His legs gave way, and he sank against the wall, memories rising like ghosts he could no longer suppress.

He had met Yuna during the Jugeum Games.

Back then, Miye was only sixteen - an age considered one of maturity in Hwachon. It was also the year he began showing up to the public more often. Though his clothing remained androgynous, he often adorned himself with his mother's jewelry, clinging to her memory like a talisman. No, the queen, his mother, was not dead. However, it seemed as if she had never existed to him in the first place.

With his naturally delicate features and soft, rosy complexion, the world saw what it wished to see.

A woman.

Miye never corrected them. There was no need.

The Jugeum Games were held once every seven years - grand tournaments meant to draw in foreign continents, forging alliances through spectacle, blood, and trade. Hwachon's wealth did not bloom by accident; it was cultivated carefully, and the Games were its sharpest tool.

That year, Miye had been dressed in splendor.

A cream-white inner robe hugged his slender frame, layered beneath an outer silk garment embroidered with fine golden threads. On anyone else, it would have been luxurious. On him, it was transcendent.

His skin was pale as untouched snow, his long black hair falling like ink down his back - two extremes in perfect contrast. The front portion was tied back with a jade hairpin set with a blood-red gem. His mother's.

Golden earrings brushed his neck; bracelets shimmered at his wrists.

When he stepped forward for his second public appearance - standing beside Yugwon as a representative of Hwachon - the foreign crowd gasped.

"The Flower Princess," they called him.

Miye only bowed.

Beside him, Yugwon smirked, satisfied, as though admiring something he had crafted with his own hands.

At the time, they still lived together under the guise of siblings. It was only later that Miye would retreat south, ruling his own domain from behind carefully guarded walls.

That year, new continents joined the Games.

Among them was Balliard.

Representing it was Prince Esha Fardeyn.

He came from a land of sand and jewels, his eyes a striking gold like desert dunes under the sun. His bronze skin gleamed like polished copper, making his gaze all the more arresting. Black hair coiled beneath a loose white turban, his attire woven in gold and ivory.

A prince in every sense.

And the moment his eyes landed on Miye, he knew exactly what he wished to claim.

"Esha Fardeyn of Balliard," Yugwon greeted, deliberately blocking the view, then bowing courteously, silver armor glinting beneath imperial robes. "I trust you will be partaking in the Games."

"That much is certain," Esha replied, his voice deep and steady, belying his mere seventeen years.

"I look forward to facing you," Yugwon chuckled, a sharp edge beneath the mirth. "I hear you are Balliard's finest swordsman. I wonder if that title holds beyond your borders."

"You are confident," Esha said calmly.

"Perhaps the finals will decide whose reputation survives."

"Oh?" Yugwon laughed. "You already see yourself there? I admire that. But I must warn you this. Hwachon boasts the finest warriors. And I see many… interesting contenders this year."

Esha's gaze drifted briefly to Miye, then back to Yugwon.

"Then allow me to propose this," he said. "If I win, I shall take something precious from Hwachon when I depart. Should you win, I will gift you two hundred of Balliard's rarest jewels."

Yugwon smiled. Approval flickered in his eyes.

"Very well."

Thus, fate brought them to the finals.

From the elevated stands, Miye watched in silence.

Below him stood two men poised on the brink of adulthood, yet fighting as though only one of them would leave the arena alive. The air reeked of iron and smoke, the ground darkened by blood long since soaked into the earth.

Esha Fardeyn was drenched in it.

Soot and crimson streaked his bronze armor, the blood of fallen warriors clinging stubbornly to his frame. His copper headpiece sat askew, revealing eyes stained red - one swollen shut from a vicious, unforeseen strike. Yet even maimed, he refused to fall.

Opposite him stood Yugwon.

Silver armor gleamed beneath the sun, unmarred save for the blood dripping steadily from the tip of his sword. His breathing was even, his posture unshaken, as though this carnage were nothing more than a tedious chore.

With a roar torn from wounded pride, Esha charged.

Veins bulged along his arms as he swung with everything he had left. Yugwon sidestepped effortlessly, turning with fluid precision and striking Esha's back with the gilded hilt of his blade.

A wet cough followed.

Blood spilled from Esha's lips, but he did not stop.

Grinding his teeth, he forced himself upright, his lone uninjured eye lifting briefly to meet Yugwon's gaze. What he saw there froze his blood more than any wound.

Indifference.

Cold, absolute indifference, as though Esha were nothing but an insect beneath his boot, something to be crushed at leisure.

Humiliation burned deeper than pain.

With a snarl, Esha twisted, thrusting his sword backward in a desperate, reckless strike.

For the first time, Yugwon was forced to retreat. His eyes narrowed sharply, fury flaring within their depths, a red sheen bleeding along the edges of his slanted gaze. His patience snapped.

Seizing Esha's arm, Yugwon raised his blade with clear intentions.

The stadium fell silent. Then -

"That is enough!"

The voice cut through the air, neither wholly masculine nor feminine, yet unmistakable.

It was a voice that sent vibrations down his spine.

Yugwon froze.

That single heartbeat was all Esha needed.

He tore his arm free and drove his foot into Yugwon's abdomen, sending him skidding several strides back. Yugwon landed on his knees.

The outcome was clear: Esha Fardeyn of Balliard had won.

The arena erupted.

Cheers thundered across the stadium, voices hoarse with awe at the brutal magnificence of the match. Amid the chaos, Yugwon lifted his gaze to the stands, his eyes finding Miye.

Those cognac eyes shimmered like intoxicating wine, unreadable and distant.

The Jugeum Games ended days later.

At the gates of the grand palace, Hwa Yugwon stood composed, offering formal farewells to the departing dignitaries. One by one, kings and princes departed, each flanked by royal retinues.

Only Esha Fardeyn stood alone.

No king. No queen. Just a single guard at his side.

"Prince Hwa Yugwon," Esha spoke calmly, "I must admit - had it not been for the Flower Princess, I would have lost my arm that day."

Yugwon's gaze sharpened, settling on the scarred prince before him. A golden bead once adorned Esha's right eye; now it was hidden beneath a dark eye covering.

"Hah…" Yugwon turned away slightly.

Esha continued, unbothered. "Speaking of which… I do not see her."

"And why," Yugwon asked coolly, "would Hwa Miye's presence be required here?"

"Hwa Miye," Esha repeated softly, a smile touching his lips. "What a beautiful name."

"..."

"I believe," Esha added, "That her presence is quite necessary, considering the terms of our wager. Surely you remember?"

Yugwon's chest tightened. Why was Miye being dragged into this? What could this foreign prince possibly want?

His blood burned.

Before Yugwon could object, Esha spoke again, his tone sharpening.

"I gave up my eye because I am a man. Scars are tolerable." His gaze hardened. "But had you severed my arm, I would have been stripped of my right to the throne. Do you truly believe my father, the King of Balliard, would have remained silent?"

Yugwon's fists clenched. He wanted to kill him.

But every eye was upon them. He swallowed his rage, burying it deep beneath layers of royal composure.

"Then," Yugwon asked through clenched restraint, "What do you want from Hwachon before you depart?"

Esha laughed softly, "Ah… now we speak plainly."

The smile vanished.

Beneath the blazing sun, his lone eye gleamed with something sharp and dangerous.

"Bring me the Flower Princess, her highness, Hwa Miye."