Chapter 1: The Carriage Ride into Oblivion
The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestones, a rhythmic crunch that felt like bones breaking beneath her. Do-yeon pressed her fingertips to the chilled glass, watching the last grey spires of her childhood home—or the place everyone called her childhood home—dissolve into the evening mist. It wasn’t a feeling of loss that hollowed out her chest. It was the absence of feeling anything at all.
“It gets easier,” a voice said from the opposite seat.
Prince Choi Seung-heon. He hadn’t spoken since they’d departed. His presence filled the shadowed interior of the carriage, a silent, watchful giant. The fading dusk light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes fixed on her, not on the vanishing landscape.
“Does it?” Her own voice sounded foreign to her, too soft. “Or do you just get better at pretending?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “A little of both, probably.”
He shifted, the leather of his gloves creaking as he reached forward to adjust a velvet cushion near her elbow. His movement was careful, deliberate, as if she were a startled bird. It should have annoyed her. Instead, a strange, quiet warmth seeped through her numbness. There was a familiarity in his watchfulness, a whisper in her blood she couldn’t decipher.
“You look at me,” she said, turning fully from the window to face him, “like you’re waiting for me to remember something.”
The smile vanished. His gaze didn’t waver. “I am.”
The admission hung between them, stark and honest. The carriage hit a rut, jostling them. She grabbed the strap by the window for balance; his hand shot out, steadying her arm before she even swayed. His touch was firm, his fingers warm even through the silk of her sleeve. A jolt, like static, raced up her arm. Not fear. Something else. Something older.
He released her instantly, sitting back. The moment fractured.
“What should I be remembering?” she pushed. This was the game, every day for the past year since she’d woken up in a sun-drenched room with no name, no history, only a beautiful stranger calling her ‘princess’. Everyone treated her with kid gloves, speaking in half-truths. Only he seemed capable of holding her gaze when the questions got sharp.
Seung-heon looked out his own window now, at the deep purple woods beginning to swallow the road. “The taste of the air right before a storm. The weight of a specific book in your hands. The way your mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening.” He glanced back, his eyes softening. “Not wars or treaties or bloodlines. The small things first.”
Bloodlines. The word echoed strangely in the plush silence. Her ears felt hot. “You knew my mother?”
“I did.”
“And you won’t tell me about her.”
“Not yet.”
Frustration bubbled up, hot and sudden. “Why? Because I’m broken?” The word cracked in the air. It was the thing nobody said, the truth that filled every quiet, pitying glance. She was a vase glued back together, empty, waiting for the water that would make the cracks bloom again.
Seung-heon leaned forward, the distance between them shrinking. The scent of him—sandlewood and frost—filled her senses. “You are not broken.” His voice was low, a vow carved from stone. “You are dormant. There is a fire in you, Do-yeon. I’ve seen the embers. When you’re ready, I will be the one to help you breathe it back to life, no matter what it consumes.”
The intensity in his words stole her breath. It was too much. It was the only thing that had felt real in a year. She wanted to argue, to demand more, but the threat of tears choked her. She looked away, back to the deepening dark outside.
They rode in silence again, but it was different now. Charged. She was acutely aware of his every movement, the sound of his breathing, the way shadows clung to the hard planes of his face. The carriage lanterns swung, casting crazy patterns that danced over his hands. For a fleeting second, in the jagged light, his fingers seemed to blur. She blinked, and they were still again, resting on his knee.
“We’ll stop at the next wayhouse,” he said, his tone shifting back to the practical. “It’s a long journey to the capital. You should rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You will be.”
He was right. The emotional toll of the departure, the weight of his words, pulled at her. The rhythmic rocking of the carriage became a lullaby she didn’t want to hear. Her eyelids grew heavy. The world outside turned into a smear of charcoal and ink.
She dreamed.
Not of her mother’s humming, but of a different sound. A low, rhythmic drumming. A pulse. And a scent, rich and metallic and alive, cutting through the fog of lavender and parchment in the carriage. In the dream, she was chasing it, that scent, through endless dark corridors. Her body felt different—stronger, faster, a hunger coiling in her gut so sharp it was pain.
She woke with a start, a gasp caught in her throat.
The carriage had stopped. They were in a courtyard, the wayhouse lanterns painting the stone walls in oily, wavering light. Seung-heon was already standing outside, offering his hand to help her down. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes scanned her face with a rapid, barely-concealed urgency.
“You cried out,” he said, his voice tight.
“A dream,” she murmured, taking his hand. Her skin was icy; his was like a furnace. The contrast was shocking. The lingering dream-scent, that coppery tang, seemed to cling to her. She looked at the dark outline of the surrounding forest, then back at him.
A tiny, bright drop of crimson stood out on the stark white of his collar, just below his jaw. Fresh.
Her breath hitched. The world narrowed to that single point of red.
He followed her gaze, his free hand coming up to touch the spot. He looked at the faint red smudge on his glove. His eyes met hers, holding a storm of something she couldn’t name—regret, warning, defiance.
“Do-yeon,” he began, his voice a low rumble.
But she was already pulling her hand from his, stepping back onto the cold cobblestones, her heart hammering a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs. The night air tasted different now. It tasted of secrets, and of blood.