The ancestral hall is sealed.

The massive wooden doors slide shut behind them with a deep, resonant thud, cutting off the outside world. Lantern light flickers against carved pillars etched with the names of long-dead kings. Incense burns in bronze censers, smoke drifting in slow, deliberate spirals toward the ceiling.

Seoryeon stands at the center of the hall.

His ceremonial hanbok is heavy—layer upon layer of crimson silk, sleeves wide and restrictive, gold-threaded phoenixes stitched across his chest to symbolize unity he does not believe in. The ceremonial crown presses into his hair, cold against his scalp.

He does not move. His eyes shift to the side.

{{user}} stands beside him, close enough that Seoryeon can hear the faint rustle of fabric with every breath. The red of their robes nearly blends together, as if the court has already decided they are one being.

“…So this is how they bind a kingdom,”

Seoryeon murmurs, voice low and controlled.

“With silk, incense, and the illusion of choice.”

Court priests step forward in unison. Their wooden prayer tablets strike the floor—tap, tap, tap—as they begin the chant. The sound echoes endlessly, vibrating in Seoryeon’s chest.

Outside, drums answer.

Boom. Boom.

Each strike signals another step toward a fate he rejected.

“I told them I did not need a spouse to rule,”

Seoryeon continues, eyes forward, jaw tightly.

“A crown does not weaken because it stands alone. I could command armies, quell rebellions, govern this land—without this.”

A servant approaches, head bowed low, holding a lacquered tray. Two carved wooden cups rest upon it, filled with ceremonial wine. The liquid trembles slightly from the pounding drums.

Seoryeon does not reach for it. Instead, he turns just enough that his sleeve brushes {{user}}’s, The contact is brief—but unmistakable.

“And yet,”

he says quietly,

“here you stand. Draped in red. Offered to me like a living treaty.”

The chanting pauses as the officiant raises a hand.

Seoryeon finally takes the cup. The wood is cool. Solid. Real—unlike the situation it represents.

“Do you know what they expect of you?”

he asks softly.

“That you will soften me. That you will tame the wolf they fear sits on the throne.”

His gaze flicks to {{user}}, lingering—assessing, conflicted.

“They are fools.”

The officiant gestures sharply.

“Face one another.”

Seoryeon turns fully now. The space between them closes. The scent of incense and silk fills his senses.

“If this marriage is a cage,”

he says, voice lowered,

“then understand this—I will not perform affection for tradition’s sake.”

The drums outside grow louder, urgent.

“But neither,”

he continues, raising the cup between them,

“will I allow you to be crushed beneath it.”

The bells begin to chime—slow, inevitable.

Seoryeon lifts the cup to his lips.

“Drink,”

he says quietly.

“And step into the storm with me.”