THE KINGDOM OF SPADES PRESENTS . . .
one of the THIRD TIER PRINCE candidates, BAM RYUJIN: a 28 YEAR OLD born on OCTOBER 14TH, 1993. some may know them already but with a face like that, it’s hard not to admit they look a little like MIN YOONGI ( SUGA ). curious to know more? apparently, these are words they live by: “everyone needs a reason to fear both the calm before the storm and the storm.” intriguing, aren’t they? only time will tell if they’re suited for the crown or not.
LOOK A LITTLE CLOSER . . .
tw: teenage pregnancy, violence, child abandonment, alcohol, death, mentions of torture
he’s not even the eldest born of their family, long forgotten as he left them behind for a better future in the palace.
what do you want to be? it’s a question that is never asked to their family, by that overarching patriarch seated upon his seat as head of the house, a withered hand rested upon his cousin’s head as they smile in peaceful matrimony and boast of the boy’s royal possibilities.
he watches his parents wither away in their seats, their talents and growth forgotten in favour of the more legitimate of the species—the main branch of their family, even as obnoxious and as incompetent as they were.
silence—is a lamb. only that they never thought that such a lamb could rise up in the ranks and take his cousin’s place.
he watched as his beautiful mother knelt at the feet of the old patriarch and begged for them to take him along as part of his cousin’s entourage.
watched—as his mother paid the price for her demands, the old man’s bedroom doors closing in upon her silhouette and the filthy sounds that followed.
take this. the weight of the necklace, laden in gold and jewels—clearly too precious for someone of her stature, lay heavy in the palm of his hand. make sure you wear it when you get to the palace. promise me, ryujin.
his fingers had curled over the pendant, pulling it over his head—feeling it rest, finally at home, heavy upon his chest.
that was the last time that he ever saw her.
he watched as she left, bruised and battered, never to return once again.
he hears his father’s rage behind closed doors, the confrontation between a man that had lost his wife to nothingness and an old man that had lost his pride at being found out shattering in glass and fury.
he quietly pockets the slip of linen that he had slipped into his father’s pocket—marked and soiled by the patriarch—a slip of his mother’s clothing, watching with cold eyes as his father staggers out of the room, drunk and filled with despair.
how was it, father?
he watches as the man’s face crumples before him, grimy fingers clutching to the front of his vest.
give me the evidence.
his father is a pitiful man, he understands, watching as the man’s face turns a burgundy red with rage as he shakes his head, the soiled linen clearly fisted within his hands, behind his back. the fist that rains down upon him isn’t held back—and his eye sores with a welt upon his face.
don’t forget what she risked this all for.
the bitterness still permeates his mouth as he reminds his father like a little adult of the bigger picture of their existence.
she would have wanted you to take revenge for her instead.
the welt still remains upon the side of his face when he meets the royals, the death of his father following along the very next day.
the weight of the pendant is heavier than usual upon his chest as he feels their eyes linger, and the pounding of his heart as he is subsequently taken aside.
to be further assessed. the queen’s aide smiles benignly at him, fingers linger on the pendant that held the key to all of his fate. you should be thankful that you had a useful mother, child. she murmurs. a favour of knowledge over the queen’s past doings in exchange for your life in the palace.
the curve of her well manicured finger lifts his chin as he gazed at her with steady eyes right into her impassive face.
her majesty will not regret it.
he whispers back, tongue thick inbetween his lips.
…
he gets chosen instead of his cousin to be a royal in the end.
the blank shock and disappointment, followed by the outraged disbelief is sweet in its revenge, he thinks, watching as the old man and his cocky cousin grovel at his feet.
benefits.
the patriarch wheedles, words rasping within his throat as he takes a step forward.
he feels the royal’s eyes settle upon him, intrigued.
who are you?
he feigns ignorance at it’s finest, the words foreign upon his lips.
a royal—is only loyal to their king.
he watches as a slow smile spread across the royals’ lips, the weight of their hands pressed down upon his shoulder as he abandons his family.
loyalty—is a fickle thing, he thinks, ever calm and serene as he watches his family. and loyalty, is useful for many things.
…
he’s settled with a temporary noble family under the watchful eye of the queen’s aide.
it’s necessary that he passes the selection process when he’s fifteen—she tells him in a private audience, an adult to a child, nine and just growing.
six years—to prove in the first of the many tests that he’s worthy of her waning interests out of many.
the selection process is nothing easy. he’s nothing in the eyes of other nobles, his family name non-existent considering the death of the patriarch and the failings of his uncle, who spent away his fortune on women and alcoholics for company.
the bam family name was nothing by the time he was fifteen, and he only recalled it’s fallen name back into everyone’s memory by passing the selection test above every other noble with flying colours.
like a weed that existed in the presence of countless precious foliage and greenery.
…
the challenges thrown his way only grows harder from there, and it’s not long before everyone is rudely awakened—by word of his cold hearted practicality, with the unbiased capture, torture and divulging on his part to his uncle’s misdeeds.
cruelty, for such a seemingly gentle man.
it was always the quiet ones that you needed to look out for.
he watches as everyone turns upon him disdainfully, the intrigued smile playing upon the aide’s lips.
his eyes slid past the countless faces, hand resting against the banisters.
there’s nothing to worry.
he murmurs to another friend of his, their hands rested upon his shoulders—an added weight amidst all his burdens.
all things will pass. as they always do.
and the weight of the crown grows only heavier as the royals approve his deeds.
loyalty, he murmurs in his argument and justification with the king’s advisor. they may be family but if it endangers the country, then that should be punished.
he watches as the advisor’s eyes glitter at his words, and the letter of his ascension to the next rank soon follows.
…
his is the fall from grace that everyone has been waiting for.
the late spring in bloom, and the arrogance—that always comes before a fall.
after all, he had been seated upon his laurels for the longest time, one of the closest to the throne until that one scandal that had dragged him down from his pedestal into the darkening moor.
…
do you not have anyone, prince?
he recalls the sparkle of her eyes, the fragrance of innocence and sensuality wrapping round his frame. the press of her full lips against his, and the laughter that followed her in their secrecy, hidden amongst indulgent late night meetings that no one knew.
you’re so cold. she murmurs to him in the nights, rested upon his bare chest, legs tangled and sheets barely covering their frames.
…
a newborn child, born on the wintery night, fingers nearly blue with cold, found upon the front of his doors.
…
he picks up the wailing bundle, the sting of betrayal festering at the sight of the long lashed dark eyes that reminded him much of hers.
it’s a girl. he barely hears the nurse whisper, fingers rubbing against the chilly tiny fingers, the slow click of the queen’s aide’s heels following through.
…
no one had known how the child had been smuggled in—quite a lot of favours must have been called upon. and if the prince hadn’t woken up when he did—the child, would have died.
but everyone knew by then.
the once prestigious, and pristine prince, with not a single taint to his pure, straitlaced image, had gotten someone pregnant.
with the consequence of it all lain in the bundle nestled in the crook of his arm.
…
the scandal. he schools his features into that of neutrality as the advisor looks upon him with tender dismay.
it has gone out of hand.
he recognises the all too familiar regret upon the man’s features, and the neutral stare of the queen’s aide as they watched the bundle squirm in his arms.
what will you name her?
he opens his mouth, feeling lost—for once in his lifetime.
I don’t know. he whispers.
…
perhaps, the mother was someone amongst the royalty. those gossipers whispered, eager for something to titter about.
perhaps.
the mother was someone within the castle.
or perhaps—it was someone that he knew. a knight. a noble. someone close.
rumours flew around indiscriminately, with everyone forgetting how hard the prince had worked to get to where he was, building up from a branch family of one of the fallen nobles, to a prince, with a highly possible claim for the throne.
for when one reached the skies, there was nothing more beautiful for the others to see them fall.
…
leave, temporarily. your rank has been demoted to the third tier momentarily. orders—spoken by your king and queen.
the king’s advisor murmurs, watching as he stands before them, fists clenched.
until the scandal wanes. the queen’s aide picks up from where the king’s advisor trails off, and he feels the sides of his lips tremble in a gritted smile as the aide smiles benignly at him, ever patronising.
one last test, bam ryujin. that’s what her majesty says.
her words ring in his ears.
six years to prove your worth. and if you can’t move on further with this scandal that has ruined you, you can leave behind everything and never return.
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