The throne was still stained with his blood.
Not fresh—centuries old, soaked so deeply into the white crystal that no spell could wash it away. Kim Taekook stood before it in silence, golden eyes burning as the memory of betrayal clawed its way back into his chest.
This was where he had knelt.
This was where he had begged.
This was where the one he loved had smiled as she took everything from him.
A century of exile ended tonight.
The great doors of the throne hall groaned open as Taekook stepped inside, power rolling off him in suffocating waves. The realm recognized its king. The crystal pillars hummed. Ancient magic coiled at his feet like a living thing.
Screams echoed.
Shin Yuna was dragged across the marble floor, her once-radiant wings shattered, her crown crushed beneath Taekook's heel. She reached for him with shaking hands, blood smearing the stones.
"Taekook," she sobbed. "I loved you—"
His expression didn't change.
"Love?" he repeated softly.
The word tasted like poison.
Her punishment lasted three days. When it ended, there was barely enough of her left to crawl.
He did not kill her.
Death was mercy, and Taekook had none left to give.
When dawn finally broke, the Dionysus Realm belonged to its rightful king once more.
Slaves were freed. Chains were shattered. Laws were rewritten in blood and fire.
And on the night of his coronation, Kim Taekook made a vow before gods who no longer answered prayers.
"I will never love again."
Love had made him weak.
Love had destroyed him.
And he would rather burn the world than feel it again.
Far below the palace, in a servants' quarter still heavy with fear, a human boy lifted his head for the first time since gaining his freedom—unaware that fate was already drawing him toward the king who would change his life forever.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go, the human boy accepted the only path left to him.
Freedom, it turned out, was not the same as safety.
The palace no longer chained him, yet its walls still loomed like a cage. Until he could decide what life beyond them looked like, he was assigned a task—simple, quiet, invisible. He would clean the king's chambers. Only when the king was absent. Only when the halls were empty.
His name was Jung Woojun.
Days passed, then weeks. The routine became familiar: sweep the crystal floors, dust the towering shelves, smooth the heavy curtains that smelled faintly of magic and smoke. He learned where not to step, what not to touch. Silence became his shield.
The king was a distant presence—spoken of in whispers, felt in the air, but never seen.
Until the day everything changed.
Woojun finished his work earlier than usual. Head lowered, hands clasped tightly at his sides, he slipped out of the chambers—only to collide with something solid.
Not a wall.
A chest.
He stumbled back, heart leaping into his throat, then slowly lifted his gaze.
The face before him stole the breath from his lungs.
Beautiful was not enough. Divine came closer. Sharp, sculpted features carved as if by the gods themselves—a strong jaw, lips that looked too soft for someone so terrifying, and eyes—
Gold.
Not silver. Not blue. Gold and fire, burning with something ancient and dangerous.
Woojun froze.
His eyes drifted downward without permission, catching the movement of the man's throat as he swallowed.
"What are you staring at?"
The voice was low, edged with exhaustion—and authority.
"I—I'm sorry," Woojun whispered immediately, fear crashing over him. He dropped his gaze at once, body trembling from instinct alone. "I'll take my leave."
He turned to flee.
"Stop."
The single word rooted him to the spot.
"Is that how you treat your king?"
King?
Woojun's blood ran cold.
Before thought could catch up to panic, he dropped to the floor, bowing too fast, too hard. His forehead struck the marble with a sharp crack.
The king stiffened.
That was not what he meant.
He knelt instantly, gripping Woojun's shoulders and lifting him up. "Why did you—" His words died as his eyes caught something else.
The ears.
Human.
"You're human?" the king asked sharply.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Woojun answered, voice barely steady.
He stepped back, fear screaming at him to run. Memories of punishment burned through his mind—magic, pain, hands that hurt instead of healed.
The king reached out.
Woojun retreated further.
"Stop," the king said again, firmer this time. "Look at me."
His body obeyed before his mind could resist.
"I'm going to heal you," the king continued. "So look at me."
Heal him?
Woojun swallowed. Healing had always come with conditions. With cruelty hidden beneath kindness.
"I'm fine, Your Majesty."
"I'm not," the king replied coolly. "And you will not disobey me."
Fear won.
The king's fingers brushed Woojun's forehead, murmuring words older than the palace itself. Warmth spread, gentle and real. When the magic faded, the pain was gone.
No cost. No punishment.
The king's hand lingered a moment too long before he withdrew.
And in that silence, something irreversible began.
The king straightened, his expression hardening as if he had revealed too much by kneeling at all. Power settled back around him like armor.
"You shouldn't be here when I return," he said, voice clipped. "The servants are instructed better than this."
"I—I finished early," Woojun answered, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. "I was leaving."
The king studied him in silence. Not with hunger. Not with cruelty. With something colder—and far more unsettling.
"You'll report your hours to the steward," he finally said. "From now on, you clean only when ordered. Never linger."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Woojun bowed again, carefully this time, then retreated down the corridor without turning back. He did not run until he was well out of sight.
Only then did his knees give way.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, half-expecting the pain to return. It didn't. The skin was smooth, untouched—as if the injury had never existed.
As if he had never been broken.
From the high balcony of his chambers, Taekook watched the human disappear into the maze of servants' halls.
Human.
In a palace where humans had once been treated as ornaments. As currency. As expendable things.
His jaw tightened.
He had freed the slaves. Burned the laws that allowed such cruelty. He had told himself that was enough.
Yet something about the boy lingered—his fear too practiced, his obedience too instinctive. That was not the posture of a free man.
Taekook turned away sharply.
It did not matter.
He had sworn never to love again.
And the human was nothing more than a servant.
Nothing at all.