Chapter 1
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply the delicate blend of lilac, rose, and magnolia that fills the air—each note soft and fragrant, like a gentle kiss on the senses. A subtle trace of powdery vanilla lingers in the background, mingling with an almond-like scent that wraps around me like a warm embrace. It’s almost surreal, like stepping into a dream.
When I finally open my eyes, I’m struck by the sight before me. A towering tree, its bark a rich tapestry of brown and black, stands like a living monument. The trunk is thick and powerful, yet somehow graceful, as if it has withstood centuries of whispers from the wind. Its branches stretch across the sky, reaching so high they seem to touch the very clouds themselves.
Clusters of soft pink cherry blossoms sprinkle across the limbs, the flowers like delicate confetti caught in the breeze. As the wind sighs through the branches, petals drift downward, swirling and twirling, a dance of color that feels almost magical.
The only sound that reaches me is the sweet melody of little blue birds, their morning songs filling the air, light and joyful. I feel the cool, soft grass beneath my palms as I push myself up from a bed of wildflowers. The earth is cool and comforting against my skin, grounding me in this quiet, peaceful moment.
But just as I rise to my feet, I collide gently with something—a presence, a figure. My heart skips a beat as I stumble back, eyes wide, and find myself face-to-face with a man.
The man before me is dressed in flowing white robes, their fabric soft and elegant, detailed with delicate baby-yellow accents that catch the light with every subtle movement. On the top right of his robe, the sect's crest is embroidered with precision, a mark of his status. The long robe drapes gracefully around his figure, and at his waist, a sword hangs—the metal gleaming faintly, as though ready for any challenge.
His long, black hair is tied back into a neat, high ponytail, though two strands of hair, like dark silk, fall free on either side of his face, framing it in an almost purposeful way. His eyes, a soft, stormy gray, carry the weight of someone who has seen much of the world without truly stepping outside. There’s a depth to them, a quiet knowledge that makes him seem older than his years. Though he stands at about six feet four inches, and his build is strong—his muscles taut beneath the fabric—there’s a certain stillness to him, like a stone statue that has been carved with the utmost care.
Kywason, at just 21, is the master's only son—a title that gives him power and responsibility beyond what most men his age would know. But to me, he’s more than just that. He’s been my companion, my constant, since I was brought into the fold.
Kywason’s father had bought me from a ragged group of beggars, those who had seen no worth in me and would have left me to starve. The only reason he took me in was because his son—Kywason—had been lonely. The master’s only child, with no one his age to share his world. And so, when there was nothing else to occupy his time, Kywason begged for someone to play with him. And that was where I came in. I grew up in the main house with the young master and his father, bound to them in ways I couldn’t fully understand.
As the years passed, I started to feel like the life within the sect was not the only one worth living. People in the nearby villages would often speak in hushed tones, whispering that a beggar’s child had no place among such a powerful family. But I never listened to their words. I didn’t need to. I had Kywason. And for me, that had always been enough.
I take a deep breath, the air sweet with the scent of flowers that seem to bloom just for me. I step back from him, my heart racing in my chest, and I flash him a smile, teasing, “And you’ve found me again!”
Kywason doesn’t move, his face as unreadable as ever. There’s never been much room for emotion with him—always serious, always composed. But then his voice breaks the silence, dry and calm as ever, “If you keep wandering out here to the gardens, people are going to start thinking you’re a very ugly woman tending to flowers.”
I gasp in mock offense, pouting my lip dramatically. “I think I’d make a beautiful woman,” I reply, my words teasing but my smile soft, warm with affection.
Kywason sighs, as if resigned to my antics. “I know you love the gardens, as do I, but it’s the only place my father doesn’t want you.”
The words sting, but I push them aside. Instead, I reach out, grabbing his hand in mine, my fingers brushing his with a sense of intimacy that’s been years in the making. “You’re always so busy,” I murmur, my voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I know that if I come out here, you’ll come and get me.”
His gaze flickers, something unreadable in his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. And for a moment, we just stand there, his hand in mine, surrounded by the stillness of the garden, both of us caught in a quiet, shared understanding that runs deeper than anything we’ve ever said aloud.
Kywason’s gaze drifts upwards, his eyes softening as they land on the cherry blossom tree in the distance. For a moment, he seems lost in the beauty of it—his expression thoughtful, almost wistful. Then, with careful deliberation, he reaches up and plucks a single bloom from the tree. The petals are delicate, almost fragile, as they rest against his rough, calloused fingers. He holds it in his palm for a moment longer, studying it, as if it holds the answers to questions only he understands. Without a word, he tucks the bloom into my hair.
The touch of his fingers against my scalp sends a shiver down my spine—a fleeting spark that leaves my heart racing, though the moment slips away just as quickly as it came.
"Do I look pretty now?" I ask, half-teasing, half-hopeful, my voice soft, unsure if I even want to hear the answer.
Kywason’s expression remains unreadable. He doesn’t respond, but his silence says more than words ever could. Without a hint of warning, he turns abruptly, his hand closing around my wrist with a quiet urgency. The sudden force of his grip pulls me toward the house.
His silence lingers between us, heavy, as though there are things unsaid, things we both know but never speak aloud.
When we reach my room, Kywason pauses at the door. His tone is neutral, but there’s something underneath it—something I can't quite place. “Could you put on something presentable? Father wants you at the table for dinner.”
I pout, not bothering to hide my disappointment. I want to tell him that I’d rather stay here in the garden, that I’d rather spend time with him in this fleeting moment, but instead, I just shrug and head inside.
But before I can retreat fully into the safety of my room, Kywason opens the door to my back porch, his voice low, almost distant. "My father might get rid of you, Sujin."
The words hit me like a slap, sharp and cold, and for a moment, I freeze, unable to move. The cherry blossom that had rested so gently in my hair falls to the ground, the petals scattering like fragile pieces of my heart.
Kywason continues, his voice quieter now, but no less filled with weight. “He thinks you’re bringing disgrace to our sect. Now that you’re older, he can’t protect you like he used to."
I try to speak, but the words are trapped in my throat, as if they, too, are afraid of what comes next. But Kywason doesn’t let me.
"Sujin, I can’t protect you anymore."
The finality of his words hangs in the air between us, and I feel as though the ground beneath me is slipping away. I had never realized how much trouble I was causing him—how my very existence, my presence, had become a burden he could no longer carry.
His grip tightens on my wrist, and his voice cracks ever so slightly. "If he sells you, I’ll never see you again. I... I can't live without you, Sujin. Please." His eyes meet mine—genuine, raw, desperate. “Promise me you’ll behave. Please, Sujin."
The weight of his plea hits me like a wave. The pain in his voice, the vulnerability, it cuts through me in a way I can’t explain. I open my mouth to speak, to reassure him, but nothing comes out.
"Sujin," he whispers again, almost pleading. "Promise me."
I close my eyes, and the words spill from me in a breathless sigh. "I promise."
The room falls into silence. The tension hangs between us like a thread, fragile, ready to snap. But in that moment, I know—I will do anything to make sure that I don’t lose him.
He steps off my porch but doesn’t let go of my wrist. His grip is firm but not unkind, and I can feel the warmth of his hand lingering even as his gaze sharpens with determination. “Kywason, my blossom!” I says with a small, almost teasing smile,Then, in a stoft tone he says. “I’ll bring you one tonight.”
With that, he releases my wrist, his fingers sliding away slowly, as if reluctant to let go, and then he’s gone—disappearing down the path before I can even reply.
