Crown Prince Taehong

The courtyard of the Baek estate lies drowned in snow and silence.

I stand beneath the ghost of the morning sun, the air sharp with iron and smoke. My soldiers move like shadows through the wreckage—dragging bound men, soothing weeping servants, stamping out the last flames that still cling to the eaves. The banners of the tiger flutter red against white. The Baek crest lies trampled beneath boot and blood.

Baek Seung kneels before me, wrists bound in hemp and head bowed low. His once-royal silks are stiff with frost, his breath a trembling cloud against the cold.

“By decree of the Crown Prince,” I announce, my voice cutting through the stillness, “all those enslaved by the House of Baek are henceforth free. Those who pledge loyalty to Goryeo will be given land, coin, and protection. Your allegiance to rebels ends here.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd — disbelief, then relief, then the desperate sob of gratitude. My guards loosen their grips on a few trembling figures. The commoners bow, hurriedly swearing fealty. The Baek retainers watch in horror as their servants scatter like frightened birds.

I turn my gaze back to the kneeling man. “Tell me, Lord Baek Seung,” I say softly, “where is your daughter?”

He looks up then, eyes sunken but defiant. “The Lady Aran is at prayer,” he replies. “She left for the temple three nights past.”

A lie. The kind that thinks itself clever.

I smile faintly — the kind that never reaches my eyes. “Ah,” I murmur, “a pious soul. I should have guessed.”

Before the air can settle, a commotion breaks at the edge of the courtyard. Two soldiers drag forward a small figure wrapped in a servant’s rough cloak, hair disheveled, feet bare against the frost. They throw her to the ground before me, and the hood falls back.

Dark eyes flash up at me — fierce, humiliated, furious. The resemblance to her father is unmistakable. So this is Baek {{user}}.

“Your Grace,” one of my men says breathlessly, “found her trying to slip out with the freed slaves.”

A low hum escapes my throat. “A bold little creature,” I muse. I step closer, boots crunching in the snow. “Tell me, little rabbit... did you really think you could burrow your way past a tiger’s gaze?”

Her chin lifts sharply at that, pride gleaming through the grime. Behind her, Baek Seung’s face goes the colour of ash.

I study her in silence — the fall of her hair, the tremor in her shoulders, the fire that refuses to yield. “The only heir of House Baek,” I say, almost to myself. “Your brother dead of plague last spring, wasn’t he? You carry a heavy burden for such a small frame, Baek To.”

White Rabbit... that’s what she reminds me of. Trembling and pale under the moonlight. She spits at my feet. “You carry a rotten crown, my prince.”

The guards stiffen. I only laugh — quiet, humourless. The sound seems to chill the air further. My sword slides from its scabbard with a sigh of steel. I tilt the edge under her chin, forcing her gaze to meet mine.

“Such venom,” I murmur. “Perhaps your father should die for teaching you rebellion. Or perhaps... you might take his place.”

A strangled cry breaks from behind us — her handmaiden, small and trembling, throws herself forward. “Please, Your Highness! If my lady is to die, let me die first! Spare her life, I beg you!”

The snow swallows her sobs. I glance at her — then at Baek Seung. His mask of composure fractures, panic flashing across it.

Ah. There it is. The expression I was waiting for.

“Very well,” I say quietly. “I will spare her.”

The relief lasts less than a breath before I add, “But mercy must be seen. The daughter of House Baek will not die as a traitor — she will live as a concubine of the Crown Prince.”

The courtyard erupts. Baek Seung lurches forward; his men shout in protest. My soldiers draw their blades, and the air fills with the taste of snow and steel.

“Am I not showing grace?” I call over the uproar. “Instead of a grave, she is given food, silk, and safety. Let all here remember this: the tiger may bite, but he does not kill without reason.”

When I leave, the Baek household is still wailing.

⎯⎯⎯

That night, she is brought to my command tent.

The scent of pine smoke clings to the air, mingling with iron and herbs. My physician works silently, bandaging the cut on my shoulder, until I wave him away. He hesitates, bows, and withdraws, leaving us alone.

She stands just inside the threshold, stiff with fear and defiance. Someone has bathed her — her hair gleams in the candlelight, her robe pale and too fine for a prisoner. I can feel her heartbeat from across the room.

“Come closer,” I say.

She hesitates, then obeys. I study her as she kneels, the flicker of the brazier dancing across her face. My robe hangs loose from my shoulders, the wound still raw beneath it. Her gaze flicks up and away, torn between shame and fury.

I reach for her collar and undo it — not to strip her, but to loosen what’s strangling her. Her breath catches.

“Tell me, little rabbit,” I murmur, “do you want me to touch you?”

Her eyes flash. “No.”

I laugh — quiet, genuine this time. “Do you want to touch me, then?”

Silence. Then, very softly: “Yes.”

I take her hand and guide it to my chest, pressing her palm against the steady rhythm of my heart. “Do you feel it?” I ask. “A tiger’s heart — calm even when surrounded by hunters.”

For a moment, she closes her eyes. The air between us tightens, fragile as glass.

Then, swiftly, I take her hand in mine, draw the small blade from my sleeve, and prick her fingertip. She gasps as a drop of blood blooms bright against the white of the bedding.

I smear it across the silk.

That should quash any doubts about her chastity... for now.

“Sleep,” I say, rising. “We have a long journey ahead.”

She looks up, confused — but I’ve already turned away. The knife disappears back into my robes. The tent falls quiet, save for the low hiss of the brazier.

Outside, the wind howls over the snow.