Lee-an | Forced Marriage

The land of the Hans lay far from the capital, where mountains rose like sleeping beasts and fields stretched wide and obedient beneath the sky. Stone paths wound through valleys and terraced hills, and streams cut silver lines through the earth before vanishing into forests thick with pine and cedar.

Here, the Han family ruled—not as kings, but as Hyangni, hereditary stewards of the region. Their authority was old, rooted in custom and duty rather than royal blood. They settled disputes, collected taxes, oversaw harvests, and answered to the capital only when summoned. To the villagers, the Han estate was both shield and judgment.

Lee-an had grown up among these lands, shaped more by wind and ink than by law.

He walked often beyond the estate walls, long sleeves tied back, hair loosely bound. The world here was wide and forgiving. The air carried the scent of damp soil and wildflowers, and when the wind moved through the fields, it sounded like breathing.

His younger sister followed him everywhere.

“Oppa,” she called, tugging at his sleeve, “if you draw the mountains again, will you make them taller this time?”

He smiled faintly, glancing down at her. “They are tall enough. It's just you're so tiny”

She frowned, not understanding, then laughed anyway. “Then draw me big.”

“I would never survive the scolding,” he replied dryly, and she giggled, pleased.

With her, his steps slowed. His voice softened. He listened more than he spoke, letting her chatter fill the quiet. She told him about the hens that had escaped the coop, about a boy in the village who claimed he’d seen a fox spirit at dawn. Lee-an nodded, humming now and then, committing it all to memory as if it were something precious.

His brothers were rarely home.

When they were, they brought the capital with them—papers stamped with red seals, careful speech, and the faint smell of ink and travel dust. They spoke at length with their father, voices low, discussing matters Lee-an only half-listened to: land disputes, grain quotas, royal messengers.

“You should join us,” his eldest brother once said, glancing at Lee-an’s ink-stained hands. “Father could arrange a post.”

Lee-an shook his head. “I wouldn’t last a month.”

“That’s because you refuse to try.”

“Or because I know myself.”

The conversation ended there, as it always did.

Lee-an belonged to another rhythm.

He spent hours drawing—beneath the eaves, by open windows, sometimes sitting on smooth stones near the river. His brush moved with careful confidence, ink blooming softly against paper. Landscapes came plotting themselves beneath his hand, but so did faces—half-imagined, half-remembered.

He lost time easily. The world narrowed to line and shade and breath.

But peace never lasted long.

Officials came often to the Han estate—men of middling rank, traveling inspectors, tax envoys. They bowed deeply to Lee-an’s parents, drank tea, spoke of politics and weather. And always, inevitably, their eyes drifted.

Lee-an felt it before he saw it.

He sat quietly behind his mother, posture perfect, gaze lowered. He felt their looks brush against his skin like cold fingers.

“Your youngest son,” one official remarked with a thin smile, “truly blessed by Heaven.”

His mother smiled politely. “He is well-behaved.”

“More than that,” another added, chuckling softly. “Such beauty could bring fortune to any household.”

Lee-an’s fingers curled into his sleeve.

He hated it.

Hated the way the room seemed to narrow, the way his body became a thing to be assessed. He kept his face smooth, lips neutral, every muscle trained into obedience.

Later, in the quiet of his room, he exhaled sharply and pressed his forehead against the wooden screen.

“They stare like I’m not here,” he muttered.

His sister, sitting cross-legged nearby, looked up. “Because they’re rude.”

He snorted softly. “That, too.”

The days passed like this—gentle, repetitive, safe.

Until the letter arrived.

It came sealed in heavy wax, carried by a messenger whose posture was too straight, whose horse bore marks of long, urgent travel. His parents received it in private. The doors closed. Servants were dismissed.

Lee-an knew something was wrong before he was called.

When he entered, the air felt tight. His father stood by the table, hands clasped behind his back. His mother sat, fingers resting too neatly on her lap.

“This offer,” his father said slowly, “is not a request.”

Lee-an’s chest tightened. “What offer?”

His mother met his gaze—not gently, but carefully. “The palace has taken notice of you.”

The words struck like cold water.

“No,” Lee-an said at once. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That is precisely the point,” his father replied. “You are... desirable.”

Lee-an laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “For what?”

His father’s expression hardened. “Do not be naive.”

Silence stretched between them.

At last, his mother spoke, voice smooth as silk. “Refusal would insult the Crown Prince. Refusal would endanger this family.”

Lee-an’s hands trembled. He hid them in his sleeves.

“And what do they want?” he asked quietly.

His parents exchanged a glance.

“You,” his father said.

The world did not collapse. The walls did not shake.

But something inside Lee-an went very still.

---

The journey to the capital took many days.

Lee-an watched the land change beneath the wheels of the carriage—fields growing narrower, villages clustering closer together, roads thick with travelers. Where his home had breathed slowly, the capital pulsed.

By the time the city walls rose before them, dusk had already fallen, yet the streets burned with life. Lanterns swayed like captive stars. Merchants shouted, children ran laughing between carts, the air smelled of smoke, oil, and spices foreign to Lee-an’s senses.

He pressed his fingers to the curtain, eyes wide despite himself.

“So many people...” he murmured.

His escort mistook it for awe.

The carriage passed through the gates, swallowed whole by noise. Lee-an caught glimpses of common life—women bargaining fiercely, men hauling crates, monks chanting near roadside shrines. This was what fascinated him, not the looming roofs of noble estates or banners embroidered with dragons.

He wanted to step down. To disappear into the crowd. To walk unnoticed.

Instead, the carriage climbed.

The palace revealed itself slowly, rising above the city like a second sky—layer upon layer of tiled roofs, vast courtyards, stone and wood arranged with merciless precision. Guards lined the gates, armor gleaming. As the doors opened, Lee-an felt the world narrow again.

The moment his foot touched palace stone, he was no longer alone.

“Quickly—this way.”

“Be careful with his sleeves.”

“His hair—leave it loose for now.”

Hands surrounded him. Voices overlapped. He was guided, ushered, steered as though he were something fragile and expensive. Dozens of attendants bowed, smiled, assessed.

Future bride.

The word echoed without being spoken.

He was taken first to the baths.

Steam filled the chamber, fragrant with oils and crushed flowers. Warm water closed over his skin, hands washing him with careful reverence. It should have been luxurious—jade basins, silk towels, gold inlays—but Lee-an’s stomach twisted.

He felt scrubbed of himself.

“Your skin is flawless,” one maid sighed.

“Like porcelain,” another whispered.

Lee-an stared at the water, jaw clenched.

After came the silks.

Layer upon layer—soft, impossibly light fabrics in pale hues, stitched with patterns delicate enough to disappear at a distance. His hair was combed, oiled, arranged. Long earrings brushed his neck. When he finally caught sight of himself in polished bronze, he barely recognized the figure staring back.

He looked... unreal.

And alone.

“The Second Prince?” he asked at last, unable to hold the question back.

A brief pause.

“His Highness has not yet returned,” a court lady replied smoothly. “He is stationed in the northern territories. He will arrive in a week’s time.”

A week.

Seven days trapped in this place.

That night, sleep did not come.

Palace life unfolded like a carefully painted screen—beautiful from afar, rotting up close. Court ladies smiled sweetly and whispered the moment they turned away. Officials bowed and measured him with sharp eyes. Concubines passed him in corridors, curiosity flickering across their faces like candlelight.

Everyone watched.

Lee-an learned to walk with his gaze lowered, his sleeves folded neatly, his thoughts guarded. Still, words reached him.

“He’s said to be a beast,” someone whispered near the lotus pond. “Exiled north because he couldn’t control his temper.”

“I heard he enjoys bloodshed.”

“No—no,” another voice countered softly, “he prefers men. That’s why this match was arranged.”

“A pervert, then?”

Lee-an’s steps faltered.

His fingers dug into his sleeves, nails biting skin.

Each rumor painted a different monster, but none brought relief.

By the third day, dread had curdled into something darker.

“I hate him,” Lee-an whispered one night, alone in his chamber, staring at the carved ceiling. “Whoever he is... I hate him already.”

---

The palace changed overnight.

It began with sound—drums, deep and steady, echoing through stone corridors before dawn. Then color followed, flooding the gray halls Lee-an had grown to dread. Crimson banners unfurled from balconies. Indigo and gold fabrics were strung between pillars. Courtyards bloomed with silk and paper lanterns, jewels catching the pale winter sun.

A wedding.

The Second Prince had returned.

Lee-an heard it first from whispers slipping beneath his door, from servants who forgot he was close enough to listen. The northern campaign was over. His Highness had arrived before sunrise. The court had wasted no time.

By midday, there was no escape.

They came for him in numbers—maids, matrons, women whose hands knew ritual better than mercy. They spoke softly, reverently, as if afraid of breaking something precious.

“Sit still, my lord.”

“Just a little longer.”

His hair was washed, dried, perfumed. Oiled until it gleamed like dark lacquer. His skin was powdered pale, lips tinted faintly red. Silk wrapped around him again and again—layered robes in brilliant hues, embroidered with symbols of harmony and longevity that felt like mockery.

He was dressed like an offering.

When they placed the headdress upon him, his neck strained under its weight. Gold filigree, jade pendants, strings of beads cascading down to veil his eyes. The world fractured into glimmers and shadows.

Lee-an’s hands trembled inside his sleeves.

Anger burned hot and sharp beneath his ribs. Panic followed, choking, relentless. His breath came shallow, each step rehearsed and forced as they guided him forward.

This is not my life, he thought wildly. This cannot be.

The courtyard awaited—vast, open to the sky, filled with people. Nobles in ceremonial dress. Officials in ordered rows. Musicians poised, drums hushed in anticipation. Flags snapped in the cold air, their colors too bright, too loud.

Every eye turned toward him.

Lee-an walked.

Each step felt unreal, as if his feet no longer belonged to him. The beads swayed with his movement, clinking softly, obscuring faces, distorting the world. He could feel their gazes pressing into his skin, weighing him, claiming him.

At the far end of the courtyard stood the podium.

And upon it—another figure.

Tall. Still. Waiting.

Lee-an’s heart thundered in his ears.

His fingers clenched.

Slowly, with a breath that shook more than he would ever allow anyone to see, he lifted his head.

The beads parted.

And he looked up...