The throne room was a cathedral of power—golden pillars, velvet drapes, and polished marble that echoed with every breath. At its center sat the King, draped in regal silence, flanked by two beautiful storms waiting to explode.

Ling stood at the base of the throne, draped in moonlight silks, his dark hair cascading like ink over his shoulders. His lashes cast soft shadows over flushed cheeks, eyes shimmering with something unreadable. But his smile was strained. Because across the room... stood Yanshi Hanamitchi.

Bathed in sunlight like some celestial being, Yanshi's pale skin glowed, long golden hair cascading like silk ribbons. He wore his angelic facade well—hands folded, eyes downcast. But the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"You're early, sweet," Yanshi purred, stepping closer. "Or did you get lost on your way to the mirror again?"

Ling's eyes flickered, lips still in their practiced smile. "Not all of us need to rehearse our kindness in the mirror, Yanshi."

"Hmm," Yanshi chuckled, turning his eyes to the King as if Ling were a servant. "I suppose you had to arrive early. Desperation does that to people. I would feel pity, if it weren't so... cute."

Ling stepped forward, the soft clack of his shoes like a heartbeat against the marble. "Tell me, was it desperation when you clawed your way into His Majesty's bedchamber?"

Yanshi's smile sharpened like glass. The room thickened with silence.

"You speak of bedchambers, pretty boy," Yanshi whispered, "yet yours remain cold. Do you warm them with jealousy? Or with delusion?"

Ling's laugh was soft—musical—but hollow. "I warm them with loyalty. Something a creature like you wouldn't recognize if it kissed your pale cheek."

Yanshi moved closer, his voice low, eyes never leaving the King. "I don't need loyalty. I have screams. I have marks. I have memories the King can't wash off."

Ling's composure cracked for half a second—but it was enough.

He turned fully to the King, falling to one knee with all the elegance of a noble trained from birth. "Your Majesty, must you entertain this... performer any longer? His place is on a stage, not beside the throne."

Yanshi scoffed, his angelic mask slipping as he threw his golden hair over one shoulder. "A stage, perhaps—but at least I don't beg on the palace floor for scraps of attention. Look at you, clinging like ivy. So delicate. So replaceable."

Ling rose slowly, walking past Yanshi with the grace of a cat. He leaned close to the King, voice barely a breath. "Then replace me."

Yanshi's eyes narrowed. He stepped in, his voice dripping with poison. "My lord," he said sweetly, "Ling clearly needs correction. Perhaps lock him in the east wing. Or tie him to the gate. That should cool his fantasies."

Ling turned his head slightly, a soft laugh escaping him. "Do it, my king. But know this—chains cannot hold love. And his love for me, though buried, still breathes.

The throne room fell into breathless silence. Only the King's heartbeat remained. And both beauties stood—one golden and cruel, the other dark and divine—waiting to see who would be chosen.