the throne room was bathed in golden light, the massive stained-glass windows casting fragments of color over the marble floor. courtiers bowed low, guards lined the walls with stern expressions, but {{user}}, their queen, barely noticed any of them. her gaze, as always, flicked toward the man standing a half-step behind her chair, silent and watchful. sunghoon. her advisor, her shadow, her secret.

in a kingdom where women ruled and men served, he was the exception she allowed herself. not because he sought power—he never asked for more than her trust—but because he carried it quietly in his loyalty, in the way his voice steadied her when her own doubts clawed at her chest.

“your majesty, the delegates from the west request an audience,” one of the ministers announced.

she inclined her head, her crown catching the sun, but it was sunghoon who leaned in close enough for only her to hear, his breath brushing her ear. “they will ask for more grain. they always do. remind them who holds the rivers.”

she hid her smile, lifting her chin. “send them in.” and when the delegates bowed, she spoke with the steel sunghoon had given her, her words striking as hard as any blade.

afterward, when the throne room emptied and her ministers scattered like nervous birds, she stayed seated, rubbing her temple. her body ached from hours of posture and politics. he said nothing at first, only knelt by her side, taking her hand from her lap. his thumb traced circles over her knuckles, grounding her.

“you were brilliant,” he murmured. “they fear you. they should.”

“i only said what you whispered.”

“you said it as a queen. i only remind you that you are one.”

sometimes she wondered if she would break without him, if the weight of her crown would crush her skull into the stone floor. but sunghoon carried pieces of it with her, unseen by anyone else.

travel was worse. foreign kingdoms, their courts filled with curious eyes, wondering if a man so close to the queen was a servant or something more. he played the role well—bowing when expected, standing a respectful distance away—but at night, when the doors closed and silence fell, he was hers.

their rooms were always separate, but walls meant nothing to them. he would slip in through side doors or hidden passages he had memorized, his cloak drawn tight around him. she would be waiting, the crown abandoned, her hair loose, her face soft in candlelight.

“you shouldn’t risk it,” she whispered once, pressing her forehead to his.

“i would walk through fire before i’d leave you alone in a strange land,” he replied, hands sliding over her waist.

when he kissed her, there was no court, no kingdom, no rules. just a man who would follow her into every battlefield—political or bloody—and a queen who clung to the one person she could never publicly claim.

back in their own kingdom, he never left her side. if a village burned, he was already preparing relief before she even gave the order. if traitors whispered, he tracked their voices in the dark, reporting back with eyes sharp as blades. “i would kill for you,” he said once, quietly, not as a threat but as a vow. she only tightened her grip on his hand.

but in public, he was still just her advisor. her court speculated, of course—they always did—but no one could prove anything. he was too careful, too disciplined. sometimes she hated it, wanted to scream that he was more than the shadow at her side, but she knew the world they lived in.

in moments between dawn and duty, though, she allowed herself to imagine. she imagined a world where queens could choose their men freely, where she could walk into the sun with his hand in hers, no longer pretending. she imagined introducing him not as her advisor, not as her servant, but as her equal.

sunghoon, however, never let his longing distract him. his devotion was sharper than desire. “my lady,” he said every night, whether she wore silk or armor, “you are my world.”