Two years passed since Lady Hanuel's death — two silent winters that buried every warmth
the kingdom once knew. The snow that had fallen the day she died had long melted, yet the
chill of her absence lingered in every corner of the palace.
Prince Taehyung was now four years old, a boy of few words and hauntingly deep eyes that
burned like embers beneath the shadow of his lashes. He seldom spoke, seldom smiled.
The flames within him — the same cursed fire that no one could touch — had begun to
devour him from the inside.
At night, his cries echoed faintly from his chamber, muffled by the heat that warped even the air around him. Servants whispered that the Crown Prince's chambers were hotter than hell itself, that any who stepped too close would faint before reaching the doors. Soon, the rumors spread like wildfire.
"They say the young prince is a demon reborn."
"No… he is cursed. The heavens themselves rejected him."
When these whispers reached the throne room, King Kim Younghae merely stared down at the scrolls in his hands. His eyes were hollow, voice weary.
"As long as it doesn't endanger the kingdom," he said. "Let him be."
The words burned more than the fire itself.
But somewhere far from the cold indifference of the king's heart, another presence stirred —
Aera, Lady Hanuel's daughter. She was now three years old, but her mind and aura
exceeded her age. Born a deity with three divine cores, her growth was not bound by mortal years. She walked, spoke, and moved with the calm detachment of an ancient spirit wearing a child's body.
The first time she heard the rumors, she felt nothing — no sorrow, no fear — only a faint
curiosity. But that curiosity led her to the forbidden wing of the palace, where Taehyung's chamber burned like a forge.
The guards tried to stop her. "You'll die if you enter," they said.
But Aera said nothing. She simply stepped forward, her small bare feet crunching against
the blackened marble.
Inside, the air shimmered. The walls were cracked from heat, and in the center of the room sat Taehyung — drenched in sweat, trembling, his small hands pressed against his chest as flames licked at his arms. His breath came in sharp, pained gasps.
Aera walked closer. The moment she touched his forehead, the fire hissed — then stilled.
The unbearable heat faded into soft warmth.
Taehyung's wide, tear-filled eyes met hers. "Who… are you?" he whispered, his voice
trembling.
Aera stared back — her face blank, her voice calm.
"Aera," she said. "Your fire hurts."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other — flame and frost.
Aera should have felt pity, but she did not. Her divine cores made her emotionless, a vessel
of balance rather than feeling. Yet as she stood before the boy who refused to scream
despite the pain clawing at him from within, something unfamiliar stirred deep within her —
admiration.
He was enduring what no one else could.
For the first time, Aera felt the faintest warmth — not from Taehyung's flames, but from the
strength that burned behind his sorrowful eyes.
The years moved like shadows under a sun that refused to rise.
Two winters had passed since Lady Hanuel's death, and in those two years, the palace had
changed beyond recognition.
The current queen had given birth again — another son, the second prince — and the once quiet palace was filled with laughter that did not belong to Taehyung.
Aera, now almost four, had grown into a child both ethereal and distant.
Each night, she would slip through the silence and into Taehyung's blazing chambers.
Her presence alone cooled the suffocating heat that warped the air and charred the floors.
She never spoke.
Not when Taehyung tried to thank her, not when he smiled weakly, not even when he cried.
She came only to fulfill the promise her mother made — to keep him alive — and then she
left, her small steps echoing through the cold halls.
Like that, a year passed.
And in that long year, the boy who was born of flame began to wonder.
Why hadn't his father seen him?
Why was he never called to dine with him, never invited to play with his brothers, never even acknowledged as a prince?
The whispers of the palace servants became his only companions.
They spoke carelessly, their words dripping like poison:
"The king abandoned the cursed child, just as he abandoned the queen he claimed to love."
"That boy is the reason for Her Majesty's death."
"The heavens themselves marked him unworthy."
The rumors pierced deeper than any blade.
One night, driven by a desperate need to know, Taehyung walked through the empty
corridors until he reached the king's chambers.
The guards stopped him.
"The king does not wish to see you," they said.
But Taehyung did not move.
He knelt there, beneath the cold moonlight, while the snow fell softly over his trembling
shoulders.
He stayed the first night. Then the second.
He watched as the queen entered the chambers with her two sons. He watched as his father came out, his robes brushing the ground like a silent storm.
Taehyung lifted his head, eyes burning with both flame and tears.
"Father," he called, voice breaking.
"Father… please, look at me."
The king stopped for a moment — only a moment — before his gaze turned away, cold and distant.
Then, without hesitation, he said the words that shattered everything:
"Do not call me father. You are no son of mine."
The words fell heavier than the snow that covered the courtyard.
The guards turned away. The wind howled softly, carrying the boy's pain into the night.
And Taehyung, still kneeling, lowered his head until his forehead touched the frozen ground.
Inside his chest, his flames roared — but not from power.
From heartbreak.