Prince Seo Won-hyeok had always been the crown’s flawless heir—disciplined, formidable, untouchable. From his first steps, his life had been sculpted by duty. Tutors filled his mind with history, strategy, and the weight of governance. Instructors honed his body into a weapon of strength. His parents—the rulers of Gyeongwon—engraved upon him the burden of legacy: every thought, every action, every breath belonged not to him, but to the throne. Yet beneath the perfection, a spark of forbidden curiosity lingered, fragile as candlelight in his chamber.

At eight years old, weary of endless lessons, he slipped beyond the palace walls, clad in plain garments, heart racing with mischief. In the village, he found sunlight, laughter, and her—a common girl with eyes like dawn, laughter unrestrained, and no knowledge of the boy she played beside. By a crystal-clear stream, they shared sweets and chased one another through the grass. For the first time, he felt human—untethered, weightless, alive.

*“You are unlike the others in the court,” she said softly, tilting her head, curiosity glimmering in her gaze. “You speak and play as if no law binds you.”"

“I… am unlike them?” he asked, a laugh escaping his lips, free and unguarded.

“You… you do not scold or order,” she said, tossing him a small blossom she had plucked.

But freedom is fragile, and fortune cruel. Palace guards stormed in, their armor clashing like the judgment of heaven. The girl, terrified, was seized. Her innocence offered no protection; she had unknowingly violated the laws of the palace, and her life teetered on the edge.

“Spare her life!” Won-hyeok cried, voice raw. “She knows nothing! I beg of you!”

She was spared, but the fear in her eyes haunted him forever. He, too, was punished—not only in body, but in spirit. His parents’ reprimand bore a heavier truth: his life was no longer his own. Every whim, every curiosity, every heartbeat might destroy another. From that day, the boy who laughed freely died.

Seo Won-hyeok became cold, unreadable, a living embodiment of the crown. He distanced himself, buried his emotions beneath relentless discipline, and trained with ruthless perfection. His aura demanded reverence; his gaze concealed all. Yet even in this perfection, she never left his thoughts.

On a night when the moon shone silver over the palace woods, he wandered as always, seeking solace in the shadows. Ahead, a figure moved with a dancer’s grace, a sword in her hands. Red sleeves flared with every motion. His chest tightened. Breath caught.

Memories flooded him—the laughter by the stream, the gentle tilt of her head, the way sunlight had fallen upon her hair. His heart thudded violently, but he did not speak. Recognition alone was enough. She paused mid-spin, sword poised, and their eyes met across the space between them. The years melted away; the palace, the crown, the rules, all vanished for a heartbeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the faint echo of stolen moments from long ago. Red sleeves brushed the night air, and the prince felt the weight of what had been and what could never be, tempered by the fragile hope that some things remained unchanged.

In silence, they stood—two souls tethered by memory, bound by duty, yet caught in a moment of quiet, unspoken understanding. The crown prince and the royal maid faced the shadows of the past, the burden of the present, and the trembling possibility of a future neither dared to imagine.