The candlelight flickered faintly against the silk drapes of the imperial bedchamber, painting the golden embroidery in restless shadows. The night outside was quiet—too quiet, as if the heavens themselves held their breath.

Seo Yun-woo sat by the window, his long hair, the color of pale gold, spilling like sunlight over his bare shoulders. His robe was loosely tied, exposing a chest marked not by war but by tenderness. In his hand rested a small, delicate comb—an ordinary object, yet one that trembled in his grasp. He had sensed it for days: the strange silence in the corridors, the weight in the servants’ gazes, the distance in Kim Jae-hwan’s voice.

And now, the silence of the night felt like the silence before execution.

The door opened without warning. The heavy scent of sandalwood swept in before him—the emperor. Kim Jae-hwan stood there in his dark robes, embroidered with golden flames, his crown casting shadows over his eyes. His hand rested at his side, fingers curling around the hilt of a blade hidden in the folds of his garment.

Yun-woo turned, lips curving into a fragile smile. “Jae-hwan… it’s late.” His voice carried no suspicion, only weary affection.

But the emperor did not answer. His steps were steady, deliberate, each one echoing against the polished floor. Yun-woo’s heart sank with every stride. When Jae-hwan’s shadow fell over him, the warmth that once lived in his chest turned to dread.

“Why… do you look at me like that?” Yun-woo whispered, his fingers tightening on the comb. He saw the reflection in Jae-hwan’s eyes—cold, merciless, and yet burning with something he could not name.

In the quiet, the blade slipped free with a hiss.

The golden-haired beauty’s breath caught. His lips parted, not in protest, but in disbelief. The man who had once sworn eternal devotion now raised steel against him.

Yun-woo staggered back, his bare feet brushing against the silk bedding, but the emperor’s hand caught his wrist with crushing force. Jae-hwan’s grip was unyielding, his other hand steady as he drove the blade forward.

The sound of steel piercing flesh broke the stillness of the room.

Yun-woo’s body convulsed, a sharp gasp escaping his throat as the sword sank deep into his abdomen. Warm blood blossomed instantly, staining the pale silk of his robe and dripping down to the floor. Crimson petals bloomed upon the ivory sheets, spreading wider with each heartbeat.

The comb fell from his hand with a dull clatter. His golden hair, once radiant like sunlight, clung to his damp skin, strands matted by blood.

His knees weakened. The emperor pulled him close, almost as if holding a lover in an embrace. Yet the blade remained lodged in his body, cruelly binding them together.

The scent of iron filled the room, thick and suffocating. Blood soaked into the emperor’s sleeve, searing itself into the embroidered dragons, staining the fabric with irreversible sin.

Yun-woo’s lips trembled, but no words came. His eyes, wide and luminous even through the haze of pain, searched Jae-hwan’s face—not for mercy, but for a reason. Why? Why the man he had loved, the man who once caressed his hair and whispered vows beneath the moon, now held the weapon that ended him?

The emperor’s jaw clenched, his face unreadable. Only the faintest tremor in his hand betrayed the war within. For duty, for power, for a throne—he had chosen betrayal.

Yun-woo’s vision blurred, the edges of the world dimming. His body grew cold, though his blood burned as it spilled from him. He swayed in Jae-hwan’s grasp, his strength fading with each passing breath.

The curtains stirred with the night wind, crimson fabric flowing like rivers of blood. In that moment, he realized: this was the end. Not by illness, not by fate, but by the very hand he once held in devotion.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, mixing with the crimson at his lips. His golden lashes fluttered, his body collapsing into the emperor’s arms as the last of his warmth fled.

The room fell silent again. Only the steady drip of blood upon the polished floor broke the stillness, echoing like the tolling of a bell.

In Kim Jae-hwan’s arms, Seo Yun-woo lay motionless—his golden hair dimming, his radiance extinguished. The emperor’s blade had stolen not only his life, but the fragile promise of eternity they once shared.

The night swallowed the scene whole, leaving behind nothing but silence… and betrayal carved into their souls.

— To be continued.

Ten years had passed since the night the emperor’s blade drank the blood of his beloved.

The palace had long since changed. Ministers aged, soldiers were replaced, and new banners decorated the courts. Yet within its towering golden walls, one thing never faded—the ghost of Seo Yun-woo.

Kim Jae-hwan ruled with the iron hand of an emperor, his face as cold and unreadable as the gilded mask of authority. But behind the veil of power, he carried a wound deeper than any war could inflict. No one dared speak Yun-woo’s name, yet his presence lingered in every chamber, every breath of incense, every silent night where Jae-hwan sat alone with his guilt.

Sometimes, when the wind rustled through the red curtains, Jae-hwan would swear he could still see it: golden hair spread like sunlight across silk sheets, eyes wide in betrayal, blood blossoming like petals across white fabric. That night replayed endlessly, a punishment carved into his soul.

And then, far from the palace, in a quiet mountain town, a boy with hair as white as freshly fallen snow awoke from a dream he could never remember.

Seo Yun-woo’s new life was unmarked by the shadows of the past. He grew among simple folk, his laughter bright as spring water, his smile free of sorrow. His hair, once golden, was now pure white, catching the light like winter frost. Some whispered he was touched by the heavens, others called him a blessed child—but Yun-woo himself never thought much of it.

He did not know why his heart sometimes clenched at the sound of temple bells, or why he disliked the scent of sandalwood incense. He did not know why his dreams were always painted in red, filled with curtains that billowed like rivers of blood, or why he woke with tears he could not explain.

The past slept deep within him, sealed away by fate’s cruel mercy.

One spring morning, Yun-woo carried a basket of herbs through the bustling town streets. The wind tugged at his white hair, scattering loose strands across his face. He stopped by a stall, smiling warmly at an old woman who placed chrysanthemums in his basket. “For good fortune,” she said.

Yun-woo thanked her, his voice gentle. Fortune. He did not know how much of it he truly had.

Far away, in the imperial court, Kim Jae-hwan sat on his throne, his gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the palace gates. His ministers spoke of taxes and treaties, but his mind wandered. His heart, though he buried it beneath layers of duty and cruelty, remained chained to the memory of one man.

Ten years, and the ache had not faded.

But fate had never been kind. Where Jae-hwan had tried to bury the past, destiny chose to unearth it.

Whispers traveled through the empire of a boy with snow-white hair and eyes that shimmered like glass under moonlight. A boy who looked like no other, who carried an ethereal grace despite his humble origins.

At first, the emperor dismissed it as idle talk. Yet when the rumors reached his ears again and again, something inside him stirred—hope, fear, desperation. Could it be? No… it could not. Yun-woo was dead. His blood had stained Jae-hwan’s very hands. He had seen the light leave those eyes.

And yet…

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, painting the palace in hues of crimson and gold, Kim Jae-hwan rose from his throne with a command.

“Send men,” he said, his voice low but edged with authority. “Bring the boy to me.”

The courtiers bowed, unaware of the storm raging behind the emperor’s calm mask.

Far from the palace, Seo Yun-woo closed his eyes under the twilight sky, unaware that the strings of fate were tightening around him once more. He lived in peace, untouched by memories of betrayal and blood. But the man who had once loved and killed him was reaching out again.

The wheel of destiny turned, petals of the past scattering into the wind—leading him back to the emperor’s shadow.

— To be continued.

The spring festival filled the small town with music and laughter. Lanterns swayed above the streets, painting everything in warm hues of orange and gold. Children ran with paper kites, merchants shouted over their wares, and the scent of roasted chestnuts drifted through the air.

Seo Yun-woo moved through the crowd, his snow-white hair catching the lantern light like spun silver. Strangers often paused to stare, murmuring about his beauty, though Yun-woo accepted their glances with a quiet smile. He was used to it. Since childhood, people had whispered that he looked like someone from the heavens—too pale, too delicate, too unreal.

But to him, he was just Seo Yun-woo. A boy who gathered herbs for the healer’s hut, who laughed easily with neighbors, who cherished simple days.

That night, as fireworks burst across the sky, Yun-woo stood by the riverbank, his reflection wavering in the water. The sight unsettled him. His own face seemed… unfamiliar, as though it belonged to someone else. His chest ached suddenly, without reason. His fingers tightened on the chrysanthemum tucked in his sash.

A ripple of fear stirred within him, though he did not know why.

The next morning, soldiers in black and gold armor arrived. The imperial crest gleamed upon their chests, their eyes cold and disciplined. The townsfolk fell silent, bowing their heads. No one dared breathe as the captain unrolled a decree stamped with the emperor’s seal.

By order of His Majesty Kim Jae-hwan, the boy with snow-white hair was to be escorted to the capital.

Yun-woo froze. The words felt surreal, distant, yet inescapable. Before he could protest, a hand seized his arm. The townspeople watched with pity, whispering prayers as he was led away.

The journey to the capital was long, the road lined with endless fields and forests. Yun-woo sat in a carriage, staring out at the blur of scenery. He pressed his hand to his chest, heart beating erratically. Fear, confusion, and a strange… pull. As if something in the capital was waiting for him.

When at last the city gates rose into view, towering and magnificent, Yun-woo’s breath caught. The palace loomed beyond—golden roofs glittering like the sun itself, red walls stretching endlessly. It was beautiful, but its beauty was suffocating.

Inside the throne hall, Kim Jae-hwan sat in silence, his dark robes flowing like ink. Ten years had passed since the night he killed Yun-woo, yet the memory had never dulled. Now, as the doors opened and guards announced the arrival of the snow-haired youth, his heart thundered with a force he had not felt in years.

Seo Yun-woo entered, guided forward by the soldiers. His white hair spilled like snow down his back, his delicate face calm yet uncertain. He bowed automatically, though his movements betrayed unease.

When his eyes lifted, they met Jae-hwan’s.

The emperor’s breath faltered.

It was him. Yun-woo—reborn, transformed, but unmistakable. The curve of his lips, the depth of his gaze, the fragile beauty that once haunted his nights—here, alive, standing before him.

But Yun-woo’s expression held no recognition. Only the wary respect of a subject before his ruler.

Jae-hwan’s hand trembled against the armrest of his throne, though he quickly stilled it. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and steady, though his chest burned with longing and guilt.

“What is your name?”

The boy hesitated, then answered softly. “Seo Yun-woo.”

The emperor’s composure almost cracked. The same name. The same soul.

Yun-woo, however, felt only confusion. Why did the emperor’s gaze make his heart pound? Why did standing here feel like déjà vu, as though he had once stood in this very hall, under this very gaze, with his life trembling in the balance?

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unseen threads of fate.

At last, Jae-hwan rose from his throne, his tall figure descending the steps. Each stride echoed through the hall. He stopped before Yun-woo, close enough to touch. His eyes softened despite himself.

Ten years of regret, ten years of longing—yet all he could say was a single command.

“You will stay in the palace.”

Yun-woo lowered his head, unable to resist. Yet deep within, something stirred—an unease, a shadow of memory, like blood hidden beneath silk.

And thus, the wheel of destiny turned again.

— To be continued.