My brother had just ascended the throne. He was consumed by paranoia, convinced that every soul alive coveted his crown. As his last surviving brother, I played the part of a useless, hedonistic fool. I lived for pleasure, even taking a dozen male companions into my household. And yet… The way my brother stared at me grew darker, more sinister. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice a low growl, “I have the urge to break your legs.” Remembering the gruesome fates of my other brothers, the hair on my neck stood on end. Later, after I faked my own death and was dragged back, my brother showed me exactly what he meant by breaking me… in his bed, he nearly tore me apart. 1. When Damien uttered those words—that he wanted to break my restless arms and legs—a tremor of pure fear shot through me. On the desk lay several official reports, all detailing my transgressions. One minister accused me of scandalous depravity, of spending my nights drunk in the city’s pleasure districts. Another claimed to have witnessed me harassing the nation’s top scholar in the street. I was accused of using my status to bully the sons of officials, of forcing scribes to pen lewd and obscene stories… Damien lounged on the imperial divan, a lustrous black panther pelt draped over his legs. His expression was a mask of shadows. I shamelessly scurried forward and, just as I had when we were children, buried my face in his lap. I tilted my head back, my eyes wide and pleading. I put on my most innocent, most pathetic face. “Brother, let me explain! Hear my totally plausible defense!” “It’s not what it looks like! I was just there to listen to the music! And that idiot from the Sun family was bullying someone else, I was just serving justice…” A ghost of a smile played on Damien’s lips as he slowly raised his right hand. I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut and instinctively nuzzling his leg like a frightened kitten. “Brother, I was wrong! Please don’t hit me.” His fingers closed around my neck. “Insolent. Let go.” Only then did I realize that in my panic, my own hand had gone rogue. Hidden beneath his imperial robes, I had wrapped my fingers around Damien’s pale, slender ankle. A terrifying mistake. I snatched my hand back, muttering under my breath, “Brother, you’ve gotten thinner again. Haven’t you been eating properly? I’m going to tell the Queen Mother on you…” Damien’s expression remained as placid and unreadable as ever. “Tomorrow, you will move into the palace.” A jolt went through me. I shook my head frantically. “No! I’m not done having fun yet! Besides, my companions at the estate will miss me.” The pressure on my neck increased. “Hm?” I let out a pathetic wail. “I’ll do as you say, Brother.” 2. It was common knowledge that Emperor Damien suffered from a touch of madness. He was known to be cruel, his moods as unpredictable and violent as a storm. But to me, my brother had always been like a celestial being from a painting, his complexion touched with an ethereal, almost unhealthy pallor. He had been frail since birth, a sickness carried from the womb. When I was a child and he held me, his robes always carried the faint, bitter scent of medicinal herbs. I grew so accustomed to it that later, when I couldn’t sleep in my own manor, I had perfumers create a sachet with a similar scent. I kept it by my pillow every night, the only thing that could grant me peace. I’d never actually seen him have one of his “fits.” I suspected the “madness” was just an excuse he used to kill people. My brother wasn’t my real brother. Is that something I should even say? To put it simply: when our mother was pregnant with her second child—with the boy who was supposed to be me—a rival consort, in a last desperate act of court intrigue, managed to poison her. The child was born a stillborn monstrosity. Mother’s most trusted matron devised a plan. The dead infant was swapped with me, a foundling of unknown origin. And so I, the cuckoo in the nest, became Prince Julian, the trueborn, full-blooded younger brother of Damien. There were three years between us. Mother and Damien were both delicate and sickly, while I was robust, with an appetite that far outstripped other children my age. Heh, I used to think to myself, I’m definitely not one of them. I’d clench my fists, flexing the baby fat on my arms. At least I could protect my brother. By the time I was old enough for the Royal Academy, I had shot up in height and build, towering over him to the point where I could completely shield his slender frame with my own. The old matron would joke that I was a leaf meant to shelter him. My world revolved around Damien. I clung to him, obeyed him, but I could never truly understand him. And I feared him. 3. Of course, the moment I realized my feelings for him were… unnatural, my rebellious phase began. I stopped listening to him, deliberately defying his every word. I cultivated the persona of a fickle womanizer, falling for a new face every week, and I put as much distance between us as I could. I was terrified he would sense the truth of my heart and be disgusted. Even more, I was terrified he would discover I wasn’t his real brother. 4. After moving into the palace, I was assigned an attendant named Sam, the apprentice of the Lord Chamberlain, Felix. “Your Highness! Please, you must practice! You can’t keep scaring away the instructors!” Sam pleaded, his face a mask of worry. We were on the royal training grounds. “The Emperor has decreed that if you don’t hit the bullseye today, you won’t be served dinner.” Tch. Threatening me with dinner? Did he still think I was a child? I ignored him, strumming the bow like it was a lute. At first, Damien had tried to make me study history and policy, but the words just gave me a headache. He relented and gave me books on military strategy, but my brain turned to mush. Finally, realizing I had nothing but brute strength, he commanded me to learn archery. I knew what he was doing. He was testing me. Testing to see if I posed a threat to him. How cruel. “I wonder how Seven is doing. I miss hearing him play,” I mused aloud. Seven was one of the prettiest of my companions. There was no reply. The training ground was unnervingly silent. I turned my head and saw Damien approaching, wrapped in a heavy white wolf-pelt cloak, his presence as cold as the winter frost. He stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes seeming to swallow the light. “Still can’t do it?” he asked, his voice low. I shook my head, blinking innocently. “It is my own foolishness, Brother.” A faint, unfamiliar scent of musk drifted from him as his tall frame moved to stand directly behind me. One hand settled on my waist, correcting my posture, while the other covered my own on the bowstring. Ah! Too close! My ears instantly turned a burning red. The wind blew a strand of Damien’s long hair against my cheek, tickling me. I have no idea when the arrow was released. His cool lips were right beside my ear, his breath a warm whisper against my skin. “What are you thinking about?” I stammered, unable to form a coherent reply, and bolted. Why had my brother’s scent changed? Did he switch his incense? And his body… it felt so much stronger than I remembered… On the way back to my chambers, my mind a chaotic mess, I ran into the top scholar, Tristan Thorne. We had met last year, when I helped his ailing mother find a good physician. “How is your mother’s health?” I asked. “She is well, thanks to Your Highness’s concern,” Tristan replied, his posture impeccable, a gentle smile on his lips. “It’s quite a coincidence. My mother recently finished embroidering a new sachet for you.” Back then, he and his mother had been so insistent on repaying my kindness that I finally relented and asked her to make me a few small trinkets. He produced a small, cyan sachet from his robes, a green bamboo stalk stitched onto its surface. I took it and lifted it to my nose. My eyes widened. I smiled. It was the scent of my brother from my memories. “This is wonderful. Please thank your mother for me.” Tristan’s gaze lingered on me, the corners of his mouth curving slightly. “I’m glad Your Highness likes it.” From a shadowy corner nearby, half of Damien’s face was obscured. His black eyes were like a deep, tranquil pool, but the stillness was terrifyingly cold. 5. After my panicked escape that day, I was even more careful to keep my head down. But my brother suddenly became incredibly busy. The southern provinces were being ravaged by torrential rains and floods. Reports flew into the Emperor’s study like a blizzard of snowflakes. The lights in his study often burned until dawn. The atmosphere in the palace grew heavier with each passing day. Perhaps this was my chance to “be good.” A perfect opportunity to show that, while I might be a fool, I still knew how to worry about my brother. I put down the kite I was making from parchment and personally carried a food box toward the Emperor’s study. Outside the hall, Lord Chamberlain Felix saw me and his eyes lit up. “Your Highness,” he whispered, “His Majesty just had a terrible fit of temper. Several ministers were dismissed. He’s suffering from a headache right now.” A pang of worry shot through me. “Has my brother eaten?” Felix sighed, gently pushing the door open. “No appetite. The food was sent back untouched. He’s eaten very little recently. Your Highness, please try to persuade him.” The hall was dimly lit. Damien was slumped in the massive dragon throne, one hand pressed to his temple, his brow deeply furrowed. His thin lips were pressed into a bloodless line. He’d gotten even thinner in just a few days. My heart ached. I tiptoed inside. “Brother, the Queen Mother had some new pastries made. Would you like to try one?” He slowly opened his eyes, a profound weariness dulling their usual sharpness. “They’re very sweet!” I said, opening the box and holding a delicate lotus pastry to his lips. Damien’s gaze fell on my fingers, his Adam’s apple moving slowly. Wait. Why isn’t he eating? They’re delicious! He doesn’t think I’ve poisoned them, does he? My mind raced. I swallowed nervously. He didn’t open his mouth. The tips of my fingers, holding the pastry, started to feel numb. Just as I thought he was about to scold me for being “insolent” or “improper,” he let out an incredibly soft sigh. It was as light as a feather, but it landed on my heart with a heavy thud. He turned his head slightly, his voice raspy. “My head hurts.” I froze. Those three words were like a key, unlocking a dusty box deep within my memory. When we were children, whenever the damp, rainy weather triggered his old illness and his headaches became unbearable, he would lean against me just like this, close his eyes, and murmur, “Julian, my head hurts.” And I, with my clumsy, chubby little hands, would carefully massage his temples. My body moved before my mind could catch up. I put down the pastry, wiped my hands on a handkerchief, and moved behind his throne. My fingers, hesitant and gentle, found his temples. The moment my fingertips touched his cool, tense skin, my heart leaped into my throat. Bad idea! This was far too intimate! I tried to pull my hands back, ready to cover my tracks with my usual buffoonery. “Ahaha, brother, look at my memory, when we were kids…” “Don’t move,” his low, raspy voice cut me off. It was a command, but it held a trace of undeniable vulnerability. I froze, my fingers hovering at his temples, trapped. “Press,” he ordered, the single word leaving no room for argument. He slowly closed his eyes again, his thick lashes casting a faint shadow on his pale skin. I held my breath, applying a steady, gentle pressure. Under my touch, the tense line of his brow slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to smooth out. Something slammed into my heart. Ever since I’d understood my own feelings, I had avoided my brother, suppressing the dark desires within me. But the moment I got close to him, my treacherous heart refused to obey. In that instant, time seemed to stand still. The only sound in the vast hall was the soft whisper of our breathing. The disaster relief efforts in the south, under Damien’s near-tyrannical supervision, finally stabilized. The oppressive atmosphere in the palace eased slightly. My recent performance as a “well-behaved” brother seemed to have relaxed his guard a little. At least, the leg-breaking glint in his eyes had faded considerably. Our relationship had settled into a fragile, temporary peace. After dinner one evening, Sam approached me with a conspiratorial air. “Your Highness, a message from the Emperor. He requests your presence at the Imperial Baths.” Since that day in his study, Damien had taken to summoning me to massage his temples. But this time was different. The Imperial Baths were his private sanctuary. My stomach twisted into knots, but I went. The vast, steam-filled chamber was empty save for the echo of my own frantic heartbeat. Damien was leaning against the edge of the pool. His back was to me, his long, ink-black hair plastered wetly against his smooth, broad shoulders. The dim, yellow light sculpted the sharp lines of his shoulder blades. The taut line of his waist was a tantalizing shimmer beneath the water’s surface. Just his back alone radiated an incredible, aggressive power and a… fatal allure. This… this was nothing like the thin, pale, herb-scented brother of my memory! That strange musky scent was stronger here, carried on the hot, humid air, invading my senses and tangling my thoughts. “What are you standing there for?” Damien’s cool voice cut through the steam. It was laced with a languid quality from the heat, but it still held its customary authority. “B-brother…” My throat was dry. My voice cracked. “Come here.” Two words, simple and powerful, like stones dropped into the lake of my heart. I moved forward like a puppet on a string, my steps unsteady. The closer I got, the more overwhelming his presence became. I tripped on something—or nothing—and plunged headfirst into the pool with a huge splash. “Ugh!” Damien, as if he had known it would happen, moved with lightning speed. His hand shot out, grabbing my waist and steadying me in the water. My face was inches from his pale collarbone. My eyes, of their own accord, slid downwards. The rippling water, the shifting light… the hard lines of his chest, the faint outline of his abs beneath the surface. A searing heat rushed to my head. I let out a muffled groan and clapped a hand over my nose, a warm, sticky wetness instantly seeping between my fingers. Blood! I was having a nosebleed! A tidal wave of shame and panic crashed over me. I was finished. Staring at the Emperor while he bathed was bad enough, but getting a nosebleed… this was a death sentence! I fumbled, trying to staunch the flow, too terrified to look up at him, too mortified to look down. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “Heh…” A soft, amused chuckle echoed through the steam. I froze, my face burning. I didn’t even care about the blood seeping from between my fingers. I just wanted to die of embarrassment. No, stay in character! I bit my lip. “Brother, you keep me locked up in this palace,” I said, my voice deliberately petulant. “My heart yearns for release, but finds none. That’s why this happens…” “Julian.” He used my full name. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the steam with a chilling, terrifying scrutiny. “When your male companions at the manor bathe, are you this concerned? Do you watch them with such… heated passion?” I gaped, speechless. His tone shifted again. “You like this sachet so much you wear it every day?” What sachet? I followed his gaze and saw the cyan sachet—Tristan’s gift—floating on the water’s surface. I immediately snatched it up, a wave of disappointment washing over me. The water would ruin the scent. “You truly are…” I looked up and met Damien’s eyes. They were filled with a bone-deep chill and a barely suppressed, violent rage. Oh no. He’s going to kill me. One thought screamed in my mind: Run! Now! Immediately! “Forgive me, Brother! I… I am unable to perform my duties for you today! I take my leave!” I babbled, clutching my bleeding nose like a scalded cat. Without a second glance, I scrambled out of the pool and fled, a clumsy, pathetic mess. 7. I stumbled back to my chambers, soaked to the bone, blood smeared across my face, looking like a drowned rat. Sam shrieked in terror. “Your Highness! What happened?!” He frantically helped me clean up and change. Afterward, I threw myself into bed, pulling the covers over my head and cocooning myself in the blankets, my mind racing. I could explain away the nosebleed as a result of the dry weather, but the sachet… Tristan’s sachet! The look in Damien’s eyes… a cold dread spread from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. Would he think I was conspiring with Tristan? That I had ulterior motives? I drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming that I was being constricted by thick vines. I struggled, I begged, but they only tightened their hold, toying with me. I woke with a start to find a damp patch between my legs. I stared in disbelief. Damn my wretched desires! “Sam! Sam!” I yelled. “Quick! Go tell the Emperor that the Prince… uh… that I’ve caught a cold! My head is spinning! I won’t be able to pay my respects for a few days!” Sam looked miserable. “Your Highness, your voice is loud enough to bring the roof down…” “Shut up! Just go!” I hurled a pillow at him. But I couldn’t hide forever. The Queen Mother sent a messenger, summoning both me and my brother to her apartments for dinner. She was a kind and perceptive woman. Was she trying to mediate between us? I had to go. The Queen Mother’s rooms were warm and fragrant, the dishes exquisite. She sat at the head of the table, a gentle smile on her face as she looked from me to Damien, who was dressed in simple black robes, his expression remote. “Damien is so busy with matters of state, and Julian is always causing trouble. It’s rare for the three of us to share a peaceful meal.” She personally placed a piece of chicken on my plate and served Damien a portion of steamed fish. “Look at you two, both getting thinner.” I kept my head down, shoveling rice into my mouth, wishing I could disappear into my bowl. “You’re right, Mother,” I mumbled. Damien merely grunted in agreement, elegantly picking the bones from his fish. But the oppressive aura around him seemed to chill the warm air in the room. “I am old now,” the Queen Mother said, her gaze shifting between us, a hint of worry in her eyes. It finally settled on me. “All I want is for you two to live in harmony. Julian, you’re not a child anymore. Those… companions in your manor are not a long-term solution. Is there anyone you have your eye on? Perhaps a young lady from a good family, or a gentleman? I can arrange it for you.” My hand tightened around my chopsticks. The secret I’d guarded for so long felt like it was about to burst from my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs. My brother was sitting right there! His eyes were on his plate, but I could feel the weight of his attention crushing me. I forced myself to look up, plastering the most exaggerated, idiotic grin on my face—the perfect expression for my foolish persona. “Oh, Mother! Why worry about such things? Your son is still young!” I waved my hand with a flourish, affecting a carefree, roguish air. “Aren’t the beauties in my manor enough to keep me busy? Marriage? How boring! Why would I want to be tied down to one person when I can be free and happy like this?” I snuck a glance at Damien. He was lifting a piece of perfectly deboned fish to his lips, his movements seamless, as if he hadn’t heard a word. But I could feel the air around him grow colder. “Right now,” I said, puffing out my chest, “I love my freedom! There is no one I like! And I have no intention of getting married! So please, Mother, spare me!” I added, “Besides, my brother isn’t married yet. What’s my hurry?” Silence descended on the room. The Queen Mother’s smile faded slightly. She sighed, assuming I was simply immature. “You and Damien… honestly.” Damien finally lifted his eyes. His gaze was like a shard of ice, pinning me in place. There was no anger, no accusation. Just a bottomless, suffocating darkness. His lips parted, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, but his words struck me like a hammer blow. “Is that so? There’s no one you like?” The question was light, but it sent a sheet of cold sweat down my back. I struggled to maintain my smile, my face feeling stiff. “Of course! Brother, do I look like a liar?” He didn’t look at me again. He lowered his gaze, picked up a silk napkin, and began to slowly, methodically wipe his long fingers. The gesture was silent, but it carried a terrifying, suffocating weight. The rest of the meal was tasteless. The moment the Queen Mother retired, I leaped to my feet and practically ran from her apartments. Outside, a light rain had begun to fall. The cold droplets on my face did little to calm my frantic heart. That last look from my brother… it was terrifying. He didn’t believe me. He didn’t believe a single word.
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