He reached out with slow, deliberate fingers and drew the thin blanket aside.
The cool air kissed his skin.
His legs remained hidden beneath the remaining fold of cloth, but his manhood stood proud and unyielding, rigid as stone.
Do not misunderstand—he was not swollen with anticipation for her arrival. No.
Since the illness had taken root in him weeks ago, since the fever had burned through his veins like wildfire, his body had refused to relent.
The erection had never softened, never faded, a relentless monument to whatever curse or blessing the sickness had left behind.
It ached constantly, a dull fire that had become part of him.
She lifted her chin, dark eyes meeting his for one fragile heartbeat.
Their gazes locked—his steady and unreadable, hers wide with sudden vulnerability.
She dropped her eyes, cheeks burning, and slid back a few inches, the mattress dipping beneath her retreat.
His voice came low, rough from disuse.
"Come closer."
A pause.
"Spread your legs. Sit on this… with your vagina."
The words hung between them, blunt and commanding.
She swallowed hard, throat working visibly. Then, slowly, she obeyed.
She rose onto her knees, positioned herself above him, trembling thighs parting.
The first touch of her warmth against his tip made her breath hitch.
She began to lower herself—careful, so careful—until the blunt head pressed against her entrance.
Pain arrived like a blade.
She screamed, sharp and raw, the sound tearing from her throat before she could stop it.
Her hands flew to her mouth; tears sprang instantly to her eyes.
She sobbed behind her fingers, body rigid, trying again—pushing downward inch by agonizing inch.
But her untouched flesh resisted, clenched in instinctive refusal.
Every movement was fire.
She whimpered, tears streaming now, yet still she tried, driven by the promise that had brought her here.
He watched the struggle play across her face—the way her brows knit, the way her lips trembled—and understanding dawned.
She was a virgin. Untouched until this moment. Something softened in his gaze.
He reached for her waist, strong hands encircling her.
In one fluid motion he rolled them over, pinning her beneath him on the large bed.
Her back met the sheets; her legs splayed wide in surprise.
Before she could draw another breath he thrust—hard, deep, unrelenting.
Her scream shattered the quiet room, high and broken. Pain exploded through her core, white-hot and merciless.
She clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in, but he did not pause. He did not gentle himself. Instead he began to murmur—the low, rhythmic incantation the old priest had pressed into his memory days before.
The words were ancient, guttural, vibrating in his chest as he moved inside her.
With every slow, deliberate stroke, he drew the yang energy downward—hot, golden, crackling like summer lightning—channeling it through his manhood and into her trembling body.
He could feel it passing: a warm current leaving him, flooding her, filling the hollow spaces where her own energy had been starved or locked away. Her cries gradually changed—not gone, but shifting—pain mingling with something deeper, something overwhelming and unnameable.
They remained locked in that single position for four full days.
Time blurred. He would pause only when exhaustion or hunger forced him—rising to spoon thin broth into her mouth, wiping sweat from her brow with a damp cloth, letting her sip water from a cup.
Then he would return to her, slide back inside, resume the slow, relentless rhythm, the incantation never fully leaving his lips.
She wept often, sometimes in silence, sometimes in ragged sobs, but she never begged him to stop.
When the ritual finally ended—when the last thread of her yin essence had been drawn into him—he withdrew gently for the first time in days.
Her body lay limp, glistening with sweat, marked by bruises and the faint red imprint of his grip.
He carried her to the bathroom, bathed her with tender care he had not shown before—warm water sluiced over her skin, washing away the evidence of their joining.
He dried her, laid her on fresh sheets, and let her sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep.
The red heat that had simmered inside him for so long—the fever, the curse, the endless erection—cooled at last.
He was no longer red inside.
His skin had regained it's healthy wheat color.
As he lay there in the aftermath, watching her sleep, something unfamiliar stirred beneath his ribs.
He reached out slowly, almost afraid his touch might shatter the fragile peace that had settled over the room.
His palm settled gently on her forehead, brushing away the damp strands of hair that clung to her skin like dark threads of regret. With careful fingers he tucked them behind her ears, the motion tender in a way he had not known he was capable of.
For no reason he could name, his throat tightened.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and spilled over before he could stop them. They traced silent paths down his temples and into his hair.
He felt hurt, though he could not say why. He felt regret, sharp and unfamiliar, like a blade he had never noticed until it was already lodged in his chest.
He was sorry. Deeply, achingly sorry.
He should have treated her better.
The thought arrived uninvited and refused to leave.
This woman—this quiet, trembling soul who had given herself to him without demand or expectation—was someone he had cared for the least in all his life.
And yet she had given up everything for him. Her body. Her innocence. Her future. She had surrendered it all so that he might live, might be freed from the red curse that had consumed him.
What kind of man accepted such a gift and offered only pain in return?
What could he do now to make her stay?
The question echoed in the hollow space inside him.
He had never cared before whether anyone stayed or left.
People came and went like shadows across the wall; none had mattered enough to hold onto.
But her… something about her had cracked open a door he had long kept bolted shut. Perhaps he could try—slowly, clumsily—to love her afterward.
Not with grand gestures or empty promises, but with small, steady things.
She would be the only woman in his life now. He knew it with a certainty that frightened him.
There would be no others. There could be no others.
He sighed—a long, ragged sound—and let his body sink back against the mattress.
Exhaustion pulled at him like deep water. His eyelids grew heavy, and sleep claimed him at last.
Later—hours or perhaps only minutes, time had lost its edges—they both woke.
A faint strength had returned to their limbs, fragile as new skin over a wound.
He propped himself half-upright, a pillow wedged behind his back to keep him from slumping. His gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling above, tracing the familiar spiderweb of fissures as though they might offer answers.
She sat at the edge of the bed, knees drawn close to her chest, the thin blanket wrapped tightly around her naked form like armor. He, too, remained bare, unashamed yet strangely exposed in the quiet daylight that filtered through the narrow window.
Neither spoke.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only with the soft rasp of their breathing.
In her mind, she relived it all. There had been nothing pleasing in the experience—nothing tender, nothing shared.
Only streams of searing heat pouring from his manhood into her depths, relentless and invasive, wrecking her from the inside out.
Pain had washed up in waves: sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, settling deep in her pelvis like a bruise that refused to fade.
Yet strangely, her waist felt less ravaged now than she had feared. The soreness had dulled to an ache she could bear.
She could sit without wincing. Small mercies.
She stole a glance at his face—sideways, careful, afraid he might catch her looking.
His profile was still, almost serene, eyes fixed upward as though searching for something lost in the golden plaster.
Tears gathered without warning, blurring her vision until the room swam. They slipped free, fine as pearls, streaking silently down her cheeks.
By chance—or perhaps by the same invisible thread that had bound them these past days—he turned his head at that exact moment. Their eyes met.
He saw the tears. She saw that he saw.
She turned away immediately, unable to hold his gaze, cheeks burning with shame and something softer she could not name.
She drew her knees tighter to her chest, folded herself smaller, and pressed her forehead against them.
Her shoulders trembled once, twice.
He watched her for a long moment, the sight of her curled in on herself twisting something deep inside him.
He said nothing. There were no words yet that would not wound further.
Instead, he reached out—slowly, giving her every chance to pull away—and let his hand rest lightly on the blanket over her shoulder. .
She did not flinch.
And in that small, wordless space between them, something fragile began to breathe.
She drew the blanket tighter around herself, arms wrapping around her drawn-up knees like a shield against the world—or perhaps against him.
When he saw her curled so small, so closed off, a sharp ache bloomed in his chest, sudden and uninvited.
He did not understand its source, only that it felt like grief for something still living.
The stuffed, choking feeling returned, pressing against his ribs until breathing became deliberate effort.
He wanted to hear her voice again—not the broken cries of before, but something softer, something hers.
He wanted to see her smile, even if it was small and hesitant, the way sunlight sometimes finds its way through storm clouds.
Above all, he did not want her to remain this miserable, this wounded shadow of the woman who had knelt beside him days ago.
But words failed him.
They always had when they mattered most. So he said nothing. Instead he rose quietly, fetched the last of the thin porridge from the golden pot, and brought it to her on a silver spoon.
He fed her in silence, one careful spoonful at a time, wiping the corner of her mouth when a drop escaped.
She accepted each bite without protest, eyes downcast. When the bowl was empty, he helped her lie back, pulling the blanket over her shoulders with a gentleness that surprised even him.
She closed her eyes almost immediately, body surrendering to exhaustion as though it had been waiting for permission.
By morning they would leave this room, he told himself.
The thought felt both like escape and like severing something fragile.
She nodded faintly at his murmured words and let sleep take her again.
It came easily this time; her body craved it, demanded it after days of unrelenting strain. But rest was fleeting.
They woke again after only three hours, bodies still heavy yet restless, minds too full to stay under.
The room was quiet once more. Dawn had not yet broken; only the faintest gray light seeped around the edges of the shuttered window.
He sat propped against the wall, staring at her profile in the dimness—the gentle curve of her cheek, the dark lashes resting against pale skin, the faint bruise of fatigue beneath her eyes.
She looked younger in sleep, almost untouched by what had passed between them.
Then, without warning, she lifted her head. Her eyes opened and found his.
To his quiet astonishment, she did not look away this time. She held his gaze—steady, searching, unafraid.
The seconds stretched. Neither blinked.
The air between them thickened with unspoken things.
Finally she lowered her head again, slowly, as though the weight of what she was about to say pressed down on her.
Her voice, when it came, was soft—barely above a whisper, yet clear in the stillness.
"Your Highness…" she began, hesitating. "Am I allowed to make a request?"
He straightened slightly, caught off guard by the formality after everything.
"Yes, of course," he answered, voice low and rough from disuse. "You can ask anything. As long as it is within my power, I will grant it to you."
She nodded once, gathering courage. Her fingers twisted in the edge of the blanket. "Actually…I…I have two requests."
He waited, silent, giving her the space.
She drew a shallow breath. "Your Highness…I ask that when I die, please bury me by Jade Mountain—the one in the painting in your study. In the midst of the mygraid flowers."
The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples of shock spread through him. He had expected many things—freedom, perhaps even vengeance—but not this.
Not a request that spoke so plainly of her own end, as though she already saw it waiting somewhere just beyond the horizon.
For several long seconds his mind went blank, stunned into silence.
He stared at her, throat tight.
The painting she spoke of hung above his desk—a faded scroll of mist-shrouded peaks and fields of pale purple mygraid blossoms that bloomed only once every seven years.
He had always found it peaceful, distant. Now it felt like a grave she had already chosen.
He blinked, forcing words past the knot in his chest. "If that is what you want…then it is fine. I will do as you wish."
She gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible.
Instead she looked at him again—really looked—and for the first time since the ritual began, there was no fear in her eyes.
She smiled.
It was the first time he had truly seen it—not a polite curve of lips, not a fleeting flicker born of obligation, but a real, unguarded smile.
And it was beautiful. So achingly beautiful that it seemed to reach inside him, gentle fingers curling around his soul and tugging it free from the cold, armored place where he had kept it locked for years.
Yet the pull was not violent; it was peaceful, almost merciful.
For one suspended breath, the weight of his guilt, his curse, his endless isolation lifted. The room felt warmer.
"Your Highness," she said, the smile lingering even as her voice trembled with the gravity of what came next, "my second request… it can only be granted if you can answer me one question first."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving hers. "Go ahead."
She drew a slow breath, fingers tightening on the blanket as though anchoring herself against the vulnerability of the words.
"Is it true… that when a man makes love to a woman, she feels safe… and loved?"
The question hung between them like fragile glass. He felt the air shift, felt the rawness of it settle into his bones.
He answered carefully, honestly, because anything less would have felt like another wound.
"If they are in love with each other… yes. Maybe it is true then." A pause. "If they aren't… I don't know. Why do you ask?"
Her gaze dropped to her hands for a moment, then lifted again.
"Well…" She swallowed. "When I was born, my parents… that same day, they never even held me. The king adopted me afterward, but only to shape me into his weapon. All my peers stayed away from me because everyone said I was cursed. They hated me—for reasons I never understood. Even when I became the youngest general, the one who should have earned admiration, trust… I received only hate. Scorn. Little whispers behind hands. I have always been alone. In my own little world, my little bubble that no one wants to burst or pull me out of. I have only ever wanted one person… someone to care. Not even to love—just to care. That's all."
Her voice cracked on the last words, but the smile never quite left her lips.
It trembled there, fragile and defiant, as though she were offering him both her pain and her forgiveness in the same breath.
He stared at her, chest tight, throat burning.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words rough and inadequate. "Because of me… you will never know what it feels like to be loved by someone who deserves you. I'm not worth saving. Everyone knows that. So why—?"
She laughed then—soft, broken, almost disbelieving. "Haha… Your Highness… I don't know."
Another small, watery laugh. "I just… I just fell in love. Slowly. As for when?"
She tilted her head, eyes searching his as though the answer lived somewhere behind them. "The first time I saw your eyes—dark and deadly—I wanted to enter them. To find something inside. Something I didn't even know I was looking for. But as time went on… I came to understand what I really wanted was to see myself reflected there. In your eyes. Yes… you hurt me. You hurt me so much that sometimes I can't help but want to hate you. But then… one smile of yours is enough to bring all those walls crashing down again."
She paused, breath shaky. "Maybe you're right. Maybe my love doesn't make sense. It really doesn't. I know I am nothing. So I'm bringing you my second request now… Make love to me, please. Since I will not receive your love… then I will give you mine."
The words landed like a quiet thunderclap.
His eyes grew misty. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, then pressed the heel of his palm against his tightly shut lids, drawing in deep, uneven breaths.
Her confession—raw, illogical, impossibly generous—struck the frozen core of him like summer rain on cracked earth.
His heart, long encased in ice, lurched. Beat. Once. Twice. Hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
Wasn't this what he had always wanted, A woman who would look at him—not as a prince, but simply as a man… and choose to love him anyway?
He opened his eyes. Tears stood bright on his lashes, but he did not wipe them away. Instead he reached for her—slowly, giving her every chance to pull back.
She did not.
His fingers found hers beneath the blanket. Warm. Trembling. Real.
He drew her closer, inch by careful inch, until she was cradled against his chest. Her head rested over his heartbeat—erratic now, alive in a way it had not been for years.
He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in: salt, sweat, faint jasmine from days-old perfume, and something sweeter underneath. Something hers.
"I don't deserve this," he whispered against her temple. "But if you will let me… I want to try. To make you feel safe. Loved. Even if it's only once. Even if it's all I can give."
She lifted her face. Their eyes met—close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her irises, the faint freckles across her nose that he had never noticed before.
"Then try," she said softly.