. This could have been a mistake, a hallucination.  

“Myung Seung-ah. She’s the new probationary intern for the Royal Public Affairs Office,” Lady Noh supplies, toothy smile stretching to the corners of her lined mouth. “I’ve gathered you here today for a special task. One that even the emperor is to be kept in the dark.”

“W-what are we going to do?” Seung-ah asks, echoing her own puzzlement.

Lady Noh steeples her delicate hands together. “To create a dozier. The fate of our entire empire rests in this.”

The announcement of that feels ominous and Mi-do could barely contain her blurted, clumsy words. “A dozier of what?”

“Ladies. Possible candidates,” the older woman simply says.

Mi-do cannot finds the semblance of decorum. “How sure are we that His Majesty is into our species? He’s like joined to the hip with Jo Yeong,” she points out.  

Lady Noh is indifferent, as though she’d expected such line of inquiry. “Even if His Majesty isn’t, he needs to sire a heir. That means marriage.”

“I thought His Majesty is pretty close with Assemblywoman Koo,” Seung-ah chimes in, her gaze hasn’t left her tablet since Mi-do entered. “After Jo-Gon ship, people are sort of scrutinising His Majesty’s interactions with Assemblywoman Koo. They’re pretty popular.”

“Not her,” Lady Noh says brusquely.

Seung-ah leans closer to her, whispering. “She’s a divorcee.”

“She’s married?” Her voice increases an octave higher, and continually left hanging. Mi-do blinks, rapidly. Still staring at Seung-ah.

Seung-ah slides her tablet over to Mi-do, returning her attention to the laptop. “Her ex-husband is now in prison. Embezzlement. Former CEO.”

“That’s inviting bad press.” Lady Noh wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Or painting a bull’s eye on His Majesty’s back.”

It surprises no one that the court lady harbours a certain dislike towards Assemblywoman Koo Seo-ryeong. Personally, Mi-do understands the attraction, a child would too. What is there not to like when two extremely gorgeous people are paired off like doves.

Mi-do, however, lacks the filter or reflex to think ahead. The words barrel out from , like rocks hurling down cliffs. “What’s the difference with His Majesty and the Captain of the Royal Guards?”

Lady Noh’s eyebrows twitch, summoning ice into her glare.

“Their closeness makes them both popular, with the common folk. This year alone, the military and the police academy saw an increase in application, thanks to that navy demonstration last year,” Seung-ah explains, trying to stifle her smile and fails utter miserably.

“What we need is a darling that the empire will embrace,” Lady Noh asserts, “even clamour for her to take the empty seat next to His Majesty’s throne.”

Lee Gon knows Yeong’s footfalls like the heartbeats in his chest. Hard, fast-moving, and stealth bolted to the soles of his feet. There is a springiness in his footwork, almost as if he is in possession of vital information.

“Your Majesty,” Yeong says, locking the doors to the private study and produces a folded paper out from his back pocket.

Gon opens the wrinkled, promissory note and smoothens them with his palms. Yeong’s handwriting is unmistakeable, words stencilled in a typewriter’s font—even when he scrawls its contents in haste.

“How did you get this? I’ve heard about it but Lady Noh won’t let me sneak a peek. Secretary Mo outright pretended like no list ever existed.”

“I had to bribe the new intern.” His merlot-red mouth quirking to a subdued grin.

Gon goes over the names. Quite a list, seeing how the selection includes famous names from various industries, fashion, technology, art and even entertainment. “What did it cost you?”

“A tantalising glimpse to a possible domesticity between a king and his guard on a summer’s morn in a private island during the king’s adolescence,” Yeong replies wryly, turning his attention to the room.

Gon spares a frown at him. “That’s highly specific.”

“She said she needed some inspiration for a novel she’s working on.” Yeong runs the scanning device across the desk, bookcases and even his liqueur cabinet.

“I hope no lascivious details was leaked,” Gon says, amusement curves his lips into a Cheshire smirk.

“Worry not, Your Majesty, I kept it PG-rated.”  

“They’ve managed to compile thirty names. That’s absolutely stunning,” he trills, catching five names owing their presences to his grandmother figure. She always like the conventional girls, obedient to a fault and always, always respect tradition over modernity.

“The list is something,” Yeong agrees.  

Gon folds the note back, setting it to cinders in the fireplace. “Nothing but the honest truth, Yeong.”

“Certainly half of the names here should be disqualified on the merits of their personalities are incompatible with yours,” Yeong says, unhesitant. The list is still a list, unrealised and Yeong is the gatekeeper between the line to change the tide.

“You could tell from their names and their pictures?” Gon’s exaggerated surprise is purely for his own amusement at Yeong’s tighten expression.

Yeong hardly could quash his smile, and it spreads faintly to corners of his mouth. “I did my own background research and personally interviewed them. They are prettier in person.”

“My, my, you actually had the time aside from your busy schedule as the Captain of My Royal Guards,” Gon teases.

“For you, Your Majesty, I will always,” he says. “Furthermore, it’s part of my job description to ensure you won’t jeopardise your safety by accidentally marrying your stalker, isn’t it not?”

“What else? That can’t be it. You’re usually highly opinionated when it concerns my wellbeing,” Gon urges, narrowing his sight into mock suspicion.

“A quarter of them comes from prestigious clans, some older that stretches back to Goryeo times, one even came from Baekje aristocracy, which leaves us down to at least ten names,” Yeong says, unflappable and almost, almost grinning.  

“Ten’s manageable,” Gon utters, pasting both hands over his chest. “My hero.”

“I’ll have those ten names prepared. You will be late for the summit, Your Majesty, if you elect to move much slower than the glacial pace.”