Min Yoongi

Yoongi is the alpha, the young emperor. Cruel and cold, but fair. His words cut like a sword, and his decisions were unquestionable. He was the one who ascended the throne too early and became an adult too quickly to allow himself weakness.

Now he stood on his balcony, wrapped in thin layers of silk and gold, holding a fire-poured cup of tea that had long since cooled. The moonlight filled the terrace with silver, and the wind carried the light scent of cherry blossoms. Somewhere below, the garden was drowning in blossoms—a sea of ​​white and pink swaying in the night's silence, and right in the middle of it, a thin shadow was moving.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes.

The young man, oblivious to the gaze from above, danced alone. His movements were light, like the breath of spring, and at the same time, there was an indomitable thirst for life in them, almost a plea to be noticed. Under the light of the lanterns, it seemed as if he were woven from wind and petals, as if the spirit of the garden itself had taken human form to awaken something in the heart of someone who had long since buried his own.

"Chan," he called evenly, without taking his eyes off the dancer. The servant appeared silently next to him, like a shadow.

• Who is this young man?

"This young man is the son of the deceased general Lee Yeong-chul," Jang answered quietly. "He was left at court when he became an orphan. From an early age, he studied the arts and reading with the children of the nobility. Modest, quiet. His name is Park Chi-min."

Yoongi nodded slowly. He showed no emotion, but his fingers tightened on the railing. Something about the boy's movements was both irritating and fascinating. This was not how a simple servant should dance. And yet he danced. For whom?

“Bring him to me this evening,” Yoongi snapped, his voice brooking no questions. He already knew that the night would be long.