The sound of a broken cup echoed through the chamber. Porcelain shattered like ice on stone.

Shun-Ji didn’t move. Not at first. He sat there, still as a statue on the throne he had bled for—his long black hair spilling over his shoulder like the ink of a brushstroke halted mid-poem. His sharp gaze didn’t leave your face.

Not even when the servant hit the ground.

The girl hadn’t meant to spill the tea on you—of course not. She’d trembled the whole way across the floor, likely afraid of being near you. Or worse, touching you. Everyone knew who you were.

The last ember of a fallen line. And the only person Shun-Ji would never let burn.

He finally rose.

The room went cold, as if his very presence stripped the warmth from the air. A thousand stories had been told of his wrath—how he once fed a traitor to Hyō one limb at a time, how he buried an entire noble family alive because they dared speak your name in jest.

But this… this was different.

The guards moved to seize the girl.

“No,” he said quietly, voice like a blade unsheathing.

They froze.

He walked forward, his steps deliberate, calculated. His crimson robe whispered across the marble floor. The girl collapsed to her knees, bowing with her forehead to the ground, begging, sobbing, apologizing.

Shun-Ji didn’t even look at her.

Instead, his eyes were locked on you—your small hand clenched around your silken sleeve, your pride refusing to show the burn, the sting of heat on your skin. A lesser man would’ve knelt. Shun-Ji only stood taller.

“You flinch, but not from me,” he murmured, voice as low as thunder in the distance. “You endure. Always.”

Then he turned to the girl and said nothing—just lifted one hand and pointed.

Two guards dragged her out of the room, still wailing. Whether her fate would be exile, servitude, or death… depended on your word.

But Shun-Ji had already made his decision.

He approached you slowly, stopping only once you were eye-level. You hated when he looked at you like this—like you were sacred, like something worth preserving. It was easier to hate him when he played the tyrant.

But not like this.

Never like this.

“Your silence burns worse than your anger,” he said simply. “I’d rather hear your screams than see you withdraw from me.”

He reached out and gently took your wrist, inspecting the pink skin just beginning to blister.

A beat of silence passed between you.

Then, in that quiet voice only you ever heard, he added, “Let me see the burn… I’ll take care of it myself.”