ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ ♕ ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

┗━━ 𝓦𝓸𝓸𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰'𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥 ━━┛

The morning arose without the flutter of a word. The kingdom was oddly still at such an hour, likely laden with workers and the scent of breakfast to flutter about the vacant halls. Wooyoung didn't care to eat at the grand table beside his mother, residing within his room once more, looking at his reflection within his enlarged mirror. The mirror was reflecting the morning sun just barely, the gold frame shimmering lightly in the light that shone inwards. Wooyoung shifts the weight between his feet, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the delicate golden buttons of his blouse, chewing on the interior of his cheek as he studies the appearance of someone he could barely recognize.

He knew who he was on the inside, but this facade that he was having to portrait forcibly was weighing over him, like a cloud hovering above an unsuspecting kingdom. The clouds were dark, laden with pouring rain and booms of thunder, and rather than fleeing inside to escape the onslaught of rain, Wooyoung stood outside, damp and drenched from the water pouring over him, threading through the long locks of his ebony hair and down the sensitive skin of his face. He felt it all; every tear, every streak, every surge of emotion. Even as he stood there in the mirror, perfectly dry and unscathed by a threat of rain, he couldn't help but feel as if he was already drowning in this.

Ji-soo was moving about the space, her features seemingly worn with exhaustion, almost as if she hadn't slept in a few days. Yet, her movements were far from mechanical. She was practiced, moving fluidly, folding garments and preparing Wooyoung's crown for the usual polish it received every morning. The other ladies, ones of which Wooyoung rarely saw except for cleaning days such as these, also moved about the space with an act of ease, making his bed and tidying up his space, though it was far from disorderly.

Wooyoung sighs, his chest subtly heaving as he tries to decompress before the morning would be subdued with stress. He had always appreciated this quiet, taking a moment to soak in what he felt to be a sense of normalcy. The birds chirping, the subtle whisk of clouds loosely hanging above his kingdom, the palette of colors that shifted with every rising inch of the sun and descent of the moon; it was serene, to say the least. Yet, the moment that crown would adorn his head, he would feel all of the pressure his father once wore, knowing that he and he alone lay responsible for the lives that were led far beyond the confines of his castle.

It was almost as if Ji-soo knew, or at the very least, understood, all of the emotions raging through Wooyoung's mind. She was a quiet accomplice, moving about her tasks, not bothering to ask meaningless questions that would fail to calm the tide of pressures looming just beneath the surface. Wooyoung was trained to be like this; to remain expressionless and even-keeled, to represent the enigmatic grace of those who were raised with poise. He knew people were always watching him, studying his every movement and shift of expression, observing for a single lapse that would crack in his armor, bleeding through with whatever vulnerabilities would present themselves. He knew better than to crack, especially with an evening ahead of him like this.

Though, as his eyes trailed upwards, looking into the depth of his own soul, he found himself feeling a little less than nothing. He was steel, cold as ice, immune to the threats of the day, even amidst all of the chaos bustling around him. It all faded away, just like the stars had with every rise of the sun, and in the same way that the fog dissipates after hugging the grass so tightly. He knew that Ji-soo could see this, even if she pretended to not pay attention. She was always watching, always in tune with whatever Wooyoung's mood had been, trying to prepare him for the worst, while embracing the best. She felt like a mother he hadn't deserved, while his actual mother seemed to be the remnants of a stranger, glued in a cast of someone who pretended to care.

He would never openly admit it, but the moment his father had gotten sick, his mother just wasn't his mother anymore. She was different, stepping out of her role and leaving the duties that were expected of her, giving room for Ji-soo to become a place of comfort. Wooyoung didn't wish to place so much on the woman's shoulders, but she accepted it all, willingly and without a word of hesitance.

But, as time would have it, Wooyoung's moment of peace was interrupted by a rather loud knock on his door, followed by the creak and loud opening of them afterwards. He glances to his right, raising a brow, watching as his mother strides inside with a rather irritated glimmer.

"Are you preparing well?" She asks, her tone commanding his attention, lacking any sort of empathy or motherly care.

"I am getting dressed, am I not?" Wooyoung responds curtly, turning his gaze away, looking at himself in the mirror once more.

"There is still so much yet to do, and I have not seen you once in the midst of planning, glued to these hellish walls in an act of resilience–"

"You act as if my resilience is of forced will," Wooyoung replies, taking a breath, smoothing out his shirt and collar before turning to look at his mother fully, taking in the grandeur of her attire and presentation, wondering why she felt the need to wear such a commanding dress so early in the morning.

Her skirt was rather large, the petticoat ruffled outwards with golden details, fitted with lace and floral patterns, curled and hemmed appropriately to settle against the small of her waist. Her hair was curled and pinned up, off of her neck with golden earrings in the lobes of her ears. Her crown, smaller and adorned with red jewels, sat atop her head, pinned into her hair, completing the ensemble with a flair of the royal hues.

"You are defiant on purpose, my son." She smiles, though forced and not quite reaching her eyes. Her hands move to clasp in front of her, taking in a small breath as she steps closer, her eyes scaling Wooyoung's attire from head to toe. "By the God's, you are not even dressed appropriately–!"

"Can you just give me a moment of peace?" Wooyoung asks, moving his hand down, adjusting his cuff, folding and rolling it backwards. "Why must you insist on being such a royal ache in my side at all times?"

"I am your mother, mind your tongue," she hisses, losing her usual composure, allowing the faintest slip of her attitude to seep off of her tongue. Wooyoung raises a brow, deeply uninterested, glancing around the room to see if any of their staff had minded the distaste clinging to his mother's tone, but they remained rather robotic, consumed by their tasks, too focused on their diligence to bother worrying about the conversation. However, noticing her tone, his mother straightens her back, gently releasing a breath she must've been holding before she turns, looking at Ji-soo.

"Leave us," she commands, her gaze subtly piercing. Ji-soo turns, nodding her head, silently glancing around to her ladies. "At once. Please, Ji-soo."

"Yes, your grace," Ji-soo responds politely, setting down the items in her hand before giving a curtsey, ushering her ladies out of the room. Wooyoung watches them leave, swallowing the disdain lingering on his tongue as he spots Mingyu and Minho standing guard, closing the doors behind the ladies as they rush out.

"Must you be so rude?" Wooyoung asks, walking away from the mirror, striding to his large dresser, swinging the doors open. "You ask for me to be ready by a certain time, then come to ruin the harmony of my morning? You are quite preposterous."

"Jung Wooyoung–" she sighs, raising a hand, her fists clenching in a rush to subside the anger before it consumes her. "Why must you act so damn defiant? Why can you not be the son I envisioned?"

"Sorry?" Wooyoung asks, turning to look at his mother, his hands now paused as he sifts through his jackets, in search for the final piece of his attire. "You expect me to just bend the knee to every single wish you conjure?"

"You behold expectations, and you must follow suit. You may come to realize that your efforts to be so dismissive will be met in vain. I did not raise you to be so callous, rash and heartless. You are the Prince, Wooyoung!"

"You act as if I am the one who has slain my father," he retorts, stepping away from his wardrobe. "I act a certain way because I am my own being, with my own desires and wishes to behold. I care not for what you want from me, as I already know what is expected of me. But for once, I wish to seek a morning of peace before I am to marry someone I do not even know."

"Oh, by the God's, Wooyoung–" she exasperates, a breath fleeing from her lips as she dramatically turns, facing Wooyoung's mirror, taking in another breath before she turns once more. "You act as if you have not been aware of your destiny this entire time. You knew what was to become of your status the moment your father lay dead in his grave."

"My father was murdered–" Wooyoung sneers, raising his hand, pointing at his mother. "Do not just stand there and act so unbothered by the fact that your husband's murderer is still out there, likely coming for my own throat next."

"We hung the man responsible!" She responds, raising her voice. "You are ridiculous! You are the Prince of Etheria and to behave in such a manner that belies who you truly are is quite obscene."

"You hung the man you thought to be responsible, not I." Wooyoung's jaw clenches, his hand falling away, drifting back to his side, a shaky breath sinking back into his lungs. "He is still looming, like a beast beneath the waves of a restless ocean tide. He is still out there, and my throne is at stake."

"What throne?" She asks, gesturing blindly into the air before her, looking incredulously confused. "The throne you defiantly refused to get married for? The same throne you chastise and ignore because of your own selfish desires?"

"How dare you–" Wooyoung begins, but his mother cuts him off.

"How dare I? For what? Protecting you? Giving you everything that you need to become King of Etheria? For simply being your mother and guiding you through this hellish realm we consider life?" She nearly yells, her eyes brimming with sudden tears, causing Wooyoung to re-evaluate, swallowing his anger. "It is not my fault your father perished, Wooyoung– I. . . I loved him. Maybe not at first, as no marriage is quite perfect, but. . . I did. He was the father of my child, the only person who ever dared to take a chance on me in a competitive society filled with meaningless prowess and sex. But he truly saw me, and here I began to think that you could fit into the shoes he had left for you, to wear that crown with a sense of pride in knowing that you would make your father proud but–"

She pauses, her tone shaky and quiet, a sudden truth bleeding from her lips. "You will never be like your father."

Wooyoung's breath hitches, his heart cracking, revealing the frail layers of a shell just beneath. He tried desperately to live up to his mother's expectations, to be the son that his father would desire for him to be, to be the ruler that Etheria truly needed; yet, he felt anything but. He thought of himself to be too young, too unruly, too chaotic, maybe a bit too rash in some thoughts, though he tried to harbor the weight of everything he withheld. It was a tightrope to linger upon, stuck between a place of needing to be himself, yet remaining glued to a facade of someone he barely recognized.

The crown, though not physically heavy, felt to be made up of cement and bricks, cast in stone and heavier jewels, weighing down not only his every step, but his every breath. He was too young for this, too naive, too lackluster. Surely there was someone else cut out for this? Perhaps his mother, or some other native born of Etherian blood with their mother tongue, raised as a lord in a rather royal household? Wooyoung knew he was delirious in hoping for such, but that was all he had. Well, that and a lonely bedroom within a vacant castle, harboring his isolating thoughts and behaviors well beneath the path of many stars.

But to hear his fear be spoken aloud, to hear that he truly will never be his father, crushed him in a way he hadn't thought possible. He wasn't made of ice, nor was he truly heartless, but receiving such a sentiment after engaging in a rather passionate argument with his mother left his heart agape, bleeding out in the palms of his hand, seizing and beating, struggling to just be.

He knew he wasn't his father. He wasn't poetic in his every word, graceful in his every step, gallant in his every breath; and yet he strove to be the very thing he wasn't. It was what his mother wanted, what the kingdom needed, and every portion of himself that he tried so deeply to just hide withered away, hidden beneath the mask of a crown and cloak. His father was always so dutiful to the council and the crown, putting the needs of his people before the front of his own, masking the pain of his illness until it no longer spared him the strength to even stand. He crumbled before his people, breathing out a final wish, hoping to instill some patience and wisdom into that of his own son. Yet, as Wooyoung stands there, before his mother, all he can hear is the words of his own father, the cries of his mother, the silence of the entire kingdom as the bell rung, signaling the departure of their dearest King.

Lead them well, Prince Jung Wooyoung.

But what kind of a leader could he ever truly be? What was to come of him if war was to let loose? What were to happen if the castle caught fire and all of its people died, or if an illness came and swept over the nation, destroying the immune systems of those who were healthy, killing those who were weak and unable to function? Wooyoung could feel his jaw clench tighter, the threat of tears surging to the surface, the sudden tightening of his chest; all a precursor to emotions he knew his mother would yell at him for.

"I am not my father," he all but whispers back, clenching his fist. "I likely never will be. But I am his son, and as heir to the throne and future King, hear my words mother–"

He takes a step forwards, tilting his head up slightly, watching as his mother stands defiantly before him. "I will not be your plaything in a game of thrones. I am your son, and I am but a person in a world as vast as ours. You plea for respect and dignity, but you yourself withhold none. Treat others as you wish to be treated–" he pauses, watching as his mother's face tightens with anger. "Isn't that right, your highness?"

She's quiet, not for long, but long enough for Wooyoung to fear that he'd gone too far in his absent anger. Suddenly she speaks, her tone dismissive yet irritated, clearly not having liked the words Wooyoung carelessly spat in a fit of his own anger. "Prepare yourself for your guests. Not more than an hour are you to be in this room."

Without waiting for Wooyoung to respond, she turns on her heel and looks to her own guards, waving to them in a motion to follow. Wooyoung simply stands there, his fists down at his sides, expression falling, nearly at the cusp of falling apart as he watches his mother simply turn and leave without bothering to look back.

He knew he'd have no chance at reconciling every single fracture within this stagnant relationship between himself and his mother, and he couldn't quite find it within himself to worry about the smaller details. He wanted to focus on himself, on this continual downward spiral of a web he'd entangled himself in, on the idea that he'd soon be wed to an unknown spouse, bedding that someone with a love that didn't feel quite as resolute as the one he knew he couldn't have.

There were so many things to finish, to meet and to prepare, but all Wooyoung could do was stand there, messing with his sleeves, delicately tracing his fingers over the golden buttons adoring his silk shirt. The room was oddly still now, left without the essence of a voice or a mere breath, laden with the unknown but so profoundly familiar that all Wooyoung wanted to do was sit there, standing idly, listening as the world around him moved without a care as he stood in the fear of his own reflection.

The sudden burst of a few knocks draws him away from his reverie, dragging his attention towards the familiar lines of his chamber doors as they slowly part open, revealing a sight of someone he hadn't expected to see quite this early.

"Sir San," Wooyoung says with a breath, clasping his hands together in front of him. "I did not know to expect you."

"Forgive the interruption, your grace," San says, bowing his head down, the doors behind him closing with a subtle click.

"I do not mind the intrusion," Wooyoung replies in a calm tone, his lips graced with a subtle smile. "What brings you to my chambers?"

"I came to check on you," he responds quietly, approaching with a few timid steps before stopping, left with a respectable distance between them. "I know this morning worried you quite a bit after our talk last night."

"I will admit. . . I am the slightest bit on edge–" Wooyoung pauses, wetting his lips, his hands moving absently to fuss about with the cuffs of his shirt, almost a bit nervously. "My mother is on my ass about this entire ball, and I am sure that the council will have my head on a pike if I do not find a suitor after all of the stress of this."

"Can you not rule alone?" San asks, curious and slightly probing, though Wooyoung hardly minded.

"Have you ever seen a King rule alone?" Wooyoung muses, raising a brow, trying to lighten the mood. "What King would I be if I were to take on no marriage? To have no one uphold the crown in the event of my death?"

"Please, my Prince, no harm will ever come to you–"

"But we cannot be sure," Wooyoung attests, walking a few steps closer, slightly swaying in his walk. "Sunghoon is on the prowl, watching my every move, waiting for his moment to strike like some sort of vicious animal."

"Why are you so adamant on Sunghoon coming here to ruin all of this progress?" San tilts his head, taking another step closer, causing Wooyoung to slowly smile with a shift in his posture. "You really seem to believe that I would ever let anyone harm a hair on my Prince's head."

"Mm, would you?" Wooyoung teases right back, allowing his tone to drop into a sultry murmur. "It is your sworn duty to remain at my side from this day onward."

"And I will always be right here, giving you everything that I am, protecting you at all costs, even if it costs me my life."

San's tone, although genuine, strikes a cord of earnesty within Wooyoung. He's taken aback, although brief and quietly, yet he can feel himself drifting into familiar feelings that were all but welcome. He knew what this was, and though he promised himself to remain honest to San and San only, this sentiment was a burden to acknowledge. He was placing San in danger by just knowing, and hearing that he'd so willingly risk his life to protect every essence of Wooyoung's own, that furthered the risk of simply letting the words roll off of his tongue.

"Make me another oath," Wooyoung says quietly, listening as the room fell back into a sudden chilled quiet, smothered in light from the rising sun. Wooyoung lingers closer, his teeth sinking down into his bottom lip, his left hand reaching out, just barely grazing up against San's. "Swear to me that you will always be safe. No matter what we may face in this reality or the next; I want you here, beside me, in a way that no one else may entertain."

"But what of your safety?"

"What of it?" Wooyoung returns, brazenly reaching his hand across the distance between them, gently tugging San closer, feeling the cool metallic press of his armor against his fingers as his hand raises, keeping himself grounded against the flurry of emotions tangling themselves further into a web of the unknown. "As long as you remain at my side, San, I fear nothing. You are my strength– do you not see that?"

"I do," he replies, his voice low in a near-whisper. "I see you and I hear you, my Prince, but if harm may come to you when I could have prevented it, I will have failed the promise I swore to you to begin with."

"Trust me–" Wooyoung pleads, inching closer, curling his fingers around San's. "I beg of you to just trust me, San. The times that are coming are anything but easy, but I wish to bear them with you."

Before he was even given the chance, Wooyoung nestles closer, his hand pressed to the armor adorning San's chest, their hands slowly entwining as the distance between them runs null. Wooyoung brushes his nose against San's, feeling the male's warm breath pressing against his lips, a smile slowly curling on that of his own.

"Why must you resist this?" Wooyoung mutters, squeezing San's hand. "Why will you not just trust me?"

San doesn't answer, his words seemingly lost against the flurry of emotions clinging to the space delicately hanging between them. Wooyoung's smile only widens, his lips brushing up against San's in the ghost-like essence of a chaste kiss, leaving San to lean in closer just as Wooyoung leaned away.

"Tell me that you trust me, Sannie," Wooyoung mumbles quietly. "Even amongst everything we are to face in the coming days, please just offer me this. Offer me your trust."

For a moment, but a brief lapse in time, does San remain silent. Wooyoung watches him from beneath his lashes, biting his tongue, praying for the essence of San's ever bountiful trust. Their eyes, locked into the depth of one another, seem to glimmer over with something unfamiliar; an ounce of a new emotion that Wooyoung felt mirrored within his own. Adoration maybe, affection seemingly too benign in comparison. Just as Wooyoung was beginning to fear that his plea was being met with deaf ears, San speaks, breaking apart their serene silence with the utterance of an oath.

"I do trust you," San whispers back, closing his eyes as he leans closer, their foreheads now gently pressed against one another. "I trust you so much that it scares me."

"Do not fear the unknown when you are with me, Sannie," Wooyoung responds tenderly, running his hand up and away from San's chest, now cradling his jaw. "I will protect you with everything I have, just as you would do for me."

Wordlessly, San closes the distance, pressing his lips to Wooyoung's in a languid, tender kiss. Everything that he seemed to want to express had been laced into their kiss. Wooyoung threaded his hand through San's red tresses, pulling him closer, ignoring all of the noises of the world around them as it seemingly fell away, leaving them standing alone amongst a pedestal, lost in the abyss of their own tumultuous romance.

They break apart, albeit breathless, but Wooyoung can feel San's eyes upon him. He slowly glances up, brushing his thumb against San's cheek, feeling as if time itself would still, locking them away from the shadows of this realm and the next. Wooyoung wanted to live and breathe in this moment for as long as the universe would allow them, though it felt to be but a fruitless wish.

"I mustn't take up more of your time," San says reluctantly. "I will be at your post today. If you are ever not sure, or ever need reassurance, just find my gaze from across the room. In that, you and I will be together, even amongst a crowd of people."

Wooyoung nods, slowly releasing San's hand from his own, hesitantly beginning to inch away. "I will look for you. Please call for the maids as you make your leave."

"At once, your grace," San replies curtly, smiling small, offering a slight bow of his head.

"Oh– and San?" Wooyoung calls, biting his lip as the knight pauses in his steps before trekking away, waiting for his Prince to speak. "It is in your gaze that I find peace in knowing just how safe I am to remain."

San offers another smile, but this time, this one felt. . . different. He turns and he walks away, every shift of his armor breaking the terse silence that became of Wooyoung's room the moment the door had sealed them away from the rest of the world. San seemed to be more open, more willing, more accepting of a future where they could just be. Sure, they were hiding an affair beneath the nose of his council and mother, but what did it matter? Wooyoung felt something strong for San, albeit selfishly, and now having entrapped himself within San's heart, it felt almost as if San's eyes, for the first time in a long time, withheld a hope that their relationship could foresee brighter days. Or, maybe Wooyoung was a bit selfish in hoping so, but there was a possibility that for once, San was mirroring the depth of Wooyoung's hidden testament, only allowing himself to show in it within his every glance and breath, giving his actions the power of words that remain unsaid, lacing an adoring feeling into his every action in the fear that the words would simply rush free, entangling them further into a web they weren't sure they could free themselves from.

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As the cusp of evening took over the grandeur of the sun, Wooyoung found himself standing next to Yunho, making last minute preparations for their ball. The scene was set, amongst a flurry of floral arrangements, golden decor, gallant red rugs and an obscure amount of wine. Everything seemed to be flowing perfectly, moving in tandem with each and every task collected on their feather-written list, alphabetically labeling the details of such an arrangement, yet finding that nearly everything had been crossed off of their list.

"Just a few more moments," Yunho comments, looking down at the paper in his hands. "Our staff has handled everything to perfection, your grace. The evening is set up for complete success."

"See to every guest," Wooyoung comments, leaning closer. "I may be a bit. . . distracted. I need to try and lay my eyes upon a good suitor for this kingdom, as well as future alliances. Please keep watch in the places I may lay blind to."

"Yes, your grace," Yunho responds coyly, bowing his head, clasping his hands behind his back, the paper still firmly held within his grasp.

Wooyoung's gaze shifts to move about the room, watching as his staff inspects and hustles about, carrying floral arrangements and other assortments to their proper places, completing the decorations for the festivities to the best of their capabilities. He turns on his heel, facing a rather large painting of his father resting in his throne, the same crown Wooyoung was now wearing adorned to his head, settled next to that of his wife. He looked overly stoic then, too composed and poised for his own good, almost as if the entire world was sat upon his shoulders. He was always so gallant in everything he had done, refusing to bend the knee, never turning his cheek, taking the higher road and demanding respect when other kingdoms refused to give him what he required of them. He was feared, but in all of the right ways. He could be your friend, a shoulder to supply resources from, or he could be a fierce enemy, striking at the cusp of midnight, slaying all of those who laid in their beds unaware of the impending storm.

King Jung Tae was everything Wooyoung had aspired to be, but even as he looked at the portrait of his late father, he found himself wondering if that was truly what he wanted. To rule with an iron grip, to be feared by his enemies and adored by those he ruled. To be wed to someone he barely knew, to lead a kingdom he felt undeserving of, to have such a large target painted across his neck, awaiting his enemies even in the depth of sleep.

His eyes trail downwards, hesitating, stuck listening to the hollow rumblings of thoughts that came to pass. Was it all worth it if it made him feel as numb as this? Was any of this sacrifice worth the ultimate price? Would the weight of this crown ever become any less burdensome than it was currently?

He didn't have the answers, nor did he seek them, sat alone and stuck at a crossroads, feeling unable to dictate himself to a proper pathing. He wanted to venture elsewhere, to be free from the confines of chains that glued him to such a precarious role, yet he remained stuck in place, panicking about where his next steps were to be placed. He just wanted to be himself, but most of all, he wanted to love openly and without fear, to be cherished and to feel the things he felt robbed of as a child. He wanted security and safety, to be held at the cusp of night and adored in the shadow of the morning; he just wanted to feel loved.

He ached and he craved so much that it simply felt anything but human to desire such a thing. Yet, as he sits there, feeling the gaze from his father's painting stuck to the very crown atop his head, he settles into a resolve, knowing that he needs to be stronger than this. He needed to bury himself deep, to forget the simple surge of need in terms of becoming but a person for a lowly day, to embrace his future as King of Etheria, even if he wanted anything but.

In the chaos of his own mind, Wooyoung turns, hiding away from the shame of his father's deceased and painted gaze, looking around the room until he found the eyes from those of who he sought. San.

A place of solace, a moment to breathe, a lapse in time to just exist; San was someone who just understood based upon a glance, and in their shared gaze wove a deeper connection of intimacy, something far beyond the confines of conjoined bodies and languid kisses. This was deeper, possibly a calling to one another's heart, a plea to come closer. But, Wooyoung stood still, soaking in San's tender gaze, relishing in the comfort he found from within. He could hear Yunho vaguely speaking off to the right, too busy in his own given tasks to worry about the lingering stare that Wooyoung was giving to his own knight. But he couldn't be too fucked to care.

Wooyoung needed a moment of reprieve. A measly second away from the pain of this crown and away from his mother, to flee the confines of his suitors that were surely to appear by the door with the clashing sound of hooves. He wanted to run to San, to grab him by the hand and rush into the stables, to gather their horses and to flee into the woods, lost amongst the branches and flora to lavish their bodies in adoring touches and lucid kisses. Wooyoung wanted to disappear from all of this, to finally feel the pressures give way and to just be a fucking person for once, but as he was feeling himself give in to such desires, the main doors creak open, followed by a bellowing welcome that came from Mingyu's lips.

Wooyoung turns away, his posture straightening, his lips moving away from the smile that slowly crept onto his lips, watching as a tall male steps through the threshold, a genuine grin appearing across his lips. His eyes were blue, his hair a deep umber. The clothes he wore were loose-fitted, flowy in all of the right places, accented by hints of blue and gold, laden with whites while his slacks were a deep hue of black. Wooyoung feels his breath hitch, his eyes raising to meet those of a gaze he's never crossed paths with before. He wasn't sure if he was surprised or simply shocked to find this suitor to be alluring in all of the most infuriating ways, but also, he could feel his heart yearning, screaming almost, to simply turn and leave. For the first time, he truly feels at war with himself, stuck in a place of longing to be himself and knowing what duties he must obtain.

Mingyu speaks, though Wooyoung isn't sure if Mingyu's voice is any louder than the pulse thumping away in the sensitive cavern of his own throat. "Prince Jung Wooyoung, I am pleased to welcome Prince Choi Yeonjun of Auretica into the realm of Etheria."