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blossom-hwa · 4 months

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Worn-Out Soles [3] | b.c

pairing: Chan x fem!reader genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au warnings: kidnapping, injury, death word count: 16.8k notes: — this is a retelling of the 12 dancing princesses :) inspiration taken from the original fairy tale, the Barbie movie, and the retelling by Jessica Day George, Princess of the Midnight Ball. — mc in this story has multiple sisters as befitting the original fairy tale, but they are not blood-related for inclusivity reasons. In a world where magic lies in the arts, you are a princess of Terpsichani, the kingdom whose power comes from dance. Loved by many, you care for your country deeply, though in truth your heart only belongs to the palace's royal cobbler, Chan, who holds equal affection for you in return. It's a love that could never be, you both know, though it doesn't stop you from pining. But then you go missing on the final night of your kingdom's Moonlight Festival, leaving behind nothing but the memories of a final dance. When your sister brings news of your disappearance to Chan's doorstep, there's only one thing he can do. Follow you into the depths of hell to bring you back—or die trying. Part 2 >> Part 3

To Spin a Yarn | Stray Kids Masterlist

Chan finds himself in front of the witch’s hut with no idea how he got there.

His sides heave with the effort of taking breath. His mouth feels dry, like he hasn’t had water in days. He reaches up and finds there are still tears in his eyes, and the sun has risen and nearly set during the time it took to return.

He failed. He failed so badly—didn’t manage to get the necklace, didn’t manage to get you out. All he has is this wretched crown in a wretched case, and he doesn’t even know how to unlock it. With luck he won’t need to unlock it, he’ll be able to just burn the whole thing together, but the king still has his necklace and he still has you—

Shut up. Chan knocks on the door and tries to breathe. Panicking and crying won’t help you. He needs to think, because he’s going back. Obviously. For the ruby necklace, and for you, and then you’re going to get out of that godforsaken kingdom and never look back.

Yeah, and look how well that went last time.

The door swings open before he can try and refute that.

“Oh! Young man—” The witch sees the look on his face and cuts herself off.

Wordlessly, Chan opens his bag and extends her the case with the crown. “I have the crown,” he says, and his voice sounds terrible, rough and hoarse and his throat is dry, so dry. “It’s in here, but it’s locked. I don’t know if you can burn it outright.”

She waves him inside, taking the case. “There are many enchantments woven on this. I don’t know if it would burn in the fire in this box,” she replies, brows furrowed. She taps the dent that Chan saw in the middle. “This is where you would unlock it, if there was a key.”

Chan takes a closer look at the dent. He hadn’t tried much before; the king’s room was dark, and then there was no time. Now that he can see it in the light, it’s not really a dent—more of a carefully molded groove, the inset similar to the edges of a cut crystal…

“It’s the ruby,” he whispers, horror washing over him. He thought he failed before, but it’s even worse—the ruby is meant to unlock this box. He’s sure of it. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes terrible. He never quite got the closest look at the ruby, but the general shape and set of the jewel seems to match the box and it just fits.

The witch seems to agree. “Do you have the necklace?” she asks, indicating his clenched fist.

Huh. He hadn’t noticed he was holding something so hard. With effort, he opens his fist, his fingers protesting as blood comes rushing back into them. In his palm lies a silver key, its shape imprinted into his skin. Chan almost laughs. He didn’t even need to use it, in the end. What if he hadn’t gone for this, and tried to take the ruby first? Would he have succeeded?

But no. He needed the key, if it was yours. In case you didn’t manage to get out. The knowledge that he’s right doesn’t comfort him much, though.

“No.” Chan rips the word off his tongue, tasting all his failure on it. “He wears it at all times. I—tried to get this key first. And I did. But he woke up, and then there was no time.” He swallows hard. “And I couldn’t rescue my friend either.”

Slowly, slowly, the witch nods. “I see,” she replies, her old voice grave. “So what will you do next?”

For some reason, this is what breaks the dam of tears that he had just managed to erect.

“I don’t know,” he grits out, all the anger and self-hatred from hours of riding coming out in full force. “I don’t know. I failed. I messed everything up, and I lost Y/N—”

The old woman touches his arm. Guides him quietly to a chair. Waits until his chest stops heaving and he stops babbling nonsense, and extends him a glass of water, which he sips at first, then downs in three gulps. She refills it and then sits before him once more.

“You did not fail,” she says quietly, and the certainty in her voice finally strikes a chord in his chest, his heart beating a little more slowly. “You brought back the crown, and while we may not be able to destroy it just yet, the center of magic being pulled from the kingdom will already lend to its collapse.” She picks up the case again. “I will work at the enchantments and see if I can break any. In the meantime—”

“I have to go back,” Chan blurts out. “I have to—I need to get Y/N out, I need to bring her back.”

“And so you will,” she agrees. “But not now.”

Anger flares in his chest. “What do you mean, not now? She’s already hurt! I can’t wait—”

“You must,” she snaps, iron in her voice. “It is dark. The king’s men will be hunting you in the shadows, and once you leave the hut my protections will no longer cover you. Even with the invisibility cloak, while they may not be able to see you, you will not see them under the cover of night. And, beyond this, you are in no shape to go.” Chan starts to protest, but she raises a hand. “You have not slept in over a day. You need to rest, and so does your poor horse.” Her voice softens. “When dawn comes, you will go. You must, to save your friend. But until then, you will rest.”

She’s probably right. Chan can already feel his body slumping with exhaustion. But the thought of you, alone and hurt at the mercy of a king of hell still raises his voice. “You said the kingdom would collapse without its center of power,” Chan gets out. “Was that a literal collapse? Or just metaphorical?”

“Literal,” the old woman replies easily. “But it will take some time—the collapse would not be as quick as if I burned the crown in the fire right this instant. You have perhaps a day before the palace will literally begin to collapse. Which is enough time for you to rest.” She puts down the box and turns to a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before coming back with a small bottle that she gives to him. “This will give you dreamless sleep,” she says, not unkindly. “Please, young man. You must rest.”

Chan stares at the small bottle. He thought he was all cried out, but tears brim at his eyes once more. “Why are you helping me so much?” he asks, voice brittle. “In fact, if you knew all this, why wouldn’t you fight the king yourself?”

She laughs kindly, putting a wrinkled hand over his. “I would, if these old bones would sustain another confrontation,” she says, chuckling a little sadly. “I am old, young man. I have seen many things, and I have fought most of my own battles. Trust me when I say that I would not survive another fight with that kingdom.”

Chan blinks. “Another?”

“Yes. I am one of those who cursed his family, after all.” She continues as if Chan wasn’t immediately reeling from that piece of information. “This was ages ago, and they hadn’t stirred much, to my knowledge, until you came by. Now I realize they must have been wreaking more havoc than I was aware of.” With a strong sigh, she shakes her head. “That royal family is evil, Chan. Their magic is the darkest of all. While I and the other witches were not strong enough on our own to fully defeat them, only curse them so that they could not bear the sunlight, I have hopes now that their power will disappear forever.”

“…But I failed.”

“On your first try.” She smiles. “But you will return, no? And you will try again. It was not on my first attempt that I managed to curse the Kereseians below the ground. You are on a tighter schedule than I was, perhaps, but I have faith in you, young man. You are pure of heart, motivated by love, and you will not give up until you succeed.” Her tone turns stern. “But to do that, you must rest. Yes?”

Chan’s throat hurts, and not just from a day of riding without stopping for water. “Yes, my lady,” he whispers around the lump constricting his voice. “Thank you.”

. . . . .

When your eyes fully open for the first time, you’re not sure how much time has passed. You recall slipping in and out of consciousness, pain blurring the edges of your vision as you gasped for air, so you wait for blackness to consume your vision again, but this time, it doesn’t.

Slowly, you try to take in your surroundings. You haven’t moved from where you were dropped on the floor, after the king broke one of your legs and had someone else snap the other. You don’t think you could even if you tried. You don’t dare try and turn to see the state of your legs, but from the pain still screaming through your bones and skin, it can’t be anything good.

You close your eyes again, letting a few tears leak out. Gods and stars above, why did you wake? Why couldn’t you just stay unconscious? At least in the darkness of your mind, you couldn’t register the pain as clearly. Now that you’re conscious it’s all just rebounded. For minutes or hours, you lie there on the ground, fully awake, unable to think or move.

At some point, the door opens. You barely register it until shoes enter your vision, and even then, the image is blurred by tears and pain.

Someone squats. Lifts up your chin. You grit your teeth and blink away tears to come face to face with the man you currently loathe most in the world.

“Hello, my queen to be,” the king croons, though now, even he can’t fully disguise the hatred lying behind his eyes. You don’t bother to hide your own—it’s the only thing keeping you up. You note with grim satisfaction that the burns on his face haven’t healed, his skin still red and raw where the dawn burned him, and he isn’t wearing his crown. “It’s time for the evening meal.”

Bizarrely, this reminds you of your first day here. “I’m not hungry,” you mutter, half a smirk curving your lips before it drops. “I don’t feel well.”

“Of course you don’t.” He laughs in your face. “You will soon, however.” From somewhere to the side, he produces a goblet. “Drink.”

You sneer. “How am I to know whether or not that’s poison?”

“I wouldn’t poison my wife to be, no matter how terribly she treated me.” Mock hurt flashes across his face and you want to slap him. “This is enchanted water from the fountain that was to be your wedding gift, Your Highness. It will heal you completely.” He leans in closer. “You will marry me, and you will bear my child. You have no choice.”

You spit in his face.

“Such unladylike behavior.” He tuts, wiping away a drop of spit with an almost careless finger. “Do you not want to be well?”

You’d give almost anything to get rid of the pain. In fact, you’re seconds away from giving in. But he doesn’t need to know that. So you say nothing.

He beckons to someone outside of your line of sight. Before you understand what’s happening your head jerks back by someone else’s hand, another hand forcing your mouth open as the king himself pours the contents of the goblet down your throat.

Choking and spluttering, swallowing in spite of yourself, the first thing you think is that this tastes like normal water. Then a warming sensation begins to filter through your body, spreading slowly through your limbs, and slowly but surely, the screaming in your legs stops and you feel them straighten without your will.

Your mouth fills with a bitter aftertaste. You’re not sure if it was the water, or just your mind trying to turn your tears into something as bitter as your loathing. The pain is gone, your thoughts are clear, and you wish they weren’t.

If you were just a little stronger, maybe they wouldn’t have been able to treat you like this.

“Still hoping for your lover to save you?” The king laughs coldly, icy fingers cupping your cheek. “He can’t come here anymore, you know. We found where he came in and we sealed the cracks. Right now, my people are combing the forest, ready to serve his heart to me on a silver platter.” He smiles like the bitterness in your mouth hasn’t turned to something rotten that tastes like blood, like your heart isn’t beating painfully fast even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “I will save you, Your Highness. Day and night I will clip your wings, then grow them again—all so that you can stay with me.” His smile widens. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

Briefly, you weigh the merits of throwing up on him. You've already spat on him twice. But you don’t have the energy, so you do nothing, hatred for the king and yourself burning in your chest. You focus on the burns on his face, on his neck, reminding yourself that he is mortal, that for all his seeming power he can be hurt—

Wait. You almost frown before schooling your expression back into one of hatred. If he has this enchanted water, why doesn’t he use it on himself? If it could heal your two broken legs in minutes, surely it would heal him in no time? Something doesn’t seem right about that, but the king speaks before you can take the train of thought any further.

“Have her dressed,” he says, gesturing to someone else in the room. “Then take her to the banquet hall.” He takes your arms and drags you up and your first instinct is to shove him away, but then you stumble on your newly-healed legs and fall back into him anyway.

He ignores your attempt, his eyes boring into yours, his lips curving slowly. Knife blades and blood. “We can’t go without our evening entertainment, after all.”

. . .

For some reason, you’re dressed even more lavishly tonight, given a gown of the smoothest silk you've ever felt, jewelry with the largest gems you’ve ever seen. You sit quiet and miserable as silent servants do your makeup, then slip on yet another dark pair of slippers on your feet. Briefly you wonder what they did with the clothes you came here in, the white robes and Chan’s lovely shoes.

What wouldn’t you give for them over these ostentatious ornaments.

Your legs, though healed, still tremble when you put weight on them. Logically you know they must be fine, but you can’t shake the feeling that they are still injured, that bone shards aren’t still poking out of your skin, that you shouldn’t be able to move as easily as you currently do. The high-heeled dance shoes don’t help at all. But because there are guards, and because you are being watched, you force yourself to stand, to walk.

When you reach the banquet hall, it seems as though nothing has changed. You’re not even certain as to whether the court was informed of your escape attempt, because while you garner a few stares and smirks upon your entrance, it’s still no more than you had grown used to before. The king probably didn’t say anything, you conclude through the meal. Doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s lost more control over the situation than he already has, you suppose. They already know he lost his crown. He can’t make it look like you tried to escape, too.

But something does change when the meal is over, and everyone begins to enter the grand ballroom. Because while the king still leads you inside, he doesn’t accompany you to the center of the floor, as he had done before. Instead—

“Dance for us, Your Highness,” he says, smiling cruelly. “We have been deprived of your magical abilities, as you choose not to show them to us. I can only assume you are shy, hm?” He cups your cheek in his cold hand and a little laugh rises from the crowd, making your skin crawl. “I am rather curious about your magic, Your Highness. I saw it when you danced for your Moonlight Festival, and I must confess, I fell in love.”

You take his cold hand, bring it down under the thin guise of holding it gently when you want nothing more than to stab him in the throat. “You did, didn’t you.” Your voice is flat but for some reason it still amuses the court even more.

“Of course I did.” He gestures at the expanse of people around the ballroom. “As I’m sure they all will too, when they get to see the wonder of your art for the first time. So dance for us, Your Highness.” He lets go of your hand. “I will enjoy the spectacle as part of the audience.”

You fight the urge to scoff as you step into the center of the floor, legs trembling. Spectacle. You are not a spectacle, you are a human. But of course he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s forcing you to dance on legs that he snapped and healed within twenty four hours. He doesn’t care that you don’t trust your bones as you would on any other day. You’re shaking all over and phantom pains keep running up your legs in spite of the healing water, and the only saving grace of this whole terrible outfit is the long skirt of your dress, hiding the way your legs tremble.

Despite yourself, tears try to force themselves into your eyes. You swallow them down even as despair clogs your throat. He does mean to make a spectacle of you, like a ballerina in a music box—an object meant for only the entertainment of others. It hurts. It hurts so much. And it would be so easy to give up, to give in to the pain and hopelessness of it all, but—

Your mind turns back to Chan, and the last words he spoke to you. “I’m not going to leave you behind.”

He won’t leave you. He’ll be back. You swallow hard. And if you don’t want him to give up, neither can you.

The several nights you danced with the king, you forced yourself not to bring your magic into play. You feared that the overwhelming sadness would only bring more demeaning laughter to the court. But you remember the terror you were able to strike into your guards when you tried to escape, their eyes blown wide like they were truly scared.

Even if it won’t last, even if they will only laugh in the end, you would like them to feel as you have felt over the past several days. If only for a moment.

Hanging your head deliberately, you wait for the music to begin. It doesn’t matter what it is, you’ll spin it into what you need. As if the musicians have sensed how you feel, though, the melody that starts is slow, desolate, and everything you wanted.

And so you let go, injured legs be damned.

The room blurs into a tapestry of black marble and flame. The stares of the crowd become nothing more than pinpricks of light in the distance. The ominous gaze of the king falters and disappears as you whirl around the room, singing emotion through your movements, spinning everything you remember since the night you were kidnapped into a performance on the floor. Confusion, terror, desperation. Disgust, fear, anger. And when it comes time for you to retell Chan’s appearance and the relief and hope that crashed over you—

You look straight into the eyes of the Kereseian king as you spin past.

By the time it’s over, you’re panting with exhaustion, sweat dripping down your brow. The music is slowing, fading into the air, and as it finally stops, you become aware of the world again. Aware of the silence of the room, the stares of the court, the shakiness in your legs that still keeps you hesitant to put your full weight on them. There are tears in your eyes and you’re certain they’ve fallen down your face, too.

Then one person begins to clap. And another. And then another, until the ballroom echoes with quiet applause, despite the fact that you have taken no bow. Instead, you turn to look at the king, who steps forward with something unreadable in his eyes.

“A lovely performance,” he says, the cruel curve of his mouth lifting into half a smile. “Did you make that up on the spot?”

You nod mutely, trying hard not to cry.

“Your talent is great.” It sounds like it might be the first sincere thing he told you in—well, in all the week and a half that you have known each other—but you don’t bother to thank him. “I think I fell in love with you again.”

This time, you scoff out loud. “Your Majesty, don’t insult me. I don’t think you’d know love if it slapped you in the face.”

His eyes darken. “I was going to try and be kind,” he says, voice dangerous. “But you’ve made your stance clear, I see.”

You give him half a smile. “You wouldn’t know kindness if it slapped you in the face either.”

He spins you into frame, crushing your hand in his grip. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers in your ear. “For by the end of the night, you are mine to keep and enjoy. Whether or not I show you kindness or love…it will never matter. Not to you.”

It’s true. Because you couldn’t care for him even if he had showed you kindness, even if he had showed you whatever it is he thinks is love—he took you from your home, took you from your family, took you from those who loved you most. And it’s even easier to remember that when, at the end of the night, he takes you back to your room stumbling, half-dead, and exhausted, and orders guards to snap your legs again as soon as you enter your quarters.

Everything hurts. Your body is on fire and you can’t stop the tears of pain from pooling on the floor beneath you. But though you bite your lip so hard it draws blood, you take a small, grim satisfaction in that you didn’t scream this time.

. . . . .

It takes the full length of a day or more to reach the earth under with Kereseia lies. Chan sets out at dawn, riding more carefully than his haphazard trip a day ago, and with several short breaks, he reaches the opening the witch showed him when night has already fully set, the sun sunk beneath the horizon.

He stumbles off his horse and barely remembers to picket it before giving him a pat of apology and stepping into the cave. Once inside, he searches for the metallic glow of the silver trees below, but—

The glow isn’t there anymore.

Chan squints into the darkness, anxiety rising in his throat. Keeping one hand carefully against the wall of the cave, he ventures further inside. After some trouble he finds the two rocks that had signaled the entrance before, but when he feels between them, all he touches is solid earth. As if the opening never existed.

Panic nearly shuts off his mind. He places his head in his hands and tries to think beyond the imminent mental breakdown. The king has obviously sealed off this entrance, and Chan wouldn’t put it past him to have gone through the kingdom and sealed anything that might even be the slightest opening to the earth’s surface.

Chan nearly curses out loud. Also almost punches the wall, but forces himself not to at the last second—who knows who is watching out here, where the king could have eyes in this darkness? He sinks down onto the cave floor, placing his head in his hands as he tries to breathe. Why didn’t he think that this would happen? It’s so obvious now that he thinks of it—of course the king would try to find where he came in from after he managed to get in.

Several frustrated tears roll down Chan’s cheek, but he wipes them away harshly. This opening is closed. More likely than not, any others have also been sealed. He has no way of finding another unless it’s by pure luck—and luck hasn’t been on his side for a while—and he can’t easily go around trying to find one anyway, not when it’s dark and Kereseian guards have probably been scouring the area for him—

The guards.

His eyes widen. They have to get back into the kingdom somehow. If he can find one of them and stay hidden...

He might just be able to follow one back into Kereseia.

A rush of hope warms his chest but he swallows it down. No use in hoping unless he can actually find one of them, now. But at least it’s a straw to grasp at.

For the next few hours, Chan quietly passes through the area of the woods, clutching the clasp of the cloak at his throat. He doesn’t hear a sound, though, beyond the usual murmurings of a forest at night, nor does he see anything particularly strange, even when he decides to climb a tree and watch the ground below for a while. As the hours pass, the sky lightens, and when the sky is a dusty gray Chan almost gives up. Any guards have probably already returned underground, and he’s lost his only lead—

A dark shadow rushes past the corner of his vision. Chan whirls around, clapping a hand over his mouth, to see the black uniform of the Kereseian guard disappearing into the distance.

Heart in his throat, Chan strides as quietly as he can over soft grass and dirt until he’s ten paces behind the guard. Praying, praying that the guard doesn’t notice him, he follows until they reach a small clearing in the woods. The guard mutters something under her breath and places a hand to the grass.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then a harsh, orange glow flares from the earth, the ground clearing until a small staircase appears, circling underground.

With every step, Chan thinks the guard will hear him. He doesn’t dare believe luck is on his side. But they reach the bottom of the staircase without trouble, the guard muttering expletives about damned humans and damned king, and Chan finally lets himself breathe just until they emerge from a tiny door and Chan nearly barrels headfirst into several other guards. He barely stops himself in time, but even then, one of them looks around suspiciously, like she felt something in the wind.

Chan holds himself stock still, not daring to even breathe as the three guards begin to talk, winding their way back to the palace. The dark streets of Kereseia look even more unsettling than when he first saw them, cold lamps shining overhead, the strange silver trees casting strange glows onto the ground. The people of Kereseia walk freely through the streets, and it takes all of Chan’s concentration not to bump into anyone while still keeping the three guards in his line of sight. This entrance is considerably further from the palace than the one the witch told him about, and Chan’s feet are beginning to hurt a little by the time the imposing dark gates of the palace come into view.

But something is strange. Chan squints, almost bumping into one of the guards. “What’s that?” he hears one of them ask, echoing his thoughts. It almost looks like small clouds of…black dust, or something, are rising from the palace. As they get closer, the gates opening to greet them, it only becomes more evident, and Chan hears faint crashing inside, too.

Oh. Oh, no. His heart stops.

“The center of magic being pulled away from the kingdom will already lend to its collapse.”

“Was that a literal collapse? Or just metaphorical?”

“Literal.”

The palace is collapsing. Chan looks left, right—it seems anyone with sense has left. Even the three guards he entered with are sounding cries of alarm, already beginning to run out of the gates. There is no one at the palace door. No one to let him in, not that he could even ask—

The doors groan open, and several people come running out, screaming. Chan wastes no time.

He sprints inside.

. . . . .

The second night of torture begins much the same as the first. The king comes inside and force feeds you a goblet of enchanted water. The burns still litter his face and neck, but you have barely enough time to wonder why he doesn’t drink the water himself before he’s whisking out of the room, leaving someone else to prop you up on your shaky legs and primp you for the evening festivities.

You feel sick the whole time, as usual. No one speaks to you but the king, as usual. You dance alone for the entertainment of the court. He takes you as his partner next, and you exchange barbed words as he dances with you hour after hour after hour.

But then the ground shakes beneath your feet, right as the last waltz is about to start. The ceiling seems to tremble above you. You stumble on your shaky legs, but the king’s grasp on your hand doesn’t let you fall. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, his gaze riveted on the ground trembling underneath his toes.

All around you, shrieks of confusion and surprise have begun to permeate the air. You ignore them, gaze fixed solely on the king’s face that is growing stormier and stormier by the second. “The ball is over!” he shouts above the din. “Return to your homes.”

“What is happening?” you demand as the ground gives another shake. This time, the king lets you go, and you barely manage to keep your balance. “Why is the ground shaking?”

He sneers. “Because of your little lover,” he snarls. “He’s taken my crown. The seat of Kereseia’s power is too far away, and the palace is collapsing for it. Don’t worry though, darling.” His lips curve into a wide, insane smile. “I’ll escape. But you won’t.”

In the time it takes you to understand what he means, two guards have already grabbed your arms. You writhe and screech, twisting and biting, but their grip is iron. The king laughs, catching your chin between his cruel, cold hands. “It’s such a shame, Your Highness. If you had kept your father’s side of the bargain and just been my pretty wife, instead of having your lover rescue you like some ill-fated hero, you might have lived. But no.” He sneers. “You think your lover is coming back for you now, under this heap of rubble? No. You will be buried here forever, and I will simply have to find another partner.” His expression mocks you as he tilts his head, feigning thought. “What is your second sister’s name…Yeji? I’m sure she will make a fine wife.”

“You—” Rage blinds your vision and you scream, a raw, breathless sound that echoes off the walls.

The king only laughs in your face. “Take her to her room, and snap her legs,” he says, waving a hand like he’s just asked for another glass of wine at dinner. “I think I’ll leave your wedding gift intact, hm? If only you could escape. If only you had another to dance with.” He cackles, high and loud, and turns around. “If only you could dance in the first place.”

He’s going to break your legs. He’s going to bury you here. He’s going to keep the magic of the stairs intact at least until it collapses on its own, to taunt you—because if you had your legs, if you had a partner, you could leave. But you won’t. You won’t have your legs and you’ll have no one to save you and he knows it. Relishes it.

“MONSTER!” you scream.

He doesn’t even deign to look at you in reply.

You fight the entire way. You kick, writhe, scratch, twist and bite anything you can reach. But in the end, there is nothing, only the pain of two broken legs without the bliss of unconsciousness as pieces of the ceiling begin to fall around you. Sick to your stomach, you cling to the only hope you have left.

Chan, I know you will return.

Please don’t be too late.

. . . . .

By the time Chan reaches your rooms, rubble has already covered the halls, dust rising in the air and choking him until he raises his cloak to his face. The foundations groan beneath his feet, the ground cracking as he sprints across the floor, but he keeps going even as chunks of ceiling begin to fall all around him.

He’s so close. So far. With every turn he takes, every chunk of stone he dodges, he fears he might be too late. But he is not leaving this palace without you.

He isn’t too late. He can’t be.

A chunk of marble the size of his fist crashes to the floor just as he skids to a stop at your door. He digs frantically in his bag for the key, the key he took instead of the ruby—and now he knows it was the right decision. If he’d even managed to succeed with the ruby, what would it matter if he’d failed to take you again, and he had to return with no key? His fingers close around the slim silver key and he twists it in the lock with a prayer to any god listening above.

Something clicks. Chan swings the door open, rips off his cloak, and meets your eyes.

“Y/N,” he breathes. “Gods and stars above, Y/N—”

“Chan?” You cough on the dust, and Chan immediately rushes to your side. “Chan—I—how did you get back here?" you gasp. “He said he sealed all the openings—gods, I prayed you would come but I never though—”

“I followed a guard,” Chan says, trying not to stare at the sight of your disfigured legs splayed out on the ground. “I got in but—Y/N, what happened—”

“He broke my legs.”

Chan blinks. Blinks again.

"He healed them every night he wanted me to dance.” Your words fall to the floor, brittle, cracked, broken. “And when the night was over, he would break them again. So I couldn’t run away.” Tears roll down your face but you laugh, an empty noise devoid of mirth that scares Chan more than the groaning of the floor beneath him. “When the palace began to collapse, he threw me in here and did it one last time. So I wouldn’t escape.”

Rocks have begun to thud on the ground around you two, but all Chan can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears. Fury clenches his hands into fists and it’s all can do to stop himself from punching a hole in the floor—save it, he tells himself with more restraint than he thought he had. Save it for when you meet him. “How did he heal you?” Chan asks instead, ignoring the shake in his voice.

“Enchanted water.” You have to raise your ragged voice above the sound of the palace crumbling beneath you. “The fountain outside.”

Chan blinks. The fountain outside—the one that had been at the base of the staircase where you danced the first time you tried to escape. He knows where it is. He glances between you and the door. He could leave you here and bring back the water, but what if the room collapses before he can get back? “I’m going to have to carry you,” he says grimly, feeling his heart crack with the way your lips tighten. “I’m sorry. I can’t leave you in here.”

You take a deep breath. Close your eyes, then open them once more. “Do it.”

As quickly as he dares, Chan slides one arm under your thighs and another under your back. “One, two, three—”

He lifts you up. You let out a strangled noise and latch onto his neck, holding so tight it’s a little hard to breathe, but Chan doesn’t complain, only throws himself out the door as fast as he can. He’s halfway down the hall when a crash sounds behind the two of you, coming right from the room you just abandoned.

“There.”

Your voice drags him out of his stupor and he looks to where you’re pointing, the familiar round atrium with a fountain set in the middle. Chan hurries as fast as he can, narrowly dodging a fist-sized piece of marble that hits his leg instead. “Shit.”

“My family wouldn’t approve of that language.” Your voice, though faint, still holds the slightest hint of a smile and Chan nearly cries. You’re not fully gone. Not just yet.

“We’ll worry about my language when we get out of here.” When, not if, Chan reminds himself as he lowers you to the ground. “Give me a moment.”

The fountain has stopped running, but a fair amount of water remains in the bowl. His fingers fumble with the flask in his bag but he finally manages to tug it free and fill it as full as he can. “Here,” he says, tipping the water to your lips. “Come on, Y/N.”

You empty a quarter of the flask before you push his hand away. “That’s enough,” you say, voice a little clearer. “I can’t taste that anymore.” Gripping the side of the fountain, you drag yourself up on unsteady legs that have already healed. “Let’s go.”

"Didn’t you say he sealed the openings?” Chan asks over the rumble of the palace falling around him. “Even if we leave the palace, I don’t know if I can recreate the opening where the guards came in from.”

“Here.” You stare at the fountain, then at the circle of stones surrounding it. “We’ll leave from here.”

Chan blinks. “How do you know it’ll work?”

“He said he’d keep it intact. Until it fell on its own, anyway. Because he thought it was the most amusing thing in the world, having a clear exit open for me—as long as someone healed my legs, and would dance with me. Neither of which he thought would ever happen.” You laugh once, a sound devoid of amusement, as your gaze fractures with memories of something Chan wasn’t here for. The voice that leaves your throat is brittle, cracked when you speak again. “We should go.” Despite your words, though, you don’t move.

“Y/N?” He peers into your eyes, into the fragmented expression that terrifies him more than anything he’s encountered during his time here. “Y/N, are you—”

“Chan.” Your voice breaks, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Chan, I don’t want to dance anymore.”

His heart splits. Shatters. Falls to the floor in pieces that mix with the marble dust littering the ground. Then it resurrects itself, fused together with a flame of fury that Chan takes care not to show as he takes your hands, forcing his voice to stay steady. “One step at a time,” he soothes, even as he rages internally at the fact that the king took so much away from you, your family, your liberty, and now even your love for dance. “Just like the other times, yeah?” Never mind that they’ve danced with each other a total of two times, one of which was their last failed escape. Chan’s heart hammers in his chest but he grips your hand a little tighter, lets the other rest loosely on your shoulder so you can shrug him away whenever you need. “Just guide me,” he whispers. “I’ll follow. Always.”

“Follow,” you murmur, so softly Chan almost doesn’t hear you. “He always made me follow.” You blink once. Twice. “You want me to lead?”

“Why not?” Even as the ceiling groans, Chan smiles. “I’ll follow your lead.”

For a moment, it feels as though the world stops as the implication of his words hangs over your heads.

I’ll follow you everywhere you go, even into the depths of hell.

You take a deep breath. Look up into his eyes with a gaze still cracked, but a little less so than before. “I’ll lead,” you say, squeezing his hand. Your other hand goes to his back, resting on his shoulder blade the way you danced at the festival just days ago. “I’ll lead.”

“One step at a time,” Chan reminds you softly. His lips quirk. “And I’m sorry if I step on your toes.”

You don’t smile. Not quite. But the barest hint of a sparkle finds its way into your eyes, more of the glass cracks sealing themselves once more.

“Ready?” You take a deep breath. “One, two, three...”

And you dance.

. . . . .

Your heart leaps into your throat the second you step onto one of the circles. Rocks are flying overhead, the very stone beneath your feet unstable as all hell, but you force yourself to breathe, to guide Chan around the cracks in the marble as you begin to weave your way across the stones.

For several terrible minutes, nothing happens. The circular steps don’t rise. The ground continues to rumble. With every step you take you can feel yourself faltering, angry tears running down your face. The king lied. He had no intention of allowing you even the minutest attempt at escape. He’s taken away your life, your love for dance, all that you had in this underground hell, and now he’s going to take Chan’s life too.

But Chan keeps dancing. Keeps stepping gracefully, keeps following you, and what can you do but continue? He’s trusting you now, just as you trusted him to return. So despite the tears and the terror, you force yourself to keep moving. Keep dancing.

And, after what feels like an eternity, you begin to feel yourself rising.

A shaky gasp bursts from your lips. Between the tears you can barely see where you’re going, but as the circular stones continue to rise you force yourself to focus. It wouldn’t do to trip here and fall, not when you’re so close but so far. Chan’s arms do wonders to hold you up on your unsteady legs, made worse by the shaking of the stone beneath you. For all you’re leading him, he’s the one lending you the strength to keep going.

You're so grateful he's here. So grateful you are no longer alone.

The vaulted ceiling finally groans open, letting in the gray-pink light of the sun. You almost collapse right then and there, but you don’t. Instead, you take Chan on a last few dizzying spins onto the final stone circle before leaping onto the solid earth outside. Only then do you let yourself go, falling to the grass with Chan in one unceremonious tumble, hands still clutching each other tight.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe, taking in the pale light of dawn in the sky, letting its rays caress your skin. Slowly, you force yourself to sit just as Chan also rises, never once letting go of your hand on the way. Then somehow you’re in his arms and he’s in yours and you’re—not sobbing, the sounds being ripped from your throats are something beyond tears and cries—but you’re crushing him close, as close as you can with your trembling arms, and trying to believe that you’re free. That you’ve escaped. Kereseia is collapsing and you won’t ever have to go back.

“Chan,” you gasp. “Chan, I—”

“Shh,” he whispers into your ear, voice shaking as much as yours. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Just then, the earth rocks a little beneath your bodies. You both freeze.

“The palace is still falling,” you say, wiping away tears. “The ground must also be unstable. We should leave.”

Chan nods. “I have a horse. Let's go.”

. . .

You don’t make it there.

As Chan leads you through the grass and trees, two pairs of feet dragging to where he remembers leaving his horse, a sharp scuffling noise sounds in a nearby grove. Warily, you look at Chan, who looks back. “Should we—” you start to ask before an unwelcome figure materializes out of the trees and sends you reeling backward into Chan, a scream cut short in your throat.

The king looks—terrible. Far worse than you last saw him, which can’t have been very long ago—only a few hours, maybe. At most. And yet every bit of his exposed skin looks raw and red, angry burns peppered along his throat and face despite him standing mostly in the shadow of the trees, out of reach of the brightest rays of dawn. Even though he wears the same clothes as when he left you to die in that palace, he looks smaller in them. More haggard.

It doesn’t diminish the hatred in his eyes, though.

On instinct you push Chan slightly behind you, stepping forward even as your heart threatens to leap out of your throat. “What are you doing here?” you hiss.

“I could ask the same of you.” The king smirks, though the expression looks more like a grimace than anything else. “I thought I’d never see you again, Your Highness.”

“I could say the same for you,” you reply, acid on your tongue. “Though I didn’t just think, I hoped.”

Behind you, Chan chokes on something that sounds almost like laughter. The sound lends you a little hope. But then it dies away just as quickly, because even though the king looks severely weakened, he still has power. He still has the ruby necklace. You don’t really know what he can do with that power—he’s never actually shown them to you, beyond when he teleported you to his kingdom—but there was a reason his family was cursed underground. It can’t have been because they were harmless.

“So your lover did come back for you.” The king shoots a hateful glance at Chan, who only steps forward to meet it. “I can’t tell if you are brave, or just plain stupid.”

“Faithful,” you correct.

“No sense of self preservation.” The king laughs.

“Not as if you have much either,” Chan says slowly. “Not when you’re standing in the sunlight.”

The king sneers, though for the first time, you don’t pay attention to it. Chan’s words made you remember something. While the king had forced you to drink the fountain’s water to heal your legs, he never took any of it for his burns, which you remember finding strange. “It’s too bad you don’t have any of that enchanted water to heal you, yes?” You force a laugh, carefully eyeing the king’s reaction.

It happens in less than a second. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed. But the king flinches, ever so slightly, before he regains his sneering composure.

An inkling of an idea begins to form in your mind. “Water,” you hiss to Chan out of the corner of your mouth, angling your hand behind you. You school your face into neutral hatred, praying that he heard you, and praying that the king didn’t. “Why are you out here in the sunlight, Your Majesty? If it hurts you so much, shouldn’t you be sheltering underground?”

“Yes,” Chan chimes in, pressing the flask into your hand. Your fingers close around it as he continues. “Your palace fell, but surely the rest of your kingdom is safe?”

“My reason is standing right before me.” A manic gleam enters the king’s eye. “You have my crown, don’t you, lover boy? The seat of my power?” He steps forward and instinctively you step back. “Or if you don’t have it here with you now, you know where it is, don't you?”

Chan scoffs, though you hear the hitch in his voice. “Even if I did, I’d die before you got it out of me.”

“Oh, you might die without issue.” A smile curves the king’s lips, sending chills up your spin. Your grip tightens around the flask. “But how long would you last if you had to see your dear princess hurt?”

It happens in a second. The king leaps. Chan yells. But strangely, your heart remains calm, even as the king’s cold fingers graze your chin—

And you throw the contents of the flask on his face.

Time seems to suspend itself. The king stares at you. You stare at him. His fingers are just barely touching your chin, like he meant to claw off your skin. Which he might have if he didn’t suddenly crumple to the forest floor, screaming in agony.

Your legs give out immediately after. If it weren’t for Chan, you’d have collapsed right next to the writhing mess of a king before you, but Chan grabs you and tugs you back, his eyes riveted on the scene before him.

You can’t look away either. The king’s face seems to be…melting. It’s the only way you can describe it. The raw redness of his skin flares angrier until it looks like he’s—being boiled, or something, you don’t know how you can even put it into words—but the screams of agony grow sharper and louder until they finally begin to die, turning into raw animal sounds of torture and pain as his mouth twists into something unrecognizable. You stand there, clutching Chan, shaking like no tomorrow, until finally the king stops screaming and goes still.

For a long moment, you and Chan just stand, frozen, unable to tear your eyes from the lump of flesh before you that used to be the Kereseian king. Eventually, though you’re able to speak.

“I didn’t think that would happen.”

Then you lean over and throw up on the grass.

Chan’s over you in a second, producing a handkerchief out of nowhere to wipe your lips, raising the remnants of the flask to your mouth to wash out the taste. He’s shaking too, his face a sick shade of green, but he successfully holds himself back from following in your footsteps.

Finally, you have enough strength to stand up on your own. On unsteady legs, you walk over to what used to be the king. The bright red ruby still rests on his chest, glinting sinisterly in the pink sunlight. Before you can second guess yourself, you pull the necklace around the melted form of his head, trying not to gag.

Chan takes the necklace from you and stuffs it into his bag. “Let’s go,” he says gently, turning you away from the body. “Let’s get out of here.”

You don’t object.

. . . . .

You reach the witch’s hut just as night is falling. Chan is reeling with exhaustion and you don’t look much better, nearly falling off the horse when you try to dismount. You catch yourself on him just in time, and then there’s not much time to think before the hut door swings open, washing the two of you in warm light.

“Goodness.” The witch pulls the two of you with surprising strength into the hut, shutting the door firmly behind. “Come inside, my dears. Sit down.”

Despite his exhaustion, Chan pulls out the ruby necklace from his bag and gives it to the witch before collapsing into one of the overstuffed couches with you. She takes it quickly, turning immediately to the crown case, which had been on one of the nearby tables, and presses the gem into the box’s dent. It swings open. Without a second thought, the witch tosses the crown into her fire, along with the necklace. The flames burn bright white for a moment, then die back down to their previous merry orange.

“You are the witch, aren’t you?” you ask, startling Chan. You’d closed your eyes when you sat down and he’d half expected you to have fallen asleep by now. “The one who helped Chan.”

“I am,” she says, bowing low. “I am also honored to be in your presence, princess of Terpsichani.”

You blink. “I—how did you know?”

“While I may live in a hut in the woods, that does not mean I am bereft of knowledge of the times.” The witch smiles kindly. “I am glad to see you safe in your…friend’s arms.”

Chan flushes red. A ghost of your lovely smile plays on your lips when you look at him. “Friend, Chan?”

“I…” Chan swallows, praying his ears aren’t red at least. “I did not know what else to call you, to a stranger.”

“I tease,” you say, the smile growing a little wider as you squeeze his hand. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I will admit, it wasn’t hard to see through it before,” the witch says, and you laugh as Chan buries his face in his palms. “Just as it isn’t hard to see through it now.”

You lower your head a little, as though embarrassed. When you look up, though, you look better than you have the entire day. “Thank you, my lady,” you say, taking the witch’s wrinkled hands between yours. “For all that you have done for us. For helping keep my love safe. Should you come ever come to my kingdom, you need never lift a hand for a thing. You will be most welcome anywhere.”

“The honor is mine,” she replies, her eyes crinkling with her smile. “I thank you for your kindness, but I do not insist upon reward for my actions. The knowledge that the evil of Kereseia is gone, the seat of the royal family’s power crushed, is enough.”

You frown slightly. “You sound as though you have experience with the kingdom.”

“She was the one of those who cursed the royal family in the first place,” Chan says. It still awes him that this small woman before him was so powerful.

“...I see.” You rise from your seat, and before either of them can stop you, you give the witch a low bow. “Then I must thank you for your unwavering service, my lady.”

“Do not bow to me, Your Highness.” The witch rushes to seat you again, gently pressing you back into the couch cushions. “Not to me. I only did what I had to. As did you.”

Shadows cross your face, and you look away. Chan takes your hands. Squeezes them against the memories of an evil king, his face half melted away, the dying screams in his ears…

“Enough for now.” The witch stands, gesturing to the two of you. Her eyes are sympathetic. “I will bring you two food and water, and then you must rest. I insist,” she says, though your and Chan’s mouths both open to argue. “You are in no shape to continue riding for days in this state. Rest here, for now, and I will send you on your way come morning.”

You look like you still want to disagree, but Chan remembers how his last attempt at refusing rest went so he just gives you a small smile. “You won’t convince her,” he says quietly. “And we both do need rest. You’re about to fall asleep right here.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce as the witch bustles off to another area of the hut. “Gods above, I’m tired.”

“Sleep now,” Chan says, guiding your head to his shoulder. “I’ll wake you when there’s food.”

“Alright.” You blink once, twice, slowly. “Thank you, Chan. For everything.”

Warmth floods his chest, giving him the courage to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Of course,” he whispers. “Anything for you.”

. . . . .

It takes a day of riding to reach the outskirts of Terpsichani, and another to reach the capital. When Chan stops the horse at the palace gates, you freeze for a moment. A kingdom doesn’t change much in a week, but even so, everything still feels different.

It was only a week. You nearly laugh. How could so much have happened in so little time?

The second you dismount the horse everything turns into a frenzy. People shouting, crying, trying to lead you this way and that—noise pummeling your ears, words bouncing off your skull. Someone tries to separate you and Chan and you only pull him closer, not even thinking about what this might look like to those who don’t know of your love. In this moment, he is safety. He is peace. He is the rope you cling to in the ocean of this overwhelming return.

Then the crowd parts for someone and in the midst of it all you lock eyes with Yeji. Her expression, initially disbelieving, crumples into something beyond relief and you feel your eyes beginning to well with tears as she leaps forward, crushing you into a hug. For seconds that feel like minutes that feel like hours you stay locked in her embrace, cherishing the feeling of her arms around you, her face pressed into your shoulder.

When you pull away, the crowd has quieted at your display of affection. Yeji’s attention shifts from yours to someone behind you—Chan, you realize—and before you know it, she’s walked forward and crushed him in a hug not unlike yours.

Your heart melts as Chan glances at you over her shoulder, bewildered confusion in his eyes. It’s okay, you mouth, and slowly that confusion turns into a soft relief that allows him to put his arms around her as well.

Your other sisters come running down the hall, then, along with Chaeyoung, their cries of surprise and relief echoing in your ears moments before they bury you in their embrace too. And for a little while, especially after Yeji joins your hug and pulls Chan into it too, all is right in the world.

Too soon, though, someone clears their throat. You fight the urge to snap. You want nothing more than to scream foul words at the person who did, but it’s probably not their fault, so all you do is wipe your eyes and turn towards them.

It turns out to be your father’s chief advisor, who wears an expression of half shock, half disbelief. You don’t blame him. You still feel the same way too.

“Your Highness.” He bows low. “Please allow me to congratulate you upon your return.”

It doesn’t sound like much to congratulate you on, but you can appreciate how hard it is to politely phrase I’m glad you have escaped after being kidnapped by the ruler of the kingdom of hell, so you just try to smile. “Thank you.”

“Your father has received word of your return,” he continues, oblivious to how your heart immediately plummets to your stomach. “He would like to see you, when you are rested and refreshed.”

Your father. You swallow hard. The man who, if the Kereseian king is to be believed, made the deals that landed you in the kingdom of hell in the first place. The man who failed to warn you or do even the slightest thing to prepare you—whatever preparation means in this situation—for what would happen. Even though he could have.

With effort, you don’t clench your fists. Though you want nothing more than to refuse the invitation and retire to your rooms, he is the king. And you are a princess. Which means you must act as one, no matter how the adrenaline of your return is starting to wear off, no matter how hard exhaustion is beginning to hit instead. “Then tell him I will see him now,” you say, voice as steady as you can keep it. You gesture to Chan. “Please see to it that he is given refreshment. Rooms are to be made up for his convenience of rest. Yeji, have someone assigned to wait on him, please.”

“Y/N—Your Highness.” Chan corrects himself on your name and it almost sends you reeling. He can’t call you by your name here, you know that and he does, but gods and stars above you wish he could. “You don’t need to do all of this for me.”

You look at him steadily. “Chan, there is nothing I could do in the world that would be enough to repay you for you saving me.”

A gasp ripples through the hall. You bite back a frown, turning to Yeji. Did you say something wrong? She must know. What did I miss? you ask with your eyes.

“If I may.” Yeji looks to your father’s chief advisor. “I would like to speak with my sister before she meets our father. It will only be a minute.”

He bows shortly. “As you wish, Your Highnesses.”

The crowd slowly begins to disperse, and Yeji walks you to an empty room. Your other sisters disperse but Chaeyoung follows, beckoning a confused Chan with her. It gives you a little comfort to know that someone else is as lost as you. “Did something happen?” you ask as soon as Chaeyoung shuts the door.

“When Father was informed you were kidnapped, he issued…a challenge, of sorts, to the nobility and royalty of this kingdom and others beyond,” Yeji says carefully. “He promised great reward to the one who would bring you back alive.”

An uneasy feeling begins to spread through your chest. “What did he promise?” you ask quietly.

“Your hand in marriage,” Chaeyoung replies.

After a moment's thought, you realize this wasn't unexpected. How many fairy tales have gone the same way? But you never expected to live a fairy tale yourself so the news still hits you like a punch in the gut and you almost have to steady yourself on the wall. You look at Chan, heart in your throat. “Did you—did you know of this?” you ask, hardly daring to hear the answer.

“I did,” Chan replies, equally quiet. “Her Highness told me, when she came to ask for my aid.”

“And he would have done it without the knowledge that your hand might await his,” Yeji cuts in, her eyes sharp. “You know that, Y/N.”

You do. A deep breath escapes your lips, relief gusting out of you all at once at the reminder. You do know that, know deep within your heart that the minute Chan heard you had disappeared, he would have set out to find you, reward or none. “I do,” you say quietly, meeting Chan’s eyes. He hangs his head, looking almost ashamed, but you take his hands. “You said you would follow me anywhere,” you murmur, tangling your fingers together. “I know you would, regardless what awaited you at the end.”

He squeezes your fingers, a tiny smile on his lips. “I would,” he replies. “Until the end of time.”

“The thing is, he didn’t issue this declaration publicly,” Yeji interrupts. “He announced it to nobility and royalty. I was the one who informed Chan first, but I didn’t know that our father only meant it to be for those of magic blood until later.” Her eyes turn to yours, wide and meaningful.

In your muddled state of mind, it takes you a moment to understand. But when you do, anger begins to burn in your chest.

He meant for a noble to find you. A royal. Someone of the so-called right blood, someone who would inherit the throne with you without issue or scandal. Someone sure to have magic in their veins. Not one of the commonfolk. Certainly not a cobbler.

You almost scream. How is this any different from you being married to the king of hell?

This time, you can’t stop yourself from clenching your fists. “I will have no hand but his,” is all you manage to say. “Magical or not.”

“I know,” Yeji replies, putting a hand on your shoulder. “And I will support you, as will our sisters. But you needed to know, so that Father would not blindside you.”

Fury nearly does blind you then, angry thoughts whirling through your skull. Your father made a deal with the kingdom of hell. When he couldn’t keep the first he made a second, and doomed you to a life of agony in the cold underground. To right the second he issued a challenge to give away your hand to the first who would succeed, and in the end, the challenge was only for a select few, and not for the one who found you, who loved you, and whom you’d already given your heart to.

You swallow hard around the furious lump in your throat. “I understand,” you say. “I will speak to him accordingly.”

“Y/N.” Your name from Chan’s voice cuts through the mess of anger in your mind. You turn to him. “I won’t have you go through more trouble because of me,” he says quietly. His eyes are soft, sad, but he speaks clearly even though he can’t quite look you in the face. “This is not worth as much trouble as it is.”

“You’re wrong.” Two steps forward, and with a surprised gasp from him you’ve locked Chan in your embrace once more. “You’re wrong,” you say again in his ear. “You are worth the moon, the stars. You are worth everything I have to give in this godforsaken world, worth every battle I will have to fight for your hand. Do not even suggest that you are not.” You pull away, your eyes soft. “You fought hell to save me from its clutches. Now, please, Chan.”

His eyes, full of unshed tears, stare back into yours.

Heart in your throat, you wipe a single tear from the side of his face. “Let me fight for you.”

. . .

Just weeks ago you stood in front of your father’s door just like you do now, arm raised, about to knock. The memory curves your lips, bittersweet, as you rap your knuckles against the wood.

“Come in,” his voice sounds. You enter the room.

Immediately your father’s eyes widen, like he didn’t quite believe the news that you had returned. Relief crashes over his features and his voice, always so steady in your memory, trembles as he rounds his desk to wrap you in a hug. “Y/N,” he says. “I am glad you have returned.”

If you hadn't known about his role in the contract with Kereseia, you might have hugged him back, perhaps even shed a few tears on his shoulder. For all the coldness with which he treated you over years past, he seems truly emotional now. But even though he seems genuine, it can’t erase the knowledge the Kereseian king gave you.

It’s true that the king might have lied. If you had only heard the stories of Kereseia, you might immediately assume this was the case. But over the days you spent with him, you know that while he may have teased you in awful ways, spun little white lies about love that he knew you would never believe, he did not lie about the things that were important. Not the threats. Not the punishments. Besides, it takes two to seal a contract.

Someone had to have done it on your end.

So you don’t return your father’s hug, only stand there stiffly until he lets go. You sit down silently in front of his desk as he returns to his own seat. “I was told you wanted to see me,” you prompt.

“I did.” Your father’s eyes watch you carefully. You force your expression to remain neutral. “Though it could have waited until you were rested.” When you don’t reply, he frowns. “Why do you remain so cold, Y/N? Did I do something to merit your temper?”

In a moment, you’ve stood, fists already clenched. “That’s rich,” you spit, “considering you should know exactly what you did.”

Shock passes over his expression and then he schools it neutrally, to your fury. “Y/N, you do not understand,” he begins. “Your mother and I—”

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand,” you snarl. “I understand very well. I understand that you were the one who signed a contract with the king to sell my own mother off—I understand that you were the one who later signed another contract when the first fell through to sell one of your own daughters off—to a kingdom we all know as having risen from the depths of hell.” You take a sharp breath. “And now I also know that you used my kidnapping as a challenge, to find someone to take my hand in marriage though I never consented to it—I know all of this, and you dare ask me if something you did merits my temper?”

Your father looks slightly pale. It brings you no pleasure to see him like this, sickens you even because it means everything the Kereseian king told you must be true, but you continue. “I will have you know,” you say quietly, “that the one who found me, the one who saved me, was not one of those to whom you issued your challenge. He is not noble. He is not royal. Do you know who he is?” You laugh shortly. “He is our Chan. Our royal cobbler. Someone you probably have not spoken ten words to in your life.” Your father opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “I am going to marry him,” you say quietly. “Not because of your disgusting decree. But because he loves me, and I love him, and I refuse to have any other hand but his.”

“You are not well,” your father says, and the dismissiveness in his voice nearly slaps you backward. “You are tired, and not thinking straight. You need rest, and then we will speak again.”

You gape. You never thought that your father would accept this easily, but to just dismiss it out of hand? Just like that? “I don’t need rest!” you yell. “I need you to listen to me—”

“You are not in your right mind!” he snaps. “You know as well as I do that one without magic cannot inherit the throne. You need time to clear your thoughts—”

A laugh escapes your lips, a hysterical sound devoid of mirth. “I have never thought as clearly as I currently am,” you snarl. “You are my father! I am your daughter. You bargained me off to the vilest kingdom on earth so that you would have an heir, you failed to tell me anything that might have prepared me for it, you got both of my legs broken for three days straight for a psychopath who would do anything to keep me from escape, and then to fix that you sold off my hand to the first one who might find me and now when I tell you I want that man to marry me, you refuse!” You laugh again and the sound hurts your throat as it comes up, raw and choking. “You haven’t even apologized!”

Something flashes across your father’s expression, but he masks it too quickly for you to decipher it. “I am sorry, Y/N, for what you went through.” Rage flashes through you—what you went through, like he wasn’t the reason it all happened—“But you are not thinking straight. We will speak later, when you have had time to calm down.”

You choke on your own words, finally feeling an angry tear cascade down your face. “I will have no one but Chan,” you hiss. “Know this, Father. I will fight tooth and nail on this until the very end.” You swing the door open and step out, slamming it shut behind you.

Outside, Chaeyoung waits, pale-faced and wide-eyed. She probably heard everything. “Chaeyoung,” you say, forcing yourself to rein in your tone, “Schedule an audience with my father tomorrow. Make sure Chan is there.” You pause. “In fact, make sure the entire court is there.”

She blanches. “Your Highness, are you sure this is wise?”

“Was my father’s hare-brained decision to send me to that kingdom of hell wise?” You ignore her stifled gasp and continue. “Chan is to be well cared for until then. If he desires to return home, he may. I only ask that he be part of the audience tomorrow. Ensure that he is in proper attire, and tell him that I will speak to him before we enter the chamber, so that he knows what might happen.”

Chaeyoung nods quickly. “If I may, Your Highness…what do you plan to do?”

You smile a little then, though it surely does not reach your eyes. “My father likes to break contracts, it seems,” you say. “I’m just going to break another for him.”

. . . . .

Chan stands in the throne room, fighting the urge to fidget. It’s not just because of the strange looks being cast upon him the longer he stands here, nor the strange clothes a servant gave him to wear when he came to the palace. That, he can somewhat ignore.

He can’t ignore the king’s baleful stare on him across the room, though.

Chan takes a deep breath, remembering what you said to him before you entered the room. “My father refused to hear that I wanted to wed you,” you told him first. “He said that I was not in my right mind. But I know I was.” Your gaze, so fiery then, had softened. “Allow me to fight for us, Chan. I will win, or fall trying.”

What could he do in the face of your determination but agree?

Still, though, he can’t help but feel out of place as the court comes to order. The king’s advisor announces you, and you walk forward. “Your Majesty,” you say, bowing low.

“Your Highness, and my heir.” The king’s eyes don’t waver as you rise. “Announce your intention for this audience.”

You turn to address the crowd. For a moment, your eyes meet his, and Chan feels himself relax slightly as your lips curve into just barely a smile. “I have come before my father’s court, escaped from the kingdom of hell, to announce my intention to marry.”

A gasp rises from the audience. Your father’s eyebrows furrow. “The one I wish to marry is not of magic blood,” you announce, and the whispers grow louder. “But he is the one who saved me from Kereseian clutches. And he is the one to whom I have given my heart.”

The king seems to grit his teeth. “Daughter, you know that one with no magic in their blood cannot join the royal family.”

“And yet you issued a decree, Father.” Your low voice trembles with rage, so much grief and betrayal as you stare at the man who was supposed to love you, to protect you as his daughter, but failed in the end and lost you to the depths of fire and hell. “A decree that the one who found me and brought me back would have my hand in marriage in return.”

The king stares back, impassive. “The decree was not meant for the common folk,” he says, slow, clear. “I don’t know how your cobbler heard of it, but he should have known it was not meant for him.”

Knife blades scratch the walls as your sharp laugh echoes through the room. Chan winces as the sound scrapes through his ears, joining the resounding clack of your heels clicking cold on the marble floor. “Let us not consider right now the fact that you sought to sell my hand in marriage away to the first one who would find me,” you spit, acid in your voice. “I wonder if you made your stipulations evident enough, even to those who heard your decree, considering the only one who found me is of no magic blood.”

It’s the king’s turn for a mirthless laugh to suffocate the air. “If he loves you as much as you say, your poor cobbler boy would have snatched any opportunity at life with you, no matter how absurd.”

All eyes turn to him. Chan stares resolutely ahead at the white marble walls though his shoulders ache to curl in out of embarrassment and shame, red-eared, red-faced shame at the publicity of his love—but there is nothing to be ashamed of, he reminds himself, no shame in loving someone as wonderful and beautiful as you. No shame at having succeeded in a task where all others failed.

There is still that sharp sting of being used as a pawn in the king’s desperate attempt to right a terrible mistake, however.

“And I suppose you would now take advantage of that.” You shake your head. “Take advantage of that cobbler’s loyalty, his love, his life—”

“It would have been foolish for him to hope at a chance with you,” the king interrupts. “Cobblers don’t marry princesses.”

Chan’s shoulders finally slump. The red creeps across his cheeks, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. The king is right, here—cobblers don’t marry princesses. Especially not cobblers without magic.

The silence that follows the king’s declaration is deafening. Every pair of eyes fixed on him weighs heavy on Chan’s shoulders, dragging him down, down, down. He doesn’t want to be here. Shouldn’t be here in the first place. He swallows hard, ready to slip out of the crowd and make his retreat before he hears anything more.

But then you turn your head. Meet his eyes.

And between all the grief and fury dancing in your pupils, Chan sees a smile, then silent words playing on your lips.

I’m not going to leave you behind.

An echo of the promise he once made you in a castle set in the depths of hell, your hand desperately gripping his.

“You think he came for me in an attempt at marriage?” And here your laugh cackles vindictive between the marble walls, so sharp and cold but with a touch of fiery warmth that soothes the lash of shame crawling up Chan’s spine as you look back at your father. “You truly think so?”

Only the sound of soft breaths interrupts the silence in the hall.

“My cobbler would have come for me whether or not you had issued the decree,” you declare, and in your step forward Chan feels terror, uncertainty, crushing relief—emotions, he realizes, all of the emotions you felt before and when he arrived. “Because he loves me. Cares for me.”

Every eye in the room follows the sharp snap of your arm forward, one finger extended toward the man sitting on the throne. Every spine shudders at the vindictive anger you threw into the air with that one movement.

“More than you,” you whisper, voice a terrifying contrast to your blazing eyes. “More than my own father.”

Gasps sound around the court at your audacity but Chan can only watch as you take another step forward, staring your father full in the face. “You made one promise to a mad king of hell and almost doomed my mother to death in flames,” you snarl. “You made another promise to right the first and got my legs snapped in two every night for three nights just so the mad king’s son could have his entertainment. You made a third promise to right the second and now you tell me it was one you never intended to keep. The one promise that would truly have righted some of the wrongs, and you shirk from this one, too.” The peal of laughter that falls from your lips chills the air with the same icy fire Chan remembers from the hell-castle. “Tell me, Father. How many promises would you break so easily?”

“I—”

“No matter.” Your voice carries over the king’s as you take the last step forward, right to base of the throne. The guards make as though to block you but Chan watches as you flash them a look, a single look and a gesture of your fingers like knives in the air that sends them reeling, horror in their eyes. You ascend the steps until you tower over your sitting father, stone-faced. “When I was born, you made a promise to our goddess. Our deity. Our sacred Mother, the giver of the magic that runs through my veins and yours.”

Your arms rise. Fingers grip the jeweled crown that rests on your head. A gasp begins to run through the crowd again and Chan finds himself stepping forward, a hand reaching out to stop you as he begins to understand just what you mean to do—

You look at him, and in that single second, Chan sees the smirk twitch your lips so very slightly.

He stops.

“You promised I, as your first-born, would be the next heir to the throne of our kingdom.” You lift the circlet from your head and hold it out, letting firelight glitter on the jewels, throwing their shine onto your skin. With your face still as it is, the room completely silent, Chan would have believed it if someone had told him you were the goddess herself. “You made an oath to our goddess that unless an untimely death became me, I would be your heir.”

For the first time, the king’s eyes tremble. Slightly, slightly, but it is more than enough for Chan’s heart to feel that slight vindication, that sharp satisfaction that he’s been craving ever since the king opened his bitter mouth and began speaking.

“Since you seem to enjoy breaking promises so much, I will break this one for you, Father.” You place the crown on his lap with delicate precision. “In the face of this betrayal—that the king of this blessed land would trade his wife to a king and then his daughter to that king's son, would gamble with their lives and those of so many others—I refuse to claim this tainted crown. I can be no blessed heir for such a cursed throne.” Jewel light sparks off your face and the smile painted across your lips. “I am sure the goddess hears this, and I am sure she understands.”

A clatter and a clang sound on the marble as the crown falls and a flinch carries through the crowd as the king stands, fire blazing in his eyes. “You—”

The voice ripples through the hall, silencing every whisper.

She what, exactly?

Chan’s breath lodges in his throat. He nearly chokes on it.

The Goddess Mother. Terpsichore. She who breathes magic into this land of dance, who gives the kingdom, Terpsichani, its name.

At the front of the throne room, the king has gone still, all the color drained from his face. Your own eyes have left those of your father, turned wide to the crowd as you try understand what is happening. Both of you compose yourselves, though, far more quickly than Chan manages. As you and your father drop to your knees, so does the rest of the room.

You speak first. “My lady.”

My chosen.

Your shoulders seem to stiffen under the weight of the goddess’s greeting, but you don’t say a word.

So, too, does your father speak. “My lady.”

Your…Majesty.

From where he kneels, Chan allows his eyes to sweep around the room, catching several other glances as well. No one, it seems, missed the pause before the goddess deigned to call the king by his title.

Your father’s face tightens.

I heard the princess’s declaration. I heard the reasoning she put forth to lay her crown, your promise, at your feet. The goddess’s voice echoes off the marble walls, directed at the king. But while I am all-knowing within the borders of our country, my sight in foreign lands is…limited.

Princess.

You look up, ever so slightly.

You called upon me.

A pause. You square your shoulders. “I did, my lady.”

I ask you now to show me what you experienced, and from there I will render my judgment.

Silence falls over the hall once more, though it takes on a puzzled note this time. Though from the moment the goddess used the word show, not tell, Chan understood. And so did you.

The blood seems to have drained from your face, leaving a sick pallor to your skin as you rise to your feet. You hide it well, but Chan notices the trembling in your legs, the legs you still don’t fully trust after having had them broken several times on purpose—legs still riddled with phantom pains and tremors that you have tried to hide but couldn’t fully.

Chan, I don’t want to dance anymore.

But the goddess said show. And the deities of this world understand nothing more than the magic woven into their own art.

As heads remain bowed around him, Chan dares to raise his own. Meet your eyes.

And smile.

You don’t smile. Not really. But as Chan holds your gaze, he watches as the fear in your eyes hardens, then mellows slightly into something a little warmer, a little softer. Your teeth that had been worrying the inside of your lip disengage, and your shoulders fall back as you step forward. The crowds of nobles scurry backward, heads rising in curiosity, but Chan remains where he is, his eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.

Slowly, you raise one graceful arm, painting sadness, despair, and resolution into the air.

“As you wish, my lady.”

. . .

Years later, Chan is sure someone—a friend, a child, a grandchild—will ask him what he saw that day, the day the princess danced her story, the story upon which every Moonlight Festival dance would be based upon in the years after. But even as they ask, he knows that he will never be able to answer, because he could never put the sight before him into spoken word.

There is no music in the room, save for the hushed breath of those who still kneel, and the alternate patter and thud of your footsteps against the floor. There is no pomp, no cheer, no festival at hand for which you dance. But as you spin and leap and whirl across marble tiles, weaving emotion into the air, Chan understands, truly, what art means. How it is transcends the word spoken by the lips, how it brings new meaning to life.

Fear, when you first found yourself in the palace of hell. Despair, as you danced night after night with the king to whom your father had promised you away, unable to find a plan of escape. Desperation as days passed and no one came to find you.

You lock eyes with Chan as you whirl to a stop in front of him, just for a moment, your hand outstretched to brush his cheek. As you turn away, the spot burns with the hope he gave you, smothered when the king nearly caught him before he could escape, but still burning, still there, even as you collapse to the floor with the pain of the king snapping your legs, one by one.

A gasp ripples through the room as you rise, unsteady, face drawn tight and pained. With jerky movements you tell of your despair, dancing around the room almost mechanically as you would have with the king every night he healed your pain only for his entertainment. But finally, after three nights of such torture, you turn back to Chan and before anyone can say a word, you pull him forward—squeeze his hands—

Tears brim in your eyes and his as you begin to lead him in the figures you danced to leave the kingdom of hell.

Clasped in your arms, Chan follows your footsteps, guided by your trembling arms that grow steadier, stronger, as you lead him across the floor. And when you emerge from the darkness, trembling and exhausted but that hope still growing stronger and stronger in your heart—

Abject terror as you confront the man who had hurt you so badly, and then disgust and relief as you watched him die.

Your eyes and his are not the only ones filled with tears by the time you stop, panting, one arm held out to the open windows and the sky. And as you lower it slowly, slowly, to intertwine your fingers with his once more, he looks at you, and you look at him, and no one says a word when you fold into each other, two hearts trembling, beating as one.

One clap breaks the silence in the room. Then two. But even as the marble hall erupts into muted applause, you and Chan don’t move. Only when the goddess’s voice again echoes off the walls do you finally step apart.

I have seen, my chosen. I thank you for your bravery.

You bow, eyes cast down to the floor.

I render my judgment.

Chan’s stomach seizes with anxiety. Your hand finds his and you grip each other tightly.

The princess, my chosen, has suffered beyond compare. Terpischore’s words pound through the hall, cold and furious. She suffered for one man’s folly and arrogance. Her own father’s.

Every eye in the room turns to the king, who still stands, red-faced, at the front of the room.

I am fair in my judgment. I understand he…attempted to act in the best interests of the kingdom. However abominable his plan was. Chan can almost see the invisible goddess’s lips twist in the air. But the reason does not excuse the action. And for that, I accept the princess’s decision to leave behind the throne, in the face of this injustice.

Your grip on his hand tightens.

But as you are my chosen, I give you a chance to reconsider your choice. I will accept the decision you make, but hear my hand first.

Bang Chan.

Chan freezes. Tries to swallow. Tries to breathe. Steps forward. “Yes, my lady.”

Commoner. Cobbler.

He swallows. “Yes.”

Bravest of all those who stand here today, save for the princess who stands by your side.

Perhaps he’s hallucinating, but Chan thinks—maybe—that if the goddess wished to show her face, she might be smiling.

I bestow upon you the gift you have earned in helping save the life of one of my chosen.

Chan blinks. Blinks again. The gift.

Something settles on his forehead—cool, icy, then warm, so warm. It melts down, down, his body trembling with warmth that runs through his skin and into his veins, traveling through his blood until it tickles the tips of his toes—

It is true that one who does not have the gift cannot sit on the throne. The goddess’s voice, edged with disdain, once again addresses the king. But the one you tried to bar from the seat now has it. A stronger gift than even you.

If Chan weren’t trying to wrap his mind around what just happened, he might laugh at the king’s expression. But it—it doesn’t make sense—this gift, what gift does the goddess speak of—

What just happened?

“You have our gift now.” Suddenly warm hands have taken his again, turned him around to face a pair of eyes that sparkle and shine with the shimmer of a thousand jewels. “Chan, you have our gift.”

Our gift. Our gift.

And suddenly, he understands.

He has your gift. A gift bestowed by the goddess, the mother of the kingdom’s magic—he has been blessed by her hand, and now—

He has the same gift of magic as you.

My chosen.

You look up. “My lady.”

Will you still accept your position upon the throne with your favored by your side?

Chan almost cries when you squeeze his hands just before letting go. “A thousand times, yes.”

Then come forward and reclaim your crown.

An invisible force lifts the circlet of jewels, diamonds and gold glittering in the sunlight as you kneel, head bowing forward. The crown comes to rest upon your head once more, and the hall takes a collective breath.

Do not disappoint me.

You look up, a light smile playing on your lips. “I won’t.”

The force of the goddess falls from the hall, leaving behind a curious emptiness in its wake. Chan blinks—it all feels like a dream—but there you are, kneeling on the floor with the crown on your brow, and he can still feel magic curling warm in his veins.

He glances at the king, who looks ready to explode. But where the vision once might have made him tremble, Chan finds himself beginning to fight off a laugh.

You meet his gaze. Glance briefly at your father, a smile tugging at your lips as you stand once more, shoes clicking on the ground. Your hand finds his and the smile grows and grows, splitting your face as joy sparkles in your eyes—

“You once promised that you wouldn’t leave me behind,” you say. Your voice echoes in the hall but for all Chan cares the world only consists of the two of you right now, you and your smile and the way he can’t tear his eyes from your face.

The smile widens.

“I promise you now that I won’t either.”

. . . . .

Compared to other royal weddings, yours is a simple one, just a quiet ceremony conducted in the palace gardens under the setting sun. Some nobility and foreign royalty fill a couple requisite rows of seats, but occupying the placements up front are your and Chan’s families and friends. Unfortunately, this does include your father, but you pay him little heed from where you stand at the altar, waiting for Chan to arrive.

The rose gold sunset seems to glow around Chan’s face when he appears at the end of the garden, dressed in all the silks and satins befitting a soon to be prince consort. But you don’t process his finery so much as you process the expression on his face—a certain softness in his eyes that you’ve learned, over the past few months, is reserved only for you.

Truth be told, you don’t remember much of the ceremony. It’s mostly a blur—the officiant’s voice, the garden’s greenery, the wind tousling Chan’s hair and the love in his eyes that makes you feel so safe, so warm. The only part you’re really aware of comes towards the end of the wedding, when the two parties spin each other once under the flowered archway. Hands joined, you raise your arm to let Chan spin once under the peonies and roses. After that, it’s his turn to spin you, but he pauses.

You haven’t danced much since you returned from Kereseia. It’s caused some gossip in the court, but when you and Yeji began to further spread the truthful rumor that the Kereseian king had broken both of your legs to keep you from escaping, only to heal you every night he wanted entertainment, the whispers died a bit. That’s not the full reason, though. You don’t quite understand it yourself. Yes, sometimes tremors travel up your legs and you still find yourself stepping gingerly as though your bones haven’t quite healed, but it's also that every time you think of some nameless, faceless person taking your hand and leading you into the figures of a dance, you feel sick. Terrified.

You hate it. Because it feels like the Kereseian king has won even though he’s dead, taken away your love and passion for something that was and has always been part of your blood. But you can’t help it, and so it just keeps hurting.

Chan knows. You’ve told him about it more than once, cried to him about it, even. He was there when you broke down before your escape. He was there when you told him, point blank, you didn’t want to dance anymore. He’s also the only one whose arms you feel comfortable staying in for the duration of a dance, though it’s still harder for you to follow than it is to lead.

When Chan pauses before he honors the wedding tradition, you’re confused, for a moment. The officiant looks between the two of you with a furrowed brow. But Chan only looks at you, and in his eyes, he asks a question.

Is this okay?

You almost start to cry right then and there. For during a wedding that you broke tradition to have, Chan is willing to break tradition just so that you can feel safe.

Holding back tears, you nod. And as you turn once under the canopy of flowers overhead, you feel something melt out of your chest, some icy block of fear dissipating into the air.

The vows come after, spoken softly just as the sun touches the horizon, pink and purple light streaking into the sky. “I promise I will never leave you behind,” you say, voice unsteady with tears, and Chan echoes the sentiment, his own words choked. The officiant pronounces you married and amidst the applause of the small audience you kiss, his lips warm and soft and gentle like the sunset.

Afterward, in the grand ballroom, you do dance a little. Not much, and never with anyone but Chan or your sisters, but it’s fun in a way you haven’t felt dancing to be in a long time and by the end of the night, while you’re certainly tired, you feel content. Happy. Enough that you can smile wide and true as you bow out of the ballroom, even as your father’s sullen stare attempts to pierce your body as you turn away.

The silent bedroom provides a welcome contrast to the noise of the ballroom, where you’re certain people are still dancing even though you and Chan have retired for the night. You sit on the bed, soaking in the quiet while Chan washes his face in the bathroom.

He emerges quietly, like he doesn't want to disturb your peace. “Hi,” he says shyly as he sits down next to you. A small smile of your own crosses your lips and you have to fight the urge to giggle. After so many years of yearning in quiet, it still seems surreal that you’re allowed to love each other openly, without issue, but you're sure he feels the same way. Emboldened by this, you lean into him, pressing your face into his shoulder, and just breathe for a moment. “Hi, yourself,” you mumble, voice muffled into his skin.

Outside, the moon has risen, full and bright and glowing in the dark sky. When you pull your face out of Chan’s shoulder to meet his eyes, you seem to see the stars reflected in them, and the words slip out of your lips suddenly, softly, hanging in the air.

“Dance with me, Chan?”

His eyes flicker from startled to confused to concerned all in a second. “Of course,” he replies, “but are you sure?”

Are you? You search yourself for the answer. True, you haven’t danced much in a while. True, you haven’t wanted to dance with a partner that you didn’t know since you returned from the underground. But it is also true that this all stems from an issue of trust—an inability to trust your legs, an inability to trust your faceless partner, an inability to trust that the scars from Kereseia have fully healed.

And it is true that you trust Chan, enough to give yourself to him.

A smile flutters over your expression. “I am,” you say, taking his hands. “Dance with me.”

You haven’t changed yet, haven’t even slipped off your shoes. Which means that, as you let Chan lead you into the slow figures of a waltz, you are still wearing the dancing slippers he made for you as a wedding gift, the most beautiful pair you have ever owned. Today is the first time you’ve worn them, and even after the dances you took on the ballroom floor, they are so comfortable that your feet still don’t hurt.

Every night, in the kingdom of Kereseia, you wore out one pair of slippers during the Midnight Ball. You don’t plan to do much of the same here. But privately, you think, you wouldn’t mind dancing the night away with Chan, if it was just you and him under a blanket of stars. Because you trust him, and he trusts you, and you would never hesitate in his hold, knowing that he will never bring you harm.

“I love you, Y/N,” Chan murmurs, and his voice sounds like music in the air. A melody upon which you could and will dance to for as long as you live.

You sway in his hold, a smile growing on your face. “I love you too, Chan.”

Always, and forevermore.

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