Chapter Text
The greatest King the land had ever known lay in stone now. Carved taller than he had ever been in life, sword resting across his knees as if he might rise again should his enemies stir in their own graves. For twenty years, his name had meant borders held and rebellions strangled in their cradles, as well as terror in the hearts of the innocent. His conquest, once finished, stayed finished. After the last campaign in the North, his body had served its duty and did not live to see the fruits of his work. Neither poison nor blade but his heart, so often praised, failed him quietly in his bed.
The Crown Prince did not live to wear black. Having been missing since the last battle, he was found dead in the mud of the northern forests, pinned beneath a fallen horse.
At the same time, many miles south and in a much warmer place, Yuu's laughter blended into at least twenty others and muffled the commotion downstairs of the brothel. The second-born Prince knew how to hold his liquor, but not all his companions possessed the same talent. He found it endlessly amusing when they, by his own fault, became next to incapable of performing the very service they paid for. It never got old. That they would also fail to do their duty in protecting him, he did not care for either. Besides handling alcohol, he handled a blade just as well. Most would assign that to his biological nature—perhaps the physical strength of an alpha extended to being a fucking good drinker.
The girl whose hand led him into the incense-filled room was beautiful like autumn leaves. He told her as much; she giggled and blushed. Yuu knew they did that because they were paid to, but not in his case, because he was charming. Why would she have to pretend? He was handsome and kind. He observed her brown, wavy locks while she worked his belt open, then he embraced her. Not an omega but he didn't mind; those were a luxury he could afford, yet didn't care to.
By the time the disturbing shouts and clashing sounds of disruption reached their room, Yuu's face was blissfully buried between her thighs (because he was a gourmand in that way), and frustration rose in him like wildfire. When the door was swung open, he had to sit up. The handful of royal guards, in fine armour and the Shiroyama crest on their chests, were an unpleasant sight in a pleasure house. Yuu, for sure, was not pleased. He didn't care for others who likely believed themselves in trouble; he cared that he had to look away from this sweet girl's autumn-colored pubes and look upon these morons.
They appeared to relax at the sight of him. So they had been looking for him. Yuu frowned and stood up, holding the girl's dress over his erection while she scrambled away. The men knelt before him and lowered their heads.
"All hail the King."
His frown cleared as the reality and its implications settled into his alcohol and lust-filled mind. No way.
"Oh, fuck me..."
His brother’s funeral was an affair fit for the late heir to the throne. Almost as grand as the King’s, but not quite. Yuu never figured out how the royal palace managed to organize such enormous events in so short a span of time. Mysteries. He tried not to yawn while the priest spoke and stopped himself from rubbing his eyes for the third time, settling for blinking instead. Some nobles looked at him with compassion, assuming the younger Prince was holding back tears. He was clearing the damn hangover fog from his vision.
Yuu had been sobered with cold water and dressed in mourning black before dawn. It hadn’t helped. The Queen’s sharp glares pierced him at times. Even in her utmost grief, she found the time and strength to glare at him. Mystery of women. She had slapped him when the guards brought him home—that hadn’t helped his state either, but it had helped hers. Yuu caved and rubbed his eyes again.
“You are a disgrace to my entire bloodline,” his mother whispered.
“Hm.”
“You were drunk when your father died, and you are drunk now that your brother has been found. I am only glad they aren’t here to see it.”
“Me too. They would be jealous that I’m still alive to drink and fuck.”
She glared at him so fiercely this time that he turned his head to look at her. They had always looked alike—same black hair, the same features. He had even inherited her sense for elegance, though she had always said it vanished beneath his personality.
She, at the very least, looked at him—cared, worried. The late King had never looked at him twice; the first and last time Yuu’s father had wished to see him was when Yuu had been born. His brother, eyes set on duty and honour and all that horseshit, had spared a few moments of his life to lecture Yuu and feel better about himself.
“They were cunts,” he concluded, and began accepting the incoming condolences.
His coronation was the most pleasant part of the whole fiasco. Yuu liked celebrations, and he liked being celebrated, so there was nothing to hate about an entire day and night of being the sole focus of every eye in the realm. He didn’t care that his father’s council and the nobility still looked at him with undisguised distaste, nor that his mother looked hollowed by grief; the people and his soldiers loved him. There was no reason not to. Other than some perceived lack of dignity, which he had never sought in the first place.
But as it happened, after every high came a low, and once the feast was done, everyone returned to their respective duties. That included Yuu. He would rather be the one dead beneath a horse in the northern woods than facing what he hoped would never happen to him: a council meeting.
It felt like an ambush arranged with furniture. Yuu arrived late—not fashionably so, just late. The doors boomed open mid-conversation, and every head turned with the same practised expression of polite disappointment, as if this were merely another one of his offences and not the first morning of his reign. As per protocol, or so Yuu guessed, no one was seated without him.
He stopped in the doorway, took in the room, and frowned.
“…you moved the chairs?”
A murmur rippled through the chamber. The table had always been set this way, always arranged so no one sat higher than the King. But Yuu had never sat there before—or anywhere in this room. He had never attended these meetings. He had stood behind the throne, leaned against pillars, sprawled on benches with soldiers and dogs. This polished symmetry unnerved him.
Yuu walked in anyway, wearing a fine leather doublet with gloves tucked into his belt. He briefly suspected the sword at his hip might have been the source of their discomfort. A sign he couldn’t read. There was a moment of mutual uncertainty, like dancers missing a step.
Someone finally cleared his throat—a senior beta with greying hair whom Yuu had often seen at his late father’s side. The man bowed respectfully, followed by the others.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice already threaded with patience, “we were discussing border stability following your father’s passing.”
Yuu dropped into the nearest chair. Not the crown one, but the one beside it. He glanced around as others politely looked away while he changed seats. He leaned back and hooked an ankle over his knee.
“Is the border stable?”
A pause.
“Well, that depends on how one defines—”
“Are they marching?”
“No.”
“Then it’s stable.”
A few bristled. One man opened his mouth. Yuu looked at him directly, the way he used to look at men across a fire before a fight. The man closed his mouth.
Yuu exhaled. “Next.”
He tried to keep up. Grain stores. Tribute delays from conquered lands. Province names rolled over him like water over stone. He listened in fragments, not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know half of what he was hearing. He did know that the northern region was in shambles and that the royal army was scattered and recovering from the feat. That was his field; he understood battle and strategy. Not politics, which now made up the majority of his responsibilities.
He kept forgetting, in brief and dangerous moments, that he was King. Twice, he referred to his father as the old man. Once, he laughed—sharp and inappropriate—when a lord spoke of a stolen prize breeding goose, part of a dowry, now threatening a marriage agreement. The room stiffened. He wasn’t sitting in a military camp anymore, and his humour didn’t reach the lords of the council. Yuu didn’t apologise.
When the meeting dragged into its second hour, his patience frayed.
“Why,” he said suddenly, “do we keep calling the northern territories recently pacified? Am I not their King too?”
The silence was heavier this time.
A younger councilman, seated some distance away, replied, “Because… legally, Your Majesty, they are still under provisional governance.”
Yuu turned toward the voice. “And how long does provisional last?”
“Until the region is fully assimilated.”
“And who determines that?”
Another pause.
“…the crown.”
Yuu smiled, slow and crooked. “That sounds like my problem now. What about the resistance?”
“Several of the highest northern clans refuse to yield to your authority.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Killing them until they get the message.”
Yuu rolled his eyes and looked aside with a frustrated sigh. “What a way to spread love. Cease that.”
A hush followed. The old man seated closest to him said, “Your father’s ways have led us toward great—”
“He is dead. Who are you?”
If insulted, he didn’t show it. “Lord Omura Eichi, Your Majesty. The King’s chief advisor and Crown Speaker.”
Yuu almost felt sorry for him. A white-haired and withered grandfather who had undoubtedly given his youth to the service. He should've retired ten years ago. Yuu took a breath. “I don't want people to suffer and hate me," he harshly placed his hand down on the table. "Did anyone consider doing something other than executing Northerners until the North is empty?”
Most eyes lowered, but the blond man in the far seat spoke again, with unusual confidence among seasoned elders. “Detain and imprison their leaders. Give them time to cool in the cells before asking what their King might do to earn their loyalty. That alone works on most people. The harder ones, we could meet halfway. Give them pieces of the cake. Not enough to develop a taste, but enough to feel they’re eating at your table.”
“Hm,” Yuu murmured, rubbing his cheek. That sounded like something he would’ve thought of if he’d thought long enough. “I do not want people to hate me. What is your name?”
“Matsumoto Takanori.”
“You are my chief advisor now, Lord Matsumoto.”
This time, there was no muttering, only shuffling as the council shifted to look at one another. Even the man in question blinked. Lord Omura stiffened beside Yuu, his brows creasing under the offence and betrayal. Better late than never, Yuu recalled some manners befitting a royal council rather than a military troop, where he could simply cut the bullshit.
“The crown is grateful for your long service,” he began. “You will be rewarded. Greatly. Rich in gold and alliances—”
The lord treasurer cleared his throat.
“Rewarded accordingly,” Yuu corrected.
Lord Omura bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”
“Anything else?” Yuu asked, with unmasked and desperate hope for nothing.
“Commander Tanabe has left your offer of alliance and peace unanswered.”
Genuinely disappointed but unsurprised, Yuu tossed a hand into the air. “Cunt,” he concluded once more. “Cock-sucking cunt,” he muttered under his breath, ignoring the baffled council. “And I was trying to be nice to him. I was the bigger man and look at him.”
A long pause lingered, then Yuu stood swiftly, and everyone else with him.
“Very well. Someone forward him the message. Good work, boys— my lords, I mean.”
They bowed.
“What’s the message?” someone whispered, but Yuu was already at the door, pointing at Matsumoto Takanori.
“You come with me, Lord Speaker.”
“Rather unusual way of appointing someone, Your Majesty,” Takanori remarked as he fell into step beside his King in the hallway.
Yuu shrugged. He wasn’t prone to wasting time on useless formalities. “Behind every great man is a shorter man.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“Now you have. I want to see your plan for the North placed in motion,” Yuu said, taking the large stairwell to his left, past servants bowing as he passed. “It was a shitty idea to conquer it in the first place, if you ask me. But it’s done. I have to live up to the name.”
Takanori was quiet for a while as they climbed the stone steps. “So what do you seek, my King?”
“I will be loved,” Yuu declared with a small smile.
"What about peace?"
"And peace."
The capital had too many smells.
Kouyou had noticed it the moment he passed through the southern gate: smoke from cookfires, sweat from crowded streets, the sour tang of fish markets, incense from shrines, perfume from passing courtiers. It all layered over itself, thick as fog. Worse still, the city did not know the words nothing and silence. Something was always echoing—voices, wheels, bells—and people were always going somewhere.
He kept his pace steady, neither hurried nor slow, and let the current of people carry him along the wide market street. His cloak was plain, travel-stained, the colour of dust. The upper half of his hair was tied back, the rest falling loose. Nothing about him should invite a second glance. That had always been the goal. In a place like this, he relied on the natural carelessness of strangers.
A long, dreadful journey had carried him here all the way from the North—and he had arrived at the worst possible time. The city had been in mourning, and the palace gates were sealed to all but the highest nobility. Black banners hung from towers. Bells rang day after day. The streets were full of whispers about the dead King, the lost heir, and the second Prince allegedly dragged from the depths of a brothel to wear that crown.
Kouyou had thought it would last only a few days. A funeral. A coronation. Then business would resume. Instead, the palace swallowed itself in rituals, feasts and confusion. Messengers ran through the streets at all hours and common petitions were the first things pushed aside.
So he had waited.
He could wait, he kept telling himself, trying to calm his anxious mind—but the longer he stayed in this den of snakes, the worse it felt. The house that Yutaka provided was clean, quiet and safe. It was all the man could offer Kouyou for now, and even that was not free.
Kouyou had made his first attempt at the palace three days after the coronation. The gates were open again, though heavily guarded. A long line of people stretched down the outer courtyard: merchants with disputes, farmers with tax complaints, widows, soldiers’ mothers, minor lords in travel-creased robes.
All of them were waiting for the same man—the royal Listener, sent here to be the King’s ear.
He was a middle-aged man with a narrow face, a greying beard, and tired eyes. He sat behind a low desk in a shaded alcove near the outer audience hall, flanked by two scribes. One wrote; the other sorted petitions into piles. Kouyou had watched them for nearly an hour before his turn came.
When he finally stepped forward, the man did not look at him for more than a heartbeat. “Name,” he said.
“Kouyou.”
“And?”
“That’s all,” he lied easily.
“Trade or rank?”
“None.”
The lord nodded once, as if that explained the lack of any surname worth mentioning. “Your matter.”
Kouyou had rehearsed the words during the entire wait. They still felt dry in his mouth. “I seek information on a prisoner of war. Suzuki Akira. He served as a northern general. I wish to know whether he is still imprisoned or…”
For the first time, the man looked up properly. “Northern general?”
“Yes.”
“That is not a trivial matter.”
“I am aware.”
The Listener studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. “If this were a common soldier, I could send a request to the registries. But this falls under council jurisdiction. I have no authority over such cases.”
“So I must speak to the council.”
“You must speak to the King,” he corrected. “Or wait until the council chooses to address the matter themselves.”
“And when will that be?”
He offered Kouyou a tired, insincere smile. “When they decide it is worth their time.”
Kouyou did not move. “Then I will request an audience with the King.”
Someone behind him muttered, “You and half the realm, boy.”
“The audience schedule is full for weeks,” the Listener said, scratching his beard. “Perhaps months. And I doubt your case will reach the front of the line.”
“Even so,” Kouyou said, “I will submit the petition.”
The Listener studied him again, longer this time. “Very well.” He took the paper from the scribe, stamped it with a small seal and slid it into a pile. Which one, Kouyou did not know.
He left the palace courtyard with no more answers than he had arrived with.
Since then, his days had fallen into a pattern. He woke early, before the city’s rush thickened the air. He tended to stay safely indoors, though it drove him slightly mad. It was better to be paranoid than… whatever the other option might become.
Sometimes, to keep himself sane, he walked the market streets, watching traders argue. Sometimes he sat near a tavern, listening to soldiers talk about pay, rations, or the new King’s loose habits. Once, he lingered outside a shrine and watched a pair of noble lords pass by. Alphas, no doubt. Kouyou had learned to recognise them, for his own safety. It was rarely difficult—most of them stood in positions of power and they carried themselves like it.
He had never disappeared so fast.
He was a decent fighter. He trusted himself, and the knives at his belt, in an alleyway ambush or tavern brawl. But the liability of his nature—and theirs—was a different matter. One that frightened him more than he would ever admit.
At night, in silence, the fear crept closer.
Heat cycles were irregular when he was stressed. He tracked the days in his head, counting backward and forward, measuring every change in his body. A flicker of warmth beneath the skin. A shift in his mood. A tightening in his belly. He watched himself so closely that he sometimes felt phantom symptoms.
If it came while he was still here…
He pushed the thought away each time it rose. He had not come to the capital to think himself into madness. He had come because Akira might still be alive somewhere—imprisoned, forgotten, waiting. And if he turned back now, he would never know. It was the only reason he had made it this far.
As he did nearly every afternoon, he climbed onto the low stone parapet behind the house, a quiet spot from which he could see the palace towers.
He watched them for hours. And imagined them burning.