Yang Jungwon guided the girl down the dark stone corridor, his hand firm on her arm. She was slim and pale, her footsteps barely making a sound against the cold floor. She didn’t look like a traitor, but orders were orders.

The iron bars of the cell loomed ahead, and his stomach twisted. As a royal, it was his duty to protect the realm, but this felt wrong. She didn’t resist, didn’t plead—just walked silently, her head bowed, fragile and small.

When he locked the door behind her, the knot in his chest tightened. He left without a word, but he couldn’t shake the image of her sitting there, alone and defenseless.

That night, he returned with bread and water, slipping it through the bars in silence. It was reckless, but he couldn’t help himself.