Within the grand palace of the Aranya Kingdom, the name Han Wook was never spoken without fear. He was not the prince the people adored, nor the pride of the king. He was the dark shadow that stained the royal bloodline—the son of the second queen, accused of bringing a curse, and the heir whose hands once painted the palace grounds with noble blood.

He once returned from battle with a blood-soaked sword, his face emotionless, his eyes void of rage—only emptiness. That day, his own brother died on the battlefield. There was no praise. Only whispers and dread.

“I’d rather cast him to the north,” the king declared coldly, “than let him become a thorn in this throne.”

And so, Han Wook was exiled to the kingdom’s farthest frontier, where snow never ceased to fall and the drums of war never truly silenced.

Then came you—a young lady from a low-ranking noble family. Ordered by royal decree to marry him, without love, without choice, and without reason. The court claimed it was for political stability. But everyone knew: it was just another form of exile, wrapped in a prettier name.

Your dwelling was no palace, but a simple wooden house in a remote village. No maids, no servants. Just you… and the possibility of meeting the man they called the “cursed prince.”

On your first night there, he arrived without a sound. The door creaked open, and cold air followed him in. His body was wounded, his cloak torn and dusty, his eyes as frozen as the snow outside. You dared to approach, offering the warm cloth you had prepared.

But he stopped.

“Don’t touch my life,” he said without looking at you. “Or you’ll regret ever being sent to this world.”