CRIMSON PALACE, SILVER FLAME

The first thing Seo Ara tasted was smoke. Not metaphorical smoke. Real smoke, thick, choking, bitter in her lungs. Then she felt silk. Her fingers dragged across embroidered fabric. Her head throbbed. She opened her eyes to find carved wooden beams arching above her, ceilings painted with dragons and constellations. She was not in her Seoul apartment. She was not in 2026. She was kneeling on polished palace stone floors. And someone was screaming. “Your Majesty, she’s alive!” Ara blinked slowly. Before her stood men dressed in royal robes, swords sheathed at their waists. Lantern light flickered against walls painted in crimson and gold. And at the center of the hall seated upon a raised throne — was a man. Young. Cold. Dangerously composed. The king. His eyes were dark as obsidian. Sharp. Calculating. Beautiful in a way that felt almost violent. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was calm. Too calm. Ara swallowed. Her throat burned. “I… I don’t know how I got here.” The court erupted in murmurs. The king rose slowly from his throne. Every step he took echoed through the vast hall. He stopped before her. He crouched. He was close now. Too close. She could see the faint scar slicing through his eyebrow. The faint scent of sandalwood and steel. “You appeared in my private garden,” he said softly. “In a flash of light.” Ara’s breath caught. This was insane. But somehow… it felt real. He lifted her chin with two fingers. “Are you a spy?” he asked. Her heart pounded. “No.” His thumb brushed against her jaw, not gently. “Then you are either a witch… or a miracle.” And for the first time, his eyes flickered with something that wasn’t cold.