Chapter Text
The routine had become a physical weight on your bones. Another day, another spreadsheet, another soul-crushing meeting with a client who made you question your career choices. You were only in your late twenties, but you felt ancient, your spirit worn down to a nub by the endless cycle of corporate servitude. Eat, work, sleep, repeat. The highlight of your week was deciding which flavor of instant noodles to drown your sorrows in.
Last night was no different. You'd stumbled home after another inhumane overtime session, the fluorescent lights of the office still buzzing behind your eyelids. The difficult client's condescending email replayed in your head as you collapsed into bed, not even bothering to change out of your worn pink pyjamas. The meeting tomorrow was going to be a nightmare, and all you wanted was the sweet, temporary oblivion of sleep.
But the oblivion you woke to was not your own.
The first thing you registered was the wrongness. The air wasn't stale and conditioned; it was crisp, alive with the scent of damp earth and something sweet like honeysuckle. Instead of the muted grey light filtering through your cheap blinds, a brilliant, dappled greenness pierced your vision.
Your eyes flew open.
You weren't in your cramped apartment. You were lying on a bed of soft moss, surrounded by a cathedral of ancient trees whose canopy was so thick it blotted out the sky. Sunbeams, thick as honey, sliced through the leaves here and there, illuminating floating dust motes and the occasional flutter of a strange, iridescent butterfly.
"What the actual hell?" you whispered, your voice sounding small and alien in the vast silence.
You shot up, your heart hammering against your ribs. This was impossible. A dream? It felt too real—the rough bark of a nearby tree, the cool press of the moss against your palms, the sharp scent of pine.
Were you drunk? You frantically searched your memory. No, not a drop. You'd been too exhausted to even contemplate alcohol. Sleepwalking, then? It seemed the only rational explanation, but a laughable one. You, who couldn't even be bothered to walk to the fridge for a midnight snack, had somehow trekked miles into a wilderness this expansive? Linkon was a city, not a rural paradise. The closest thing to a forest was the sad, manicured park downtown, and this was not that.
You looked down at yourself. Still in the same ridiculous pink pyjamas with cartoon cats on them. A wave of surreal vertigo washed over you. This wasn't a prank. You weren't dreaming. You were completely, utterly lost, and the only familiar thing in this impossible place was the flimsy cotton clinging to your skin. Panic began to prickle at the edges of your disbelief, cold and sharp.
There's no way. Was this one of those isekai stories? The kind of plot you'd find in a cheap manhwa, where some overworked office drone gets hit by a truck and wakes up in a fantasy world? It was absurd. The kind of thing you'd read to escape your own boring life, not the kind of thing that actually happened. You weren't supposed to be the protagonist. You were just... background noise. A corporate drone in a sea of other drones.
But as the crisp, alien air filled your lungs and the impossibly green canopy of the forest loomed above you, a terrifying thought began to take root. What if this wasn't a dream? What if you hadn't fallen asleep at your desk and were having a particularly vivid stress-induced hallucination?
Before you could spiral further into that particular abyss, a sound sliced through the forest's unnatural silence. It was a rhythmic, heavy thudding, accompanied by the sharp snap of twigs and the jingle of something metallic. The sound grew louder, more distinct, vibrating through the soles of your bare feet and up into your bones.
Horses.
You'd never seen one in person, not outside of a screen, but you knew the sound from countless period dramas. It was the sound of power, of weight, of something that didn't belong in your world of subway cars and city traffic. Your heart, already hammering, kicked into a frantic new rhythm.
Instinct took over. You scrambled backwards, your bare feet slipping on the damp moss as you frantically looked for a place to hide. You dove behind a massive, gnarled oak tree, its broad trunk offering a sliver of security. Peeking around the rough bark, you held your breath, your body pressed flat against the cool wood.
The forest floor ahead of you burst into motion.
First came two riders, clad in gleaming metal that caught the dappled sunlight. Armor. Real, actual armor, like something out of a museum exhibit. They sat tall in their saddles, their faces grim and focused, their hands resting on the hilt of swords at their hips. They were scouts, their eyes sweeping the surroundings with practiced intensity.
They flanked a third figure, and your breath hitched in your throat.
He was riding a magnificent white stallion, a creature of impossible beauty that seemed to glow against the green shadows of the woods. But it was the rider that truly captured your attention, that made the world tilt on its axis.
He wore no helmet, and his silver hair, almost luminous in the filtered sunlight, fell in soft waves over his shoulders. His profile was sharp and elegant. The straight line of his nose, the slight furrow in his brow as he surveyed the forest…
He is gorgeous.
But that is not important right now; you have a massive problem to solve. First, where in the world are you right now? And two, how are you going to get back to your home? The questions ricocheted around your skull, a frantic, useless drumbeat against the overwhelming reality of the forest.
But perhaps the man with the silver hair had senses far sharper than a normal person's, because in a split second, you saw his head tilt, his elegant brow furrowing as if detecting an abnormality in the air. A primal instinct, cold and sharp, screamed at you that you'd been made. You knew for sure that he had sensed you, and what made it more frightening was that you were right. In a heartbeat, his gaze snapped directly to your hiding spot.
You two are making eye contact.
The world seemed to shrink to that single point of contact. His eyes, the color of a pale winter sky, held an unnerving intensity. They weren't just looking; they were piercing, seeing right through the rough bark of the tree and into your very soul. There was no surprise in his expression, only a sudden, sharp focus, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey after a long hunt.
You quickly hid behind the tree again, your chest heaving. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Why did you hide? For sure, you could ask for their help to get you to your home. But then, you don't even know these people. They can be bad people. Men in armor with swords weren't exactly a symbol of safety and help in your world. Here, who knew what they represented?
"Who goes there?" a voice called out, smooth and calm, yet carrying an undeniable authority that vibrated through the forest floor. It was him. The silver-haired man.
You remained frozen, pressed against the tree, praying to a god you weren't sure you believed in that you could just melt into the wood.
You heard the soft thud of boots hitting the ground. He had dismounted. The sound of his footsteps was deliberate, crunching softly on the fallen leaves as he drew closer. You squeezed your eyes shut, your ridiculous cartoon pyjamas feeling like a beacon of your utter absurdity.
A shadow fell over you. You knew he was standing right on the other side of the tree.
"There is no use in hiding," he said, his voice closer now, a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. "I've been searching for you."
Your eyes flew open. Searching for me? The words made no sense. It was a line from a bad movie, a ridiculous, impossible thing to say. Before you could process it, a hand appeared on the edge of the tree trunk, followed by the rest of him as he stepped smoothly into view.
He was even more imposing up close. The fine fabric of his tunic did little to hide the lean muscle beneath, and the sword at his hip looked lethally real. But it was his eyes that held you captive, that same pale, piercing gaze that promised he wasn't letting you out of his sight.
His eyes flickered down, taking in your appearance—from your dishevelled hair to your bare feet and, finally, to the grinning cartoon cats on your pyjamas. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—amusement? Confusion? It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same intense, unnerving focus.
"Please," he said, his voice softening, but the underlying command was still there. "Don't be afraid. You're safe now."
Safe? Nothing about this felt safe. Every instinct was screaming at you to run, to get away from this beautiful, dangerous man and his uncanny knowledge of your existence. But where would you go? Deeper into a forest you didn't know, with no shoes and no idea what other dangers lurked in its shadows?
You were trapped. And as he held out a hand to you, his expression a mask of gentle reassurance, you are hesitant.
"I will help you, don't you worry now." He gave another assurance, his voice a low, soothing melody that seemed to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw what you were meant to see: a gentle expression, soft and open, the pale winter sky of his eyes filled with nothing but concern for a lost soul.
You are stunned. He is breathtaking. With the sun filtering through the canopy, it illuminated his features, casting his silver hair in a halo of light and softening the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked like something out of a fairytale, a hero sent to rescue you. In that moment, all your fear, all your logical reservations, were washed away by the sheer, overwhelming force of his beauty and his promise of safety.
You couldn't help but reach your hand to him.
Trusting him completely.
Your fingers, trembling slightly, slid into his. His grip was firm, warm, and surprisingly gentle. He didn't just hold your hand; he encompassed it, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles in a gesture that was both comforting and strangely possessive. He pulled you gently from behind the tree, and you stumbled slightly, your bare feet unused to the uneven forest floor.
His other hand came up to steady you, resting on your waist. The touch was electric, a jolt of awareness that shot through you. It was the first human contact you'd had in this strange world, and it felt grounding, real. You looked up at him, your cheeks flushing, and found him already watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"There now," he murmured, his voice dropping to an even lower register. "You're safe. I have you."
He didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he began to lead you toward his waiting horse, his guards watching with stoic, unreadable faces. The white stallion snorted softly as you approached, its large, intelligent eye fixing on you.
He helped you onto the back of his horse, swinging up behind you with an easy grace. He settled you firmly against his chest, one arm wrapping securely around your waist as he took the reins. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, a stark contrast to the cool forest air. You were completely enveloped by him, his scent—a clean, sharp mix of pine and something uniquely his—filling your senses.
"Hold on," he whispered against your ear, his breath sending another shiver through you.
You leaned back, letting your weight rest against him, feeling strangely safe and protected in his embrace. As he urged the horse forward, you allowed yourself a moment of relief. You were lost, confused, and in a world you didn't understand, but you had been found. And as the forest began to move past you in a blur of green and gold, you closed your eyes, trusting the man who held you completely to lead you out of the woods and toward whatever came next.
-
It turns out, you really had somehow travelled to another world. There was no other explanation. As the days passed, the evidence became undeniable. This city, with its towering stone castles, cobblestone streets bustling with horse-drawn carts, and villagers in simple tunics and dresses, was nothing like the world you knew. To confirm your suspicions, you saw it with your own eyes: a street vendor conjuring shimmering lights from his palms to entertain children, and soldiers patrolling the walls with crossbows aimed at the dark, foreboding forest where, you were told, monsters lurked. Truly an isekai vibe, and you were the unwilling protagonist.
"So, you are telling me that you are from another world?" The silver-haired man, who you learned was named Xavier and apparently the crown prince of this empire called Philos, studied your face. You had been here for two days now, spending the whole first day sleeping off the shock and the second day being given a tour of the vast castle by the prince himself.
You looked at him, trying to mask your fear with a determination you didn't feel. "Yes. I don't know how, but I woke up in the forest. My world... it's different. There's no magic. No monsters. Just buildings made of glass and steel that touch the clouds."
He listened intently, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you feared he would call you a madwoman, a witch, or worse. You braced yourself for dismissal, for guards to be called.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice calm. "I believe you."
You are shocked.
It is that easy? No accusations? No tests? You had prepared a whole speech, ready to beg and plead, to recount every detail of your world in a desperate attempt to prove you weren't lying. But he accepted it with a simple nod, as if you had just told him you preferred tea over coffee.
A wave of relief so potent it made you dizzy washed over you. "You... you do?"
"I do," he confirmed, a faint smile touching his lips. He stepped closer, his presence filling the opulent study. "Your strangeness, your innocence... it all makes sense now. You are not of this world. You are a miracle, delivered to me."
The way he said it, "delivered to me," sent a strange chill down your spine. It wasn't the language of someone who had simply found a lost traveler. It was the language of possession.
"I will help you find your way back," he continued, his eyes holding yours with that same unnerving intensity from the forest. "But first, you must stay here. With me. Where I can keep you safe. This world is not kind to those who are different."
Yes, they are. You barely understood this world, their tradition, their history – everything. People might take you for granted for your stupidness. Maybe, it is wise for you to stay with the prince for the time-being at least, you can get protection and learn this world until you are ready to venture outside and start your own life.
"Thank you for the offer, Your Highness."
"Don't be formal with me," he said, his smile widening, showing a hint of teeth. "We are friends, right?"
The word hung in the air between you. Friends. It felt like a step too far, a presumption you weren't ready to make. He was a prince, and you were... whatever you were. A lost girl in cat pyjamas. But what other choice did you have? To argue? To refuse his kindness?
"....Yes."
"Good, now do you want to see the hot spring?"
You nodded, not knowing what else to say or how to strike a conversation with this guy. But as you both walked down the grand hall, his long strides easily keeping pace with your shorter ones, you couldn't help but ask.
"Are you married?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. It sure wouldn't feel nice if this man was married, and if he did, you hoped maybe you could ask someone else to accompany you.
You notice him glancing back at you in a strange way, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before he flickered them back to the front.
"No." He answered, his tone clipped, almost sharp.
You are quiet for a moment, the sudden coldness in his voice making you uneasy. It sure didn't make sense. You thought that a prince, moreover a crown prince—the heir to the empire—would've gotten married already to prepare him for the next in line and secure the throne for the royal family.
"Ah, so you have a fiancee?" you asked, trying to sound casual.
You see him chuckle, a low, humorless sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stopped walking and turned to face you fully, forcing you to stop as well. He was closer now, his presence more imposing in the wide, empty hall.
"Why are you asking?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that sent a shiver down your spine. His gaze was intense, probing, as if he were trying to read the thoughts right out of your head.
"Uhm, because it might not be nice for me to be seen with you if you already have a fiancee…" you stammered, suddenly feeling like a child who had been caught asking a forbidden question.
A slow smile spread across his face, but it didn't ease the tension in his shoulders. "I am a bachelor," he said, his voice soft but firm. "No wife, or fiancee yet."
He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin for a moment too long. "There is no one. Just me. And now, you."
The way he said it, "and now, you," sent a strange thrill through you, a mix of excitement and a primal warning you chose to ignore. He was right. In this world, you had no one. And for now, it seemed, he was all you had.
"Come," he said, his smile returning, though his eyes remained serious. "The springs await."
You followed him, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished stone. But as you walked, your attention was snagged by a quiet hallway branching off to the left. It was dim, shrouded in shadows, a stark contrast to the well-lit grandeur of the main corridor. You couldn't see clearly what was at the end, but you knew it was a dead end. And there, hanging on the far wall, was a large portrait, completely veiled by a dusty white cloth.
You stopped in your tracks, a strange pull tugging at you, as if the shrouded painting were calling for you.
"What's wrong?" Xavier asked, his voice pulling you back. He had noticed you were no longer beside him and had turned, his brow furrowed slightly.
"What is that?" you pointed, your voice barely a whisper.
He stopped. He followed your gaze to the darkened hallway, and for the first time since you'd met him, a flicker of something unreadable—annoyance, perhaps, or something deeper—crossed his features. His easy-going charm vanished, replaced by a cool, distant reserve.
"It's none of your concern," he said, his voice flat, all warmth gone. He took a deliberate step back, partially blocking your view of the corridor. "The springs are this way."
The sudden shift in his demeanor was jarring. The friendly, almost playful prince from moments before had disappeared, replaced by a stern, authoritative figure. It was a stark reminder of the power dynamic between you and him.
He is the crown prince of this empire, while you are just….you.
-
You went to sleep that night with a heavy thought, the weight of your new reality pressing down on you.
You dreamt of being trapped in a dark forest, the trees like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. You kept running and running, your bare feet stumbling over roots and rocks, begging for help that never came. Then, out of nowhere, an unseen force shoved you hard, sending you tumbling into a cold, black lake. The water closed over your head, filling your lungs with ice.
You gasped for air, jolting awake.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, the phantom sensation of drowning still clinging to you. You tried to go back to sleep, to chase away the lingering fear, but to no avail. The bed felt too large, the room too quiet. And so, you decided to just take a walk outside your room for a moment. You walked in the hallway that you had walked earlier that morning, walking mindlessly with your head full of so many thoughts.
As expected, it's really hard to blend in this place. You feel like a foreigner. Well, you are a foreigner. But still, it's hard to adjust. Every custom, every piece of clothing, every meal feels like a test you're destined to fail.
But still, you supposed that it's better than living like a robot in your old life. Furthermore, you had nothing left there. You have no parents or friends. You were still alone like now. So, there's nothing for you to miss.
But still, you missed technology. You missed the familiar glow of a smartphone screen, the comfort of knowing things at the touch of a a button. You missed being familiar.
Your thought stopped when you heard the sound of a piano being played—a melancholic, haunting melody that drifted through the stone corridors. You followed that sound without even knowing why, your feet drawn to the sorrowful beauty of it. You found a door that was slightly ajar and peeked inside.
And there, you saw Xavier playing the piano.
He wore no formal attire, just simple dark bedwear, yet he still looked handsome and perfect, his silver hair catching the moonlight from a nearby window. He seemed completely absorbed in the piece, a nameless composition that sounded both amazing and deeply sad, each note a tear in the quiet night.
You heard him for a while, just peeking, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. The music was a window into a part of him you hadn't seen, a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his princely authority.
And then, he stopped.
The silence that followed was heavier than the music had been.
"Come sit beside me," he said, his voice quiet but clear, not even turning to look at the door.
You jolted. He knew? He knew you were there all along?
You hesitantly go to him, clenching the edges of your thin cardigan as you realized how little you were wearing—just a simple nightgown and a white sweater. The air in the room felt cool against your skin, and you felt suddenly exposed, underdressed for the intimacy of the moment.
You sit beside him on the polished wooden bench, leaving a careful space between you. The prince only looked at the piano keys, his fingers hovering over them for a moment before he began to play again when you sat beside him. The melody was the same, but now it felt different, more personal, as if he were playing just for you.
"What is the name of this song?" you decided to break the ice, your voice barely a whisper as he played the haunting notes.
"Silvery Polyphony," he answered, his eyes still fixed on the keys. "I composed it myself."
"That's amazing," you breathed, genuinely impressed. The complexity and emotion in the piece were undeniable.
"I only played it for one person before," he said, his fingers never missing a beat.
The implication hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. You weren't sure how to respond, so you just sat there in silence, listening to the beautiful, sad music he was playing for you, and you alone. The space between you on the bench felt charged with an unspoken tension.
"To whom?" you asked, the words escaping before you could stop them.
His fingers stilled on the keys, the last note hanging in the air like a ghost. He turned his head slowly, his pale eyes finding yours in the dim light. The intensity in his gaze was back, but this time it was softer, tinged with a melancholy that matched the music.
"Someone very special."
"I see…" Of course, a person with a handsome face like him would have his beloved. A familiar, unwelcome pang of something you refused to name settled in your chest. You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap, suddenly feeling like an intruder on a private moment.
"Is she pretty?" you asked, the words small and tight, just to confirm your own thought.
His fingers stilled over the keys. He turned his head slowly, his pale eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving directness.
"Yes," he said, his voice soft but absolute. "Like you."
You stammered, your mind reeling. Such an odd answer.
"When are you getting married to her?" you pushed, your voice trembling slightly, needing to understand, needing to make sense of the impossible things he was saying.
A shadow passed over his features, a profound sadness that seemed to suck all the light from the room. He looked away from you, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall.
"She has passed away from this world."
The words hung in the air, heavy and incomprehensible. Passed away? You felt a surge of sympathy for him, a pang of sadness for the woman he must have loved so deeply. It explained the haunting melody, the deep well of sorrow you sensed in him.
"I'm... I'm so sorry," you stammered, unsure of what else to say. "That must have been... terrible."
He turned back to you, his expression a mask of sorrow, but his eyes... his eyes were intense, burning with a feverish light. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle.
"It was," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "To lose the other half of your soul is a pain beyond words."
You sat frozen, caught between the urge to comfort him and the strange, unsettling feeling that you were in the middle of something you couldn't possibly understand. You were just a stranger, a lost girl from another world. Why was he telling you this?
"But I never give up…" He didn't continue his words, his blue eyes staring at you – you almost feel as if you are seeing a whole galaxy in his eyes. The sorrow was still there, but now it was mingled with something else, a fierce, burning determination that was both captivating and terrifying.
You haven't noticed your close proximity between you and him until now. His hand was still on your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The scent of him, clean and sharp, filled your senses, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, despite the alarm bells ringing in the back of your mind.
Such an angelic face.
There's no way he would do any vulgar moves. He is a prince, polite and gentle. The thought was a fragile shield against the growing unease in your heart. He was just grieving, just confused. He saw a resemblance, and in his sorrow, he was projecting his lost love onto you. It was a tragic, but understandable, mistake. You clung to this logic, to the image of him as a benevolent savior.
A man with a face like that, a face that could inspire poets and calm armies, couldn't possibly harbor anything but kindness in his heart. The darkness you sensed, the possessiveness in his touch, it had to be a product of your own fear, your own disorientation in this strange new world. It had to be.
"You're tired," he said, his voice soft, breaking the spell. "You should be resting."
He stood up, pulling you gently with him, his hand still holding yours. He led you out of the music room and back down the dimly lit hallway, his pace slow and measured. You followed him, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You felt sorry for him, for the pain he was in. But you also felt a growing sense of dread, a primal instinct telling you that you were in danger.
He stopped outside your door, turning to face you. He was still holding your hand, his grip firm but not painful.
"Sleep well," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I'll see you in the morning."
He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his lips gently against your forehead, a chaste, almost paternal gesture that was both comforting and deeply unsettling.
"Good night," he whispered, before turning and disappearing down the hall, leaving you alone in the silence of the corridor.
You stood there for a long moment, your hand rising to your forehead, where his lips had left a phantom warmth. You told yourself you were overreacting, that he was just a kind, grieving man who had taken you in.