"You think you're strong," the king said, voice blunt and cold, "but that strength is from the
curse. You will be strong, but as time passes you will grow weaker than most men, and when that day comes your strength won't be able to control the flames. Then you will die, and the kingdom will perish with you. Apart from that "
Taehyung staggered under the weight of the truth — not wholly new to him, yet sharpened
now by the king's certainty. For a breath he tasted rage, bitter and bright.
"So? Is it not your fault? If you hadn't selfishly decided to keep my mother, to have her, I wouldnt have come to this world so why is everything my fault and not yours????. Why do I have to be the one to suffer for your mistakes ?? Is it because I'm the one suffering from a curse that was caused by you?" he said after a moment, flat and dangerous. "Destroying a kingdom that has done nothing to me but give me pain — give me a reason why I shouldn't destroy it."
His eyes darkened until even the king felt fear. The prince's voice grew colder, edged with
his mother's stubbornness. "Then the people who had done nothing wrong would pay as
well. Do you want to see the people's death, lying down dead for no reason because of their
crown prince who refused to give up the throne because of his selfishness? He was prophesied a monster and he truly became a monster. You will be forever remembered as monster and forever hated throughout generations after generations."
The words pierced Taehyung himself. For an instant, the heat in his chest was not the flame
of rage but the blow of conscience. He admitted—if only to himself—that the king's
reasoning held a cruel truth.
Just before the king left, Taehyung let one last accusation fall from his mouth, raw and small:
"Till the very end you didn't acknowledge me nor even call my name. I guess I was worth
nothing to you. I doubt even my mother was nothing to you, no wonder you could toss her carelessly without care. Who am I, if you could do that to her ."
The king turned away and left coldly, the corridor swallowing his figure. The door closed
behind him like a verdict.
Taehyung remained seated in the dim room, sword across his knees, the echo of the king's
footsteps fading into the palace night. The bargain between crown and conscience had been spoken; the choice, however, still belonged to the boy made of flame".
hour after the king left, Taehyung sat in silence, the words still echoing in his chest. He
was convinced now — he would not become crown prince. The decision tore through him
like a blade of fire.
He was devastated.
He wished he had never been born into this world.
He wished his mother had never given birth to him.
Maybe if I wasn't born, he thought, she would still be alive.
He had never truly known his mother, but deep down, he could feel her presence — the
lingering warmth of her love, the sacrifices she made so he could live, he could feel the way she has always protected him, all her pains, all her tears, everything as if he was there during her hard times . And now, all that
warmth felt like ashes in his hands.
Unable to bear the weight of his thoughts, Taehyung left his chambers and went to the
training grounds. The night was silent except for the soft clashing of his blade. He trained
endlessly, hoping the movement would burn away the ache inside his chest.
Then, unexpectedly, a quiet voice broke through the night.
"Brother."
It was Prince Yul — his younger brother, who had never once spoken to him before.
Taehyung turned, surprised to see the boy standing there. Yul's eyes trembled with sincerity before he knelt down before Taehyung.
"Brother, please," Yul said, his voice cracking with desperation. "No matter what… just
become the crown prince. I don't want the throne. I want to live freely. Please—it is your
duty. Please don't forsake it."
Before Taehyung could say a word, Yul stood up and left, his footsteps fading quickly into the
night air.
For a long moment, Taehyung stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened.
Then he let out a dry laugh — a bitter sound that echoed off the cold stone walls.
"No one loves me," he whispered, the laughter dying on his lips. "No one understands me.
They just want to use me."
He stared down at his hands, the faint glow of flame flickering beneath his skin.
"Duty?" he scoffed, his voice low and trembling. "Even my brother only wants to use me for his own freedom."
The fire within him pulsed once, bright and pained — as if even the flames mourned for him.
And in that lonely night, the crown prince who bore the curse of heaven trained until his body
bled, trying to burn away the sorrow that no blade could cut through.
Taehyung's blade slipped from his fingers and thudded against the wooden floor, the sound
swallowed by the vastness of the training yard. For a long moment he simply knelt there,
shoulders heaving, as if the weight of the world had moved from his chest to the very muscle
of his arms. The sword lay at his feet like an accusation.
He felt small, like a stepping stone under countless feet — placed, used, discarded. The
future had been laid out for him by other hands: a throne, a crown, a fate he never chose. He was torn between two faces that had always haunted him — the father who could not say his name, and the brother who had finally knelt and begged but never truly looked. Even now, after Yul's plea, Taehyung could not tell whether the boy desired him or merely his absence.
He let the cold night air find the hollow inside his chest and close around it. He had no
answer. He had nothing but questions, and questions bled into each practiced swing until his arms ached and his heart felt raw.
Footsteps approached—measured, steady. His trainer stood in the doorway like a silhouette carved from iron and smoke. The old man's face was weathered, the lines around his eyes deep with battles and council. He looked at Taehyung with a softness that had crept into him only since he took the boy under his wing.
"I guess you're torn, young master," the trainer said quietly, as if reading the private ledger of
Taehyung's despair.
Taehyung did not answer. The word torn felt too light for the way his insides had been
unwound.
The trainer moved closer, taking up the fallen sword and polishing the blade with a rag as if it
were a relic. "If you cannot reach a decision, then become the sword of the kingdom."
Taehyung stared up, curious despite himself. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice hoarse.
The old man set the sword across his knee and met the prince's eyes. "To be the sword is to
reject a crown. You will not be crown prince—nor will you be an ordinary prince. You will be
given the right to strike down the kingdom's enemies. Your father will respect a blade that
can save a throne. Your brothers will keep their freedom. And you—" He paused, choosing
each word like a strike. "You will have choices that the crown would never allow. You will not
be bound to sit and trade favors in the court. It will be difficult. Loyalty and blood will test you.
But you will be your own will inside the kingdom's shape."
Taehyung felt something stir—dangerous, intoxicating. "Why can't I just leave? Run away
from all of it?" he asked bitterly. "I can't bear this—this being used like a symbol."
The trainer's jaw tightened. "Because your mother would not have wanted that."
The prince's head snapped up. "You know my mother?" he asked, pain and surprise knifing
through him.
The old man nodded slowly. The lamplight threw shadows across his face, turning every
scar into a map of memory. "Yes. I knew Queen Saha." His voice softened, but there was steel behind it. "She gave up what she loved so you might live. She stayed in the palace hoping to mend a man who could not let go. She chose to shoulder the crown's burden so others might be spared. That place—this kingdom—was where she had the most joy, even if it ended in sorrow."
Taehyung's breath hitched. He had never pictured his mother beside him in such mundane recollection. A lifetime of rumors could not have given him that warm, ordinary memory.
"If you run," the trainer continued, "you will deny her. You will deny the price she paid. She
believed, even in the end, that the palace was worth loving. That is why I tell you—become
the sword. Do not be the pawn they push off the board. Become the hand that decides
where the pieces fall."
He rose and lifted the polished blade toward Taehyung. "Decide in public. Whatever you
choose, make it known. When you stand and say what you will be, I will tell you of her
fully—of laughter and quiet mornings and the reasons she stayed. But I will not speak of her
until you give your answer before the court."
Taehyung looked down at the sword—his mother's memory pressed into metal and promise.
Outside, the palace slept and schemed alike. He clenched his jaw and reached for the hilt.
For the first time since the king's words had cut him, he felt a direction—not comfort, but
clarity. If he could not have a life untouched by duty, then he would wear the duty on his
terms. He would be the blade they feared or the shield they respected. He would choose,
publicly, and his choice would be his.
He rose, lifting the sword. The metal sang in his hand. The decision sat in his throat like a
word he had waited his whole life to say.
With only one year left before Taehyung turned sixteen, he trained harder than ever before.
The training grounds had become his second home — the clash of steel, his language; the
sting of bruises, his comfort. Every strike, every movement, carried the weight of his
decision.
More trainers were sent to shape him — men who had served the Kingdom's greatest
generals — yet even they struggled to match his determination. His sword was heavy, but
his will was heavier. Sometimes, when his body trembled and his breath grew shallow, his
favorite trainer would stand beside him quietly and say,
"Even the strongest steel bends before it hardens, young master."
Taehyung would smirk faintly through his exhaustion. "Then I suppose I'm still bending."
To which the trainer would reply, "Then don't break". Over time, some of the soldiers who had once looked down on him began to approach him with respect.
"Your Highness," one asked timidly one afternoon, "how do you keep your balance when you strike so quickly?"
Taehyung looked at the soldier, sweat dripping down his jaw, and answered simply, "Don't
chase balance — make the enemy lose theirs first."
Another asked how he could endure the weight of the sword so long.
Taehyung chuckled. "You don't endure it. You learn to make it yours."
These small exchanges spread across the barracks. Soldiers whispered that the cursed
prince was no longer cursed — he was blessed by the sword itself.
But when night fell, and his body gave in, the truth was harsher. The fire within him burned
wildly, his skin heating until he could barely breathe. And it was always Aera who appeared, silently easing his pain, cooling the flames with her powers until the fire subsided.
Aera watched him closely in those moments, curiosity blooming quietly inside her. She had
seen many people's emotions before — fear, anger, hope — but Taehyung's were different.
He didn't cry out or beg for mercy, even when the fire consumed him. Instead, he endured it,
staring into the darkness as if daring it to break him.
Sometimes, she wondered what went on inside his mind. Why did he fight so hard for a
kingdom that only brought him pain? Why did he still rise, even when his body screamed for
rest? Was it pride? Was it duty? Or was it a desperate need to be seen — to prove that he
mattered?
At first, Aera had believed Taehyung would give up sooner or later. Either the flames or the
curse would take him, she thought. She had known of his curse from the first time she
touched his fire, but she didn't tell him — she wanted to see how he would react once he
found out.
But every day proved her wrong.
Instead of falling, he rose. Again and again.
And in his rise, Aera began to understand. Her mother's blessing, Taehyung's mother's love,
even her own power — they were all bound by fate, drawn together to protect him.
She knew everything — about her mother, about his mother, about the threads that tied their destinies. Yet she stayed silent. She didn't want to interfere.
"Maybe I really do act older than my age," she thought with a quiet sigh, remembering
Taehyung's teasing words.
But as she watched him push himself beyond his limits again, something in her eyes
softened — not with affection, but with a quiet, almost reverent curiosity.
"What kind of person are you, Taehyung?" she wondered. "How can someone keep burning without turning into ash".