After the court meeting, Crown Prince Yul was sure of one thing — his brother would not
return alive. The smirk that had formed on his lips lingered long after Taehyung left the court.
The queen, too, felt a quiet satisfaction. In her mind, sending Taehyung to the battlefield was
not only necessary but inevitable — a cursed child had no place near the throne.
The king, however, knew nothing. His health had declined over the past months, leaving him bedridden and detached from court affairs. He had not even heard of the decree that might
cost his son's life.
Meanwhile, the two youngest princes, Mijin and Jung, were filled with unease. They had
overheard whispers about their brother's upcoming battle. Both were angry at Crown Prince Yul's decision but could do nothing. Since they had often visited Taehyung secretly, it had only worsened Yul's temper toward them.
Yet despite the risk, that night, the two sneaked into Taehyung's residence.
When Taehyung saw them, he looked up from where he sat, polishing his sword in silence.
The faint glow of candlelight flickered over his calm, unreadable face. His dark hair
shadowed his eyes, and yet his presence alone felt like quiet fire — calm, but no one dared to touch.
Mijin clenched his fists. "Brother, you must come back alive no matter what."
Jung nodded quickly, his young voice trembling. "Yes, if you die… then we die too!"
Taehyung blinked, surprised, and then sighed softly before reaching out and flicking both of
their foreheads lightly. "Don't talk like that. You're both still young. Live freely, not tied to
anyone's fate — not even mine."
But Mijin glared at him stubbornly, eyes glassy. "Then you better come back alive! If you
don't… we'll come find you ourselves!"
For the first time in a long while, Taehyung smiled — a faint, genuine curve of his lips that
softened his cold aura. "Then I suppose I have no choice," he said quietly. "I'll come back."
The two brothers grinned, relieved, before running out after making him promise once more. When the chamber fell silent again, Taehyung's calm gaze drifted toward the window. The moonlight spilled through the latticework, touching his face, making him seem ethereal — breathtakingly handsome, yet lonely beyond words.
Moments later, Aera entered. Her steps were soundless, her presence like the soft wind
before winter.
"This battle," she said softly, her tone calm as always, "will be tougher than any you've
fought before. We should prepare early."
Taehyung looked at her. "When should we leave?"
"In two days," she replied without hesitation.
"Then we leave in two days."
Aera nodded, her blue eyes glinting faintly like frozen lakes. "I'll make the preparations." She
turned to leave, but paused when Taehyung spoke again.
"Aera…" he said quietly. "Thank you."
She didn't turn back, but he saw her shoulders rise slightly, as though she was holding in a
breath.
"No need," she said after a pause. "I'm only doing my duty."
But as she left, Taehyung couldn't help but feel grateful. Perhaps it was because of her —her calmness, her steadiness — that he could stay this composed. Even when the world
burned, she was the frost that cooled his fire.
When he was alone again, his trainer entered — the same man who had guided him since
childhood. His hair had grayed more over the years, but his eyes were still sharp. He sat
beside Taehyung without a word at first, the silence between them familiar and comforting.
After a long moment, the trainer finally spoke.
"You know," he began, "your mother — Lady Saha — was one of the most remarkable
women I ever met."
Taehyung turned slightly, his usual calm softening with quiet curiosity.
The trainer continued, his tone thoughtful, almost reverent. "She wasn't just beautiful; she had a strength unlike anyone I've ever seen. People called her a flame of peace —someone who could melt even the coldest heart. Yet she lived her life walking through fire. She gave up her freedom, her title, and her father's home to stand beside the king. And though she was unloved, she never once regretted staying. She value the word friendship and had always believed that friends should always help one another even if it costs them their happiness."
Taehyung's eyes flickered faintly with emotion, his hands clenching on his knees.
"She died protecting this Kingdom," the trainer said quietly. "But more than that… she died
protecting you. Her final wish was that you would live freely — not as a prince bound by duty, but as a man who could make his own path. Even though I'm sure she probably regretted not escaping from the palace when she had you."
The trainer looked at him then, meeting the burning calm in Taehyung's eyes. "You can do
this. I await your victory, Prince Taehyung. Not as your trainer, but as someone who has
watched you grow from a child who carried sorrow to a man who carries strength."
He stood up slowly, resting a hand on Taehyung's shoulder. "Show them the fire that she left in you."
Then he left — leaving Taehyung in silence, lost in thoughts that burned and froze at once.
Taehyung closed his eyes. The frost within his chest pulsed faintly, releasing a faint memory
— his mother's smile, gentle and faint like the moonlight.
He whispered to the empty room, "Mother… I'll live my own way."
Outside, the wind howled faintly — neither warm nor cold, but balanced between both.
Just like him.
The sun had barely risen when the royal courtyard came alive with the sounds of armor
clashing and hooves stomping. Rows upon rows of soldiers stood in perfect formation, their banners fluttering against the dawn breeze. The air was heavy with unspoken tension — not of fear, but of reverence.
At the center of it all stood Prince Taehyung, the Sword of the Kingdom.
His brown hair gleamed faintly beneath the early light, strands swaying softly against the
gentle wind. Though his expression was calm, his presence alone made even seasoned
generals lower their gaze. His eyes — sharp, yet distant — carried the quiet weight of
someone who had seen too much and spoken too little. Aera stood beside him, dressed in silver and white armor laced with faint blue runes that pulsed like frost veins. Her expression was serene, her eyes glowing faintly with restrained power. Where Taehyung radiated silent fire, Aera was the frost that tempered it. Together, they were a contradiction that somehow felt balanced — flame and ice, strength and grace.
The soldiers whispered quietly among themselves.
"Is that the Sword of the Kingdom?"
"He's more intimidating than I imagined."
"Look at his calm face… even when he's walking into death itself."
Taehyung heard them, but he said nothing. He simply adjusted his gloves and glanced
toward his two younger brothers standing at the palace gates.
Mijin and Jung waved despite the strict gazes of the guards, and Taehyung's lips curved
slightly.
"Take care of yourselves," he said quietly as he passed them, his voice steady.
Mijin shouted back, "Come back alive, brother! We'll be waiting!"
Jung nodded, fists clenched. "Don't forget your promise!"
Taehyung chuckled under his breath — a rare, soft sound that faded as quickly as it came.
Behind him, his troops began mounting their horses. The banners of the royal army lifted into the sky, carrying the crest of the Kingdom — a golden phoenix wrapped in blue frost.
As he mounted his horse, Aera approached him, her white cloak fluttering lightly. "Are you
ready?" she asked quietly.
Taehyung looked ahead toward the open gates, where the long road stretched endlessly
toward the southern lands — the lands of blood and rebellion.
"I've been ready for a long time," he answered softly. "I'm only waiting for the world to realize
it."
Aera didn't reply, but her eyes lingered on him for a while — observing the calm line of his
jaw, the silent fire behind his gaze, and the faint tremor of exhaustion he tried to hide.
How does someone carry so much and still stand so steady? she thought. Even when he
smiles, it's as if he's bracing himself to burn.
The signal horn blew.
The great gates opened.
And the march began.
The earth trembled beneath thousands of boots and hooves. The sound was both terrifying and magnificent — a melody of war. Birds scattered from the trees as the soldiers moved in formation, led by Taehyung and Aera at the front.
From the highest tower, the queen and the crown prince watched their departure. The
queen's eyes were cold; the crown prince's lips curled into a faint smirk.
"Goodbye, brother," Yul murmured under his breath. "Let's see if your flames can save you
this time."
Far below, Taehyung's figure grew smaller as he and his troops disappeared beyond the
palace walls.
The wind brushed against his brown hair as he whispered quietly, almost to himself,
"Once again… I walk into the fire."
Beside him, Aera looked up at him — her voice soft but firm. "Then I'll be your frost."
Taehyung smiled faintly. "Then let's burn and freeze together."
The words lingered in the air as they rode onward — into the vast unknown, where fate
awaited them both.
They reached the southern border when the sun was low and the heat folded into a purple
dusk. The road had been long; the dust of the plains clung to armor and cloak like a second
skin. Ranks eased from cavalry to infantry as the land grew rougher, and the scent of salt
and dry grass mixed with the metallic tang of sweat and steel.
Taehyung rode at the head, brown hair tied back, face set in the stillness of someone who
had learned to hold storms inside. Up close he was breathtaking — not merely handsome,
but calm, the sort of man whose presence arrested breath. He wore no show of vanity; his
armor was practical, edges dulled from use, but it sat on him as if made for him alone. The
men around him moved with the small reverence soldiers give a commander who shares their winter rations and their cold nights.
Aera walked beside him on foot, pale cloak pulled tight against the evening chill. Her frost
hummed faintly from the edges of her gloves; small beads of ice gathered on the grass
where she paused, melting slowly in the dying light. Though she wore a child's frame, the
way she carried herself made the soldiers look twice — presence that was not age, but
authority.
They made camp in a gully that masked the smell of men from the open winds. Tents were
raised with practiced speed; fires were small, contained, meant for cooking and not to signal.
Taehyung moved through the camp giving quiet orders — a word here about guard rotations, a nod there about rationing. Men came to him with respect, and he took their reports without show. At dusk he walked among the messes, letting a child pull at his sleeve, letting a veteran hand his blade a quick, approving squeeze. The soldiers' loyalty had the soft, stubborn quality of something earned.
Before dawn the next day he called his captains and scouts together. They camped beneath the low overhang of rock, maps spread on a leather roll. The rebel base lay not in a single fortress, but in a scattering of earthen palisades and burned-out villages hidden among groves and ravines — a network of outposts connected by trails and couriers. That was the problem, and that was the advantage: dispersed, they were hard to pin down; scattered, they could be misled.
Taehyung listened. He did not hurry the men. Detail mattered to him now: watch-post
rotations, supply caches, where the trails widened for wagons, which ravines flooded in
heavy rain. He asked about the rebels' banners, small sigils on cloth, the cry they used to call one another by night. Little things, he said, made armies predictable.
Aera, silent, traced the map with a fingertip. The frost on her glove left a faint frosted ring on
the parchment, a ghost of cold. "They rely on scouts," she said in her soft voice, as if fact —
not strategy — was the point. "They trust no single camp." Her observation was simple and
precise.
They decided on a small strike: reconnaissance by infiltration, not open battle. The plan was a clean one because Taehyung wanted it so. No grand siege yet. He wanted answers —who commanded, where their stores were hidden, whether foreign hands strengthened them and he wanted the information quickly.
A single night, a few men, and Aera. The team was lean: two scouts who knew the ravine
trails, a pair of shadow-keen soldiers chosen for silence, Master Jiwan as a watchful backup, Aera to keep Taehyung whole if the flame within him flared, and Taehyung himself. They skirted patrols, used ravines and scrub as cover, and approached the nearest outpost where a fire smoked thin and a few silhouettes moved like ghosts.
The infiltration was precise because Taehyung had reduced it to small, simple acts of
professionalism. They cut their cloaks to match the rebels' patched browns. They walked with the gait of trudging couriers, faces shadowed. They used the language of night: not a word more, not a breath than necessary. A scout slipped ahead to test the outer line, eyes returning with the flick of a hand — two guards at the western post, a third sleeping against a supply bag. Patterns were easy to find if you watched long enough.
At the palisade's edge they found a storehouse — a lean building heaped with sacks. They
watched one courier leave for the north at moonrise: a man with a pale hand-stitched badge shaped like a wedge — the symbol of the southern insurgent leader. Guards that lingered near the main fire were talkative in drunken confidence: a loud-voiced sentry bragged of a recent haul of grain, names slipped of a caravan that had come from even farther south.
Little corroborations — a leader called Mok-Jae, a supply route that cut through a narrow
pass two days ride from their current position, and a weakness: the rebels trusted local
smugglers more than formal scouts, and smugglers had feet in town.
They overheard more than numbers. Between slurred laughter and tobacco smoke,
someone mentioned a larger force gathering in two weeks, a band from the western hills that
would join their outposts for a single strike. That strike was what the soldiers feared; it would make the rebels bold, and bold means movement, and movement meant the rebels could lash out at the province's grain stores.
Taehyung kept his face blank through the taking of these facts. He watched his men — the scouts' faces pale and strung with adrenaline — and he measured not only enemy strength but the ease of learning it. They could gather all this and return without violence. That was the point: knowledge first, blades second.
They retreated the same way they had come, shadows among shadows. When they
reached camp, the sky was paling with pre-dawn. Aera moved like a whisper at the edge of
the tent, her small hands already beginning the cool work she did best. She took Taehyung
first, closing her palms over his chest as they sat on a low bale of straw. Blue-white frost
threaded out from her touch, and the flames within him quieted; sweat on his brow cooled,
the ache behind his ribs eased by degrees until the color came back to his cheeks. The men
watched without surprise; for them it had become as normal as dawn.
Later, before the captains and a few choice ministers, they staged the debrief. The map was laid out, and the facts were set in plain terms.
The rebel leader's name: Mok-Jae.
Supplies: a primary storehouse near the northern ravine, with a second cache moved by caravan through the narrow pass in two days.
Troop estimate: scattered bands of thirty to fifty men in each outpost, with the western hill
band possibly adding an extra two hundred in a fortnight.
Weakness: reliance on smugglers and courier lines; low trust in distant scouts.
Opportunity: a courier route that, if severed, would force the rebels to consolidate — giving
the royal army a concentrated target.
It was simple intelligence. It required no siege engines or months of attrition; it required a few
well-placed strikes and a cutting of the supply thread. The captains murmured: "We can
move wagons, shadow the pass, cut the line. We can harry, then strike the hill band before
they gather. We can do this."
Master Jiwan looked to Taehyung. "We can act quickly," he said. "We can break their joining.
This is something your men can accomplish in days."
Taehyung's answer was a quiet nod. The plan formed easily because the facts were simple
and because he had not asked for glory but for clear purpose. He wanted to protect, to
prevent a larger battle that would bleed the countryside. The ministers were relieved; they
liked facts that bent into tidy strategy.
Aera, who had sat silent throughout the debrief, finally spoke once, blunt and practical. "If we sever the pass and take the storehouse, Mok-Jae cannot sustain the hill band. They will
either scatter or be forced to commit at a place we choose." Her voice had the cool iron of
someone who measured risk as frost measures warmth.